I was in my early adolescence when I painted my first still life. I remember everything about the moment. Sitting at the kitchen table, smelling the steamy fried temptations, I painted a Herfy's burger, fries, and cola. I remember my ass being kicked by the burger's foil. I remember drinking the soda out of the line of sight. The painting recently showed up in a box of letters and yearbooks. The paper is brittle, practically decomposing. I had the painting sitting on a pile labeled "toss or flat-file." It seemed so uniquely relevant to my past that I couldn't decide what to do with it. Its only redeeming quality seemed to be its nostalgia. I'm sure I would have tossed it if I hadn't impulsively bought Charles Burns' Black Hole. Here are two panels from early on in the graphic novel:
"As hypnotically beautiful as it is horrifying, Black Hole transends its genre by deftly exploring a specific American cultural moment in flux and the kids who are caught in it - back when it wasn't exactly cool to be a hippie anymore, but Bowie was still just a little too weird." I recommend this book to my demographic. My painting is now in the flat file.