Written by Al Feldstein, this remarkable comics story was published in 1955 in EC Comics’ Impact first in series. Aside from the strong narrative, Krigstein’s depiction of expanded time on the final page is now a comics art classic (eat your heart out, Sam Peckinpah!), but prepare to be dazzled by his handling of the strobe effect of flashes of the passengers as the train travels through. There is so much to admire in this piece of work, I’ve enlarged the original page size to enhance your appreciation of an illustrator at the top of his game. To learn more, start with Everything 2.
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The opening page of my latest opus. Co-written with musicologist Jonathan James, Albert Angst… riffs on the misfortune that appears to have plagued too many classical music composers, that of dying during or shortly after creating their ninth symphony. Beethoven, Schubert, Dvorak, Mahler, Bruckner and several lesser composers all fell victim to the curse. But classical music has also been cursed by a lack of women composers. As the deadline gets ever closer for him to present his ninth to his publisher, Albert becomes increasingly creatively paralysed, and when his wife offers to anonymously compose it for him, well… the ghosts of the cursed are less than ecstatic!
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This self-portrait from the mists of time was recently unearthed by my daughter while rummaging through her attic. I have no memory of doing it but, judging from the date, it comes from a time when I was teaching myself to draw. In ’68 we were more interested in tearing down the State than laying the foundations for a career in art, which meant weeks of sit-ins and strikes at the college I attended, in solidarity with everything May ’68 meant in Paris but with an added protest against the indolence of our lecturers. I went to an art college expecting to be taught how to draw, expecting to spend hours in life drawing classes, but quickly discovered none of our fine art lecturers could wield a pencil to any great effect. It was the era of typed statements and emotionless, impenetrable photographs that constituted so-called Conceptual Art. Of that year’s intake, I am the only graduate who went on to actual make a living from my art, if you can call cartooning such.
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In case you get the impression that Brick is strictly a monochrome B&W sorta ‘toonist, behold the full splendid colour of a private commission for young Bill’s 60th birthday, featuring the back of him cycling up Mount Ventoux in France, which was his heart’s desire for the great day, carrying his whole extended family in panniers with grandchildren running along side.
Also a piccy of Bill’s wife, Jennie, presenting him with the commemorative ‘toon after the event somewhere yummy near the mountain. Check out the delight…
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Anybody who has walked the moors of Derbyshire and South Yorkshire (in them, rather than round their edges) will appreciate how easy it is to get ‘turned around’ on a dull day offering poor visibility. In bad weather, when you can’t see a hand in front of your face, they can be treacherous, though these days steering as straight a course as possible will see you to a tarmac road and feeling safe within a maximum of two or three hours of walking.
As recently as a hundred years ago, crossing the moors by anything other than a valley road was a tricky business, even following tracks. The earliest road signs appeared as a result of pressure from cycling organisations in the 1880s and any way posts that appeared where cyclists didn’t ride were locally knocked-up, painted wood constructions with short lifespans. In the sandstone regions of the Midland’s moors the solution was tall stone pillars engraved with the nearest town facing your direction of travel, and maybe a three-fingered pointing hand.
This short film is an armchair stroll around what are called ‘guide stoops’. At six minutes thirty, it is a little longer than necessary but the wonderful original music composed by Duncan Ward has made it worth adding a postscript about the modern ‘companion stones’ recently created by local artists. Duncan composed the piece in memory of his grandfather, who enjoyed nothing better than stomping around the moors. It’s called Greenhurst Way, the name of the street where his grandpa lived.