Okay, maybe miraculous is too strong a word, but something happened. I was watching “Looney Tunes” as so many kids my age did when “Duck Season, Rabbit Season” came on. As I watched Bugs con Elmer into shooting Daffy in the face, I knew that I wanted to be an artist. I didn't go run to my mother and father and proclaim, “Mommy! Daddy! I wanna be an artist!” Even then, I knew enough that my parents probably wouldn't take me seriously. So, instead I picked up my crayons, grabbed some paper and set off to draw like the master… Chuck Jones.
As I got older, I got into other artists. I was a sponge. I didn't care who it was, if they were good I was trying to draw like them. My teachers were the masters – Jones, Frazzetta, Rockwell, Wyeth (NC not Andrew), Jack Davis and Mort Drucker. They are my heroes. In school, I was never without my sketchbook, and instead of concentrating on my studies, my main concentration was on drawing. In a desperate attempt to get me involved with her teaching plans, one teacher “hired” me to do some artwork for her classroom. In exchange I got a B for the class. Her plan backfired. I realized that I could actually make a living doing what I loved.
As I got older, I realized what I do – what all illustrators or aspiring illustrators do – tell stories. Illustration is more than creating an image. It's telling a story without words. It's bringing the viewer into your world and letting them escape for a brief time. My life has taken it's fair share of turns, but one thing has remained constant – telling a good story.
