He was the most astonishing contradiction of components Id ever encountered. Shy yet fiercely communicative when putting an idea into your head. Vocally astringent regarding his own abilities but not to the point that he couldnt producehe was as prolific an artist (yes, an artist, and I never use the term, especially regarding people I like) Ive ever seen. But I could feel it. Everything he sketched, penciled, inked, madewas a payment, one he could scarcely afford; as if it physically hurt him to put pencil to paper. Yet that only seemed to spur him on, to live far beyond his means. He was unable not to. For Sketch, to draw was to breath, and so the air became leadsilvery in the right light, dark soot in the wrong; heavy, slick and malleableinto shapes he brought together in glorious orchestration, with a childs eye and a rocket scientists precision, all fortified by a furious melancholy, a quiet engine of sourceless shame and humility.When it came to anothers work, he longed to praise it but then couldnt resist critiquing it all within an inch of its life, analyzing deficiencies with uncontrollable abandon and laser accuracy. He was sharp as his Radio 914 pen nibs, and as pointed.And then hed apologize. Oh, he would apologize: Oh my GOD, forgive me, please dont hate me, Im SORRY, dont listen to me, why am I saying things, what do I know, I dont know anything, why do you listen to me you should just tell me to shut UP, Im awful, forgive me, you hate me, dont you? Tell the truth. Please dont hate me. Please dont. Please.
