The title for this essay "God is Black" is about all I had to go on at the TIME, as it was not yet written. The premise is that the authoratative voice has been African American for awhile now (think James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman).
It was a great opportunity to draw some of those strange little Putti characters.
It was good to receive an assignment from TIME outlining the many crimes of the outgoing administration. I could not help but think of the hulking machines driven by the puny pink aliens in War of the Worlds. I used this opportunity to indulge my armor fetish as the vessel for the little man.
Is anyone else having trouble getting their head around the constant talk of billions of dollars? And just when you feel like there might be a cieling to the billions, a discussion of trillions begins. And then there is this nagging feeling that no matter how much money we (taxpayers) throw at the problems (incompetence, fraud, gluttony), it's like shoveling it into a bottomless pit. Hence my idea for the current TIME commentary page on bailouts.
The final art running in today's Wall Street Journal.
Pirates no longer resemble the iconic characters of Treasure Island, but the danger still exists for any ships navigating the waters off the coast of East Africa. There's no romance in the chaos born pirates of today, and drawing them, sans eye patch and peg legs, is no longer fun.
The sketch had the motley crew dregged up from the waters holding an assortment of weapons. I reasoned that they wouldn't be captive for long if they still had a means for violence, and so I struck them from the final version.
This alternative sketch draws upon the "walk the plank" idea. I was uncomfortable with the image and was glad they chose the other.
Arrrr...is there anything more interesting to draw than pirates? Ok...dragons and devils and deep sea fish, perhaps.
The Leaves are on the ground in Eastern Pennsylvania as we begin to turn our thoughts to Winter and our interiors.
To Autumn by William Blake
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.