Friday, July 30, 2010

Philadelphia Weekly

I was lucky enough to do the most recent cover of the Philadelphia Weekly. A lot of illustrators I admire like Edward Kinsella and Tim Gough have graced the covers and as such PW has been on my client wish-list for a while. The story itself is a sad one about a woman who kept almost 90 animals in her small row home. They were all uncared for, living is squalid conditions. The PSPCA raided the home after complaints from the neighbors. The neighborhood has been shaken up by the incident and the events leading up to the raid have caused strife on Earp St. that continues to this day. To read the full article on PW's website, read here.

Regarding the image, AD Robyn John wanted a cast of dogs spilling from all parts of this house, seemingly left to fend for themselves. I tried to make the place look cold and dingy – my experience with Philadelphia apartments informed that part quite a bit.

The chosen sketch

The image sans design. 10.13x10.875", graphite/ink/digital

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Recent Work

Thought I would share some of my recent work in this sort of shotgun, link-filled post. Hope you enjoy the pieces

PowerGons, 13.75x10", Graphite/ink/digital
Illustration for HDRI 3D Magazine about PowerGons, a rendering tools that transforms normal polygons into effect-producing elements.

Awakening, 6.625x10.25, Graphite/ink/digital
A pinup for Volume 2 of my friend Alex Eckman-Lawn's graphic novel Awakening, published by Archaia.

I recently took over doing colors for the comic Valentine with Alex de Campi and Christine Larsen. Monsters, swords and magic. These are all from Volume 5, available from iTunes/Android stores by Robot Comics.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

All Hands on Deck

The Drowned Man's Pageantry, 10x15", graphite/ink/digital

I will be participating in another show at Chapterhouse Gallery in Philadelphia. The show is title All Hands on Deck, a collaborative show with 30 artists from the area. In the words of the collaborator:

"In July 2010, in America's birthplace of Philadelphia, 30 emerging young artist of diverse skill sets have enlisted their services in riding the waves of discovery in effort to provide new additions of pictures to provide visual dialogs of mankind's fascination with the sea.
words. Matt Cavanaugh"

My piece, The Drowned Man's Pageantry, is on display. The show is opening on Friday July 9th, at Chapterhouse Gallery, 620 South 9th Street Philadelphia, PA. Hope you enjoy it.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

The Cloud Journal

The Cloud Journal
By Michael Taggart, Illustration by Tim Durning

The cirrus is the coming or going of stormclouds, their vanguard or their echo. If the ground is wet, the sky was violent yesterday; otherwise it will be tonight.

August, so the smell of rain on hot asphalt lingered. An evening thunderstorm blew out quick, and the sky bled orange and purple through every window. You would leave for the war in the morning. I was afraid but couldn’t say so. I slammed the house door and the porch door and got goosebumps from the air suddenly chilled. I wanted to walk to clear my head. I walked all night. By the time I returned, the moon had risen and set. I fell asleep on the couch. Your car was gone when I woke.
A note on the kitchen table:

Went early to spare you. We’ll talk soon.
We live under the takeoff path. I ran outside and tried to find your plane flying over our house. All I saw were cirrus clouds, marring an otherwise perfect sky. No trace of last night’s rain, no trace of your jet trails. I wondered if the cirrus were for last night’s storm, or one yet to come.

Cumulus humilis form in fair weather. They are light and fluffy, and abundant on idyllic spring days. Often found in the memories of young lovers and parents teaching their children to fly kites.

It was inevitable you would fall in love with airplanes. I don’t blame you, of course—we live by the airbase because I love them too.
Six years old, running in a dandelion-spotted field hidden in Virginia hills. Your mother and I felt young under the endless cumulus parade. We lied in the May grass and let our eyes hop from one cloud to the next, while you made jet noises and ran zigzags on the hill, your arms outstretched. You soared over and hovered above us, a sunlight corona around your head and shoulders.
              Daddy, you said, can you fly airplanes?
              I smiled. I used to, but not anymore.
              I wanted to be with you and Mommy.
              I want to fly airplanes too.
              Your mother rolled her eyes. I leapt up and flew you around in my arms, and we made jet noises together.

When it seems as though the sky simply wants to deny you sunlight—that is nimbostratus. It looks gray all day but never rains.

Annapolis, twenty-two. The pictures never show a gray commencement—God knows mine wasn’t. The hats went up anyway, as did the cheers.
I was proud, of course, but anxious. I knew what came next: Pensacola, then San Antonio or Corpus Christi, then maybe home to Virginia. Oceana is where they fly the fast jets.
I’m gonna get those gold wings like my old man, you said.
I told you I loved you no matter what you did, but I don’t think you believed me. Somehow in your four midshipman years—and maybe in the years of daydreaming before—you had made those wings the only way to make me proud.
I was proud when you acted in the school plays, too. Or when you wanted to learn the guitar.
Anything you did would have made me beam, but you couldn’t see.

Cumulonimbus—the granddaddy of clouds. Towering, dark, sinister beasts so full of power they humble a man just to look at one. Pilots know to avoid these as best they can. But sometimes they come too fast and grow too big. Then you just have to punch through and hope you stay in the air.

Tonight’s storm has hail to it; you would love it.
I forgive you for leaving how you did. I know why. I’m sorry I couldn’t say what needed saying better.
The first deployment is always the hardest, but easier these days. Your mother and I will write you every day, and send you videos if we can figure out how to work the camera. Don’t forget how many people care about you here. Keep safe for them as much as yourself.
I won’t say anything about the job. You have plenty to tell you about that where you are.
This is going to be a long summer without you around. I already miss naming clouds and airplanes on our morning run. It will be a long fall and winter too. We just have to push through, as always.
If I were a braver man, I could say some of these things to you. There are old pilots, bold pilots, but no old bold pilots. Having lived to see you become you, I am happy to not be bold. More honest, I wish, but there it is.
You will not read this soon. It doesn’t matter, though—the clouds won’t come in different shapes then.

© 2010 by Michael Taggart