CHUTZ-POW!: Preparing for Print (Episode 3 of 3)

In my previous blog entry, I discussed the visual development of the story I drew for CHUTZ-POW! Superheroes of the Holocaust, which features the Holocaust experiences of Malka and Moshe Baran. In this last of three installments, I'm going to discuss my post-production role with the comic-book after the story was completed, and what was needed to get the artwork into print.

CHUTZ-POW!: The Barans' Story (Episode 2 of 3)

In my previous blog entry, I discussed the origins of CHUTZ-POW! Superheroes of the Holocaust, how I became involved as an artist on both the exhibit and comic-book parts of the project, and how the cover artwork for the comic-book was developed. In this second of three installments, I'm going to discuss what went into creating the artwork for the story that I illustrated in the book.

CHUTZ-POW!: Covering the Artwork (Episode 1 of 3)

CHUTZ-POW! Superheroes of the Holocaust is an art exhibit and companion anthology comic-book which jointly chronicles the stories of specific individuals who demonstrated courage, compassion and resilience during the Holocaust. The former debuted at the Three Rivers Arts Festival this Summer, where positive word about the project spread quickly; the latter makes its formal debut in Pittsburgh on August 14th. As one of the artists involved with both the exhibit and the comic-book, I’m beyond proud of this project, and I’ll be devoting this and the following two blog posts to behind-the-scenes/making-of entries. Here, I’m going to give you some history of CHUTZ-POW!, talk about how I came to be involved, and walk you through the steps it took for me to create the cover artwork for the comic-book.

Ed, The Alphabet Genius

One of the cleanest places any of you could ever hope to visit is my local laundromat immediately after I've been there to wash my clothes. To be a bit more specific, you want the exact square footage that I try to stake a claim to every time I visit. I arrive early in pursuit of this rarefied territory, typically before sunrise, sometimes running a reconnaissance lap around the block to make sure my coveted machines are available. I like the big full-load washer in the back - the one on the right side, which still works - which sits directly across from the two large dryers, and again it's the one on the right side that works.

If the owner of the laundromat wanted a minute of internet fame, he would cobble together time-lapsed surveillance footage of me - throwing away garbage left on machines and the floor, sweeping up messes, depositing forgotten socks, undies and brassieres to an Island of Misplaced Apparel, wiping down and drying my large folding table of choice - and post it on YouTube. The manic germophobia behind my public laundering is completely true.

The Quantum Mechanics of Apologies

“Never ruin an apology with an excuse.” ― Benjamin Franklin

One of the hardest debts we ever have to square away can be an apology. Consider this an open payment toward crawling, ever so slightly, out of the red.

The reason it can’t be formally deposited at the Bank of Humility is achingly simple: I don’t know who I owe it to. Not by name, anyway. Nonetheless, someone specific out there is overdue for an apology, and this is as good a time as any to tender payment. Because this person - someone I only knew briefly many years ago, and even then only in passing – also deserves the respect of being addressed by name, I’m giving her one here and hoping that an apology by any other name will still be as valid.

Her name here is Zeena, and she was a day camp counselor from my youth who bubbled up in memory recently. And she has a story that’s worth sharing.

"LITTLE BESSIE"

Like Mother, Like Son

When I was maybe eight or nine years old, I was given the nickname "Little Bessie" after my mother, because it was widely acknowledged amongst our extended family that I looked and acted so much like her. Since few little boys want to be that directly associated with their mothers, I hated the name, which meant it stuck for quite some time. I clearly remember the annoyance I felt at being addressed as "Little Bessie", which seemed like an insult to my burgeoning sense of masculinity. By comparison, a few times I'd also been referred to as "Little Floyd" after my father, which I also never cared for, but that one never really stuck. It never felt as genuine, as a compliment or an insult, and instead always seemed obligatory.

Regardless, it wasn't as demoralizing as "Little Bessie" which I had no retort for, because it was so true in every way possible. If you knew my mother, and you watched me for five minutes at any point while growing up, you knew I was her son without question. I looked like her, and acted - and reacted - like her. I smiled and laughed like her. I had her temper. I had her disposition. I fostered the same types of relationships.

Little Bessie was indeed a chip off the block, which became something of a chip on my shoulder.