BYE BYE BLOG

After 333 posts, I am saying goodbye, at least for a while. Those who wish to keep updated can "friend" me at Facebook.

Thanks to you who've stuck around these years. It's been a lot of fun for me.

Best Wishes,
Milt

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

TODAY'S ART OF ANIMATION

An astonishing amount of it is playing directly to a fan-fetish audience that doesn't know how small it is. This is what killed comic books!

NEW WORDS, DUMB WORDS

"Hater" is an inarticulate word. And as an intelligent black man, I know a lot about being regarded as "articulate".

PAUL GOES TO BED

I'll tell you the truth; I've felt since I was a child that my art is half graphic, half narrative. I worked with both independently. Now I am more interested in using the words. I'm getting disenchanted with the process & outcome of the drawing.

From my current novel. Note: Paul is a 48 year old entertainer.

Paul walked into his bedroom. It was his nerves that got him, his goddamn nerves. He sat on the bed. He pulled a bottle of rye from the night stand. Paul was past the point of enjoying liquor. But just the assurance that there was a nip or two at hand gave him something of that warm, quieting sense of stability. Every thought became a profundity. He could get through life. Bittersweet surrender was at hand.

An hour later, Mama found her son stretched across the bed, with one foot on the floor, his mouth hanging wide open, not snoring at all, but drooling noticeably. She took off his shoes, put his leg on the bed and covered him with a blanket. But she drew the line at removing his pants. That he could do himself.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

WHEEZY, THE TROUBLED TEEN

From my (first) novel; Wheezy's adolescent years:
 
Girls were easy to get. Wheezy was an outlaw, dangerous, and dreadfully thrilling. There was the threat of a bruise with every kiss. He gravitated toward girls with low self esteem; ones begging for his approval. Each dreamed they were capable of being “the one” to fill the gap in his tormented soul. Wheezy developed a contempt for them.

Wheezy walked alone a lot of the time. His alienation was nurtured like a hothouse plant.

On the other end of the spectrum, Wheezy chose to join the high school’s drama group. He reveled in it. His frightening side dissolved. His fellow performers saw another side of him: alive with positive energy, amusing, and gifted with a devilish sense of humor. From the beginning, he was playing Falstaff and Puck, any character created with a deviant spirit. 

His parents couldn’t have cared less; they didn’t bother to show up at the presentations. Instead of disapproving of his interests, they ignored them entirely.

The extremes of his personality confused and threatened teachers; he was an adolescent personable and excellent in his English, drama and art classes, but could otherwise be deemed a brute.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

TRAVELS OF WHEEZY GIBSON

Some snippets from the fourth draft of my novel, THAT'S SHOW BIZ. Wheezy Gibson is an obnoxious, sadistic comedian.

Wheezy in Greenwich Village:
Wheezy cynically observed the ‘artist types’ (not necessarily artists, he thought) splashing black paint on huge sheets of paper, soaking themselves as well. It wasn’t calligraphy; what the hell was it? He was flabbergasted that such types were also just as attached to the Old Masters as he was.
Looking at a bookshelf, Wheezy said, “What? You like Tintoretto too?”
“Sure, man. He’s a master; any reason I shouldn’t like him?”
“No…but why do you do the kind of work you do?”
“It all adds up together, man. We live in an Art World.”
Wheezy felt ill equipped to argue.

Wheezy in prison:
Days in solitary passed. As was the prison’s intent, days nor even hours existed for Wheezy. Just time, the end of which he’d never be told. Wheezy tried not to allow any thoughts about “show biz” to enter his thoughts. He thought of patterns of wood grains in trees, textures of stones, shapes of clouds, anything that had no meaning to his old lifestyle at all. He recalled his favorite classical pieces and “played” them over in his head. He remembered the Renaissance paintings he had such respect for, and “examined” them in his mind, brushstroke by brushstroke. He wasn’t happier. But he wasn’t wasting time, either. There was nothing else to do.

After Wheezy "services" a masochistic "patroness":
Kitty got up on her hands and knees, crawled to Wheezy’s feet, and fervently threw her arms around his ankles, and kissed his shoes passionately and repeatedly. “Wheezy…I knew you’d do it for me. I deserved it…every bit of it.”
Wheezy asked, “WHY do you think you deserve it, lady?”
“Because I’m rich.”
Wheezy did a double take.
“Your kind", Kitty whimpered, "…you suffer so while people like my kind suck you dry. Don’t you get pleasure from getting even?”
“Well, actually, no, Lady. Why don’t you give your earthly possessions to the Army-Navy store or something? This makes no sense.”


COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

WOLFO

An unpublished two page comic with one of my own favorite characters, an exemplary exponent of the Playboy lifestyle.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

MY NOVEL: WHERE IT'S AT

Work on my novel at present: I did what I've heard advised; transcribed each story point of the second draft on separate index cards, stretched them out in rows on a table, examined the set, and placed them in different orders to see if I could strengthen the storytelling by changing the order of the events, seeing which would make the best contrasts. punchlines, etc. The fact that I started the process on a table at the coffee shop got me into a couple of interesting conversations.

I changed the order several times, and found the one I thought was best. It was somewhat different from the order of the second draft!

Next comes improving the text itself and filling in gaps, which I expect to take some time. So far, I've gained another 1500 words.I won't have to worry about saying "goodbye" to these characters for a while.

Getting it published? Well, as I said, I'm doing this for myself, so it's already paying off. What may happen later is of no concern now.

Keep clean, MK. 

ADVICE RARELY TAKEN

As with all artists, young people will come to me for drawing advice. Some hints are heeded more readily than others. I didn’t make up most of them. They were handed down to me. Here’s some hints that generally aren’t taken:

STOP WATCHING CARTOONS FOR SIX MONTHS. Most young cartoonists (and currently, many older ones) find it impossible for even a day. I’ve done it longer than that, just to get the accepted “way of doing things” out of my head and to find my own ways.

DON’T DRAW CHARACTERS DOING NOTHING. So commonly, artists will stick to drawing “presentation” poses: characters with one hand up, signaling “hello” in that 1930s way; standing straight with hands on hips; or doing standard eye-pop stances. These are so common because they’re the easiest to draw. Better to draw a character with brains. Draw them actually doing specific things that challenge your own skill. (My favorite is dancing.) A sketchbook should be filled with stuff you haven’t tried yet, not just “funny” heads & “cartoony” poses. And, for heaven’s sake, draw groups of them, two or more, reacting to each other in conversation, as well as objects and backgrounds. Then apply the stuff you have down pat in your finished art.

Now that “exaggerated” cartooning has become so common (it was held in low regard until the 1990s), I suppose my own reaction has been to try to “fake it” less. I want my drawings to be sophisticated as well as fun.

I was present when someone said to Ralph Bakshi that my work was “just like Jim Tyer”. Ralph said, “Naw, Milt’s work has more intellect than Tyer’s.” Whether one would see that as good or bad (even Ralph), it was a proud moment for me.

FORGET CIRCLES FOR A CHANGE; SQUARE THE CONSTRUCTION DRAWING OFF. Can add solidity and even speed. You can become more aware of what your drawings are because the characters are solid objects, not superficial line approximations. Give your characters collar bones and hips. Here’s a heresy for you: put your Preston Blair book away now and then and look at people and animals with your own eyes.

Returning to drawing after a sabbatical, I’m using photos of dancers whose poses are a little new for me to try. In no way am I hinting that these drawings are perfect, or that I’d even allow them to be seen elsewhere. Even as I scan them, I’m seeing errors. They’re the kind of sketches I’ll wait another day to review and repair. Gotta risk being strange before you can be good.

MK.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

LET'S TAKE THAT WORD BACK!!

TOO CRAZY FOR COOL WORLD

While working on COOL WORLD, I told Ralph B. that Holly, the dancer, shouldn't just do rotoscoped moves. Being a 'doodle', she should do things a 'doodle' can. Dribble her head like a basketball, or grow more legs and do a can can. If it was synced to music effectively, rather than seeming random, it could have worked well. But, no, that wasn't 'sexy'. So she ended up being, IMO, a 'live' character with lines.

Even I don't love the film. But putting it down, meh. A waste of time. Now, DESPICABLE ME 8...

Sexier than Holly: I ran Ralph the dancing girl shot from THE TUBA TOOTERS. His mouth hung open, and he said "Oh my GAWD!!" But such designs were relegated to the BG.

 


f you're going to draw a cartoon, DRAW one, I say. With a kapital "K"!! (From NATIONAL DEFENSE, an Egyptian cartoon from 1940.)

 Now, THAT gets my pecker up!!

K.

LOVELORN

Drawing from middle 1980s, colored with Design Art Markers.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

OUR COMPUTER AGE

I'll admit, I've been stingier about posting my art lately. I resent peoples' assumption that they can see it for free, so why pay for it?

***

DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP!!

THOUGHTS

I think political parties should be abolished. I want to vote for individuals, not those on "our side". I'm sick of this "Popeye Vs. Bluto" s---. It's absolutely childish, and about as realistic as a cartoon.

***
Dividing the American people is an absolute goal of many of our "leaders" now. It's been a long time since I've seen a Democrat and a Republican have a healthy friendship, and never on the web. Here, the division is complete. That's what the "leaders", like Hitler, want to do to the 99%, and I've experienced enough. If you can, resist it. THAT will make ours a strong nation, not wasting our energies against each other.

***

I remember when 'beliefs' were not the #1 topic of discussion 24 hours a day. As far as I'm concerned, our "beliefs" are our own business.

***

The Church Doesn't Like the People to Grow Up._~ Bishop John Shelby Spong

*** 

MORE CHARACTER SKETCHES

More sketches of my novel's characters..

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

NOVEL NOTES

I'm doing the second draft of my novel, and am sad I will have to say good-bye to its characters eventually. They are parts of my heart. But a sequel would be superficial. It's not like a comic book series; there is no turning back.

***

The waiter returned with the drinks. Alice downed hers as soon as it came.
Wheezy’s eyes widened. “Christ, kid, you can gulp it down!!”
With a steely eyed smirk, Alice mashed her cigarette in the tray. “That’s not all I can gulp down, Uncle Wheezy. Watch.”
To Wheezy’s astonishment. Alice sank beneath the tablecloth.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

CHARACTER SKETCHES!

Drawn today: Some characters from THAT'S SHOW BIZ, my novel. (Previews below!)

 



COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

MY NOVEL PREVIEW #3: KILLING HER SOFTLY

The following is the final section I will be posting of my novel's first draft. Titled "That's Show Biz", it centers on the crew at The Candl Club, a cafe/strip club on Manhattan's Lower East Side in the mid-late 1950s.

Stripper Sugar Red tells Paul, an ex-lover, of her problems with Wheezy Gibson, an abusive comedian who's bullied his way into living in Red's home. Paul speaks first:

“So what keeps you from telling him to go fuck himself?”

“Laziness, I guess. And fear.”

“Fear?”

“He beats me, Paul. We beat each other. I thought that hitting him back would make him back off, but he actually seems to enjoy it! I’ve tried to break with him/kick him out of here, but he’s threatening and I’m scared. I’m bigger than he is, but I just don’t feel the confidence any more/now. Every time I feel like I’m breaking out of that shell, he puts me down and makes me feel ashamed and ridiculous. And I buy it; I don’t know what it is; but I feel hurt. So hurt…”

Paul started to understand.

“He always reminds me that I’m just a goddamn stripper. Even if I snap my fingers to music, he’s said, ‘Save it for the act, slut.’ And laughs at me! He just doesn’t want me to be happy at all. And he’s got all this stuff here, and I feel trapped just by the clutter. When I’m out of the club, it’s hard just to get up from the television set. I mean it’s hard for me to move, Paul. I’m so depressed. He’s doing that on purpose, and it’s killing me anyway. That’s a part that makes me hate myself. He’s doing it to me, I KNOW IT, and I can’t get up the energy/will to break away.”

Paul didn’t know what to say. A thought clouded his mind: Is she begging me to take her away from it all? What have I got? An apartment with my mother in it. And why the hell should Red leave her own home because of Wheezy? How can I help? What am I going to do?? 

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

 

MY NOVEL PREVIEW #3: NIGHT OF VIOLENCE

The following is another section of my novel's first draft. Titled "That's Show Biz", it centers on the crew at The Candl Club, a cafe/strip club on Manhattan's Lower East Side in the mid-late 1950s. This almost immediately follows the incidents in PREVIEW #2.

In the earlier part of the evening Sugar Red, a stripper at the club, was physically abused, as was the habit of Wheezy Gibson, a club comic who has forced his way into her home as a live-in lover. Afterwards, they left to perform at the club as usual, and arrive back at Red's place at about 2:30 am...

After they got back to Red’s, Wheezy hit the pillow and was snoring immediately. The night was pitch black but for the moonlight shining in through the picture window. Red felt so tense with anger, she imagined hearing blood hissing within her head.

What have I got to lose? Nothing.

Something within her snapped. Suddenly, she felt calm. She walked into the kitchen and, as silently as she could, picked her way through the silverware until she came upon the biggest, sharpest steak knife she owned. She took care pulling it out, not allowing the steak knife to clang against any of the other utensils. She left the drawer open behind her. She couldn’t waste any time on that. Red slithered down the hall, holding the knife in one fist, guiding herself along the wall with the other hand. Only the chirping of the crickets in her little garden could be heard. She walked into the bedroom. She approached the bed, raising the knife slowly as she approached. There was just a split second for her to see the bed was empty before Wheezy’s arms wound around her from behind. He grabbed the wrist with the weapon and squeezed and twisted it. But Red had been pushed over the edge. With her other hand, she raked her nails down Wheezy’s face; down his eyes.

Wheezy squeaked/yelped, jerking his hands to his face. Released, Red lunged into Wheezy with the knife. She raked it against his stomach. This time he squealed like a pig, and doubled back into the wall, knocking the lamp and clock from the night stand. “You BITCH!!” Hunched before him, Red’s teeth were bared. Her nostrils flared. She was actually snorting like a beast. Her eyes were red rimmed and wide. Now, gripping his wound, it was Wheezy who was trembling. He could only whisper, “no…don’t…” before Red sprang at him again. They hit the wall and tumbled over each other, the fight now confined to that tiny corner of the bedroom. Red got confused in the darkness. Her eyes flashed around as she tried to get oriented. And sure enough, Wheezy’s fist connected full in her face.

Once again, Red lay huddled on the floor as Wheezy rose to his feet. He was about to give the stripper a good kick in the stomach when he remembered…and saw his stomach wound. He sprang to the bedroom, soaked the wound with a warm washcloth, and applied every substance in the medicine cabinet, grimacing under the sting of the medicines far more than the wound itself. He tied one of Red’s monogrammed towels around his midsection. Then he staggered into the bedroom and fell on the bed. Again, he snored almost immediately.

Red woke with a start as soon as daylight came. She lifted herself from the floor into a kneeling position, and saw Wheezy lying on his stomach, snoring loudly.

Jeez, I didn’t kill him, she thought.

Red was comforted, if only by the fact that she had less chance to be sent to prison. But how much less chance? She tugged Wheezy onto his back, and carefully untied the towel from around his midsection. Thank God, it appeared to be a surface wound, the blood congealed.

Red plodded into the kitchen and sat at the table. All the mess, the bottles and glasses and poker chips, lay scattered in a puddle of beer on the floor. Now what would happen? Another fight with Wheezy, a knock down drag out for all eternity? Red was merely annoyed by the thought of it. Just more of the same; more of the shit her life had turned into. She pouted and sulked as a dull eyed Wheezy entered the room in his bathrobe. Leaning against the doorjamb and clutching his midsection, he said, “Listen, baby; I think it best that we don’t mention last night to anyone. O.K.?”

“O.K.”, agreed Red.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT

MY NOVEL PREVIEW #2: A GUEST AT SUGAR RED'S

The following is another section of my novel's first draft. Titled "That's Show Biz", it centers on the crew at The Candl Club, a cafe/strip club on Manhattan's Lower East Side in the mid-late 1950s.

Wheezy Gibson, an unpleasant and married comedian, intimidates his way into becoming the live-in lover of Sugar Red, a stripper at the club.

The time Wheezy didn’t owe to Wifey was spent at Red’s home. Sometimes he’d take her out on the town to shrill night clubs and casinos to show off “what he had”. He installed a new set of weights in the house, and would work out a few times a week. Outside of performing, this was all the pair did aside from fucking or just laying around the house. Paul would lie on the bed, sloppy and shirtless, watching Red’s television, eating snacks. And he’d spend the rest of the time making sure Red was as miserable as he was.

If Red was caught in a spontaneous dance around the room, Wheezy would crack something like, “What are you, DANCING? Hang it up, baby. You’re not in dance school any more. You’re a STRIPPER and nothing else.” He’d invariably switch the radio to some sports broadcast, and let Red suck on it. Red’s playing her own jazz records was out. Keeping her house ice cold? Forget it. Wheezy would turn the heat up too high and let her squirm. Even if Red went out to water the plants, there would be interrogations and putdowns.

“You’ll do as I tell you! Do you understand?? YOU’LL DO AS I TELL YOU!!”

He started inviting his unwholesome friends over to loaf. Men managing to make their expensive/tailored suits look sleazy; men who had the looks of being connected to “the mob”. They’d show each other their guns and discuss their virtues. Or they’d play poker, Wheezy looking proud as Red emptied ashtrays. Sometimes he’d slap her on the butt, and didn’t protest when his friends began doing it too. What’s a stripper’s ass between friends? Once in a while, Wheezy would turn to her and say, “And listen, babe. Keep your mouth shut.” And the guys around the table would nudge one another, harshly cackling over their inside joke.

One night of this, Red revolted; she hurled a tray of beers at the group. Oh, they just couldn’t believe it. Why on earth did she do that?  Open mouthed and crosseyed with confusion they looked to Wheezy for protection and justice. Why did she do that, Wheezy? We just don’t understand it. Wheezy knew what he had to do. He pulled Red into the bedroom and beat the living daylights out of her, making sure the blows were loud enough to be heard by “the guys”.

Red remained on the floor, gasping and weeping. Wheezy returned to the kitchen to finish his hand. Red zoned out. What else was there to do? She just closed her eyes and checked out of Planet Earth.

COPYRIGHT 2015 BY MILTON KNIGHT