from my sketchbook: jesse belvin

Posted by on

Mr. Easy
Even as a youngster, Jesse Belvin was interested in music. He joined several bands as a vocalist early in the 1950s. Even an brief stint in the army didn’t hinder Jesse’s songwriting. His composition “Earth Angel” was a hit for The Penguins in 1955 and became one of the first songs to successfully make the cross over from the segregated Rhythm and Blues chart to the mainstream Pop chart.

In 1956, Jesse signed a contract with Modern Records, although he continued to record under pseudonyms for other labels. He co-wrote and recorded “Goodnight My Love”, on which the piano parts were played by an 11-year-old Barry White. The song reached #7 on the R&B chart and was used as the closing theme for Alan Freed’s popular radio broadcasts. In 1959, Jesse recorded an album of songs with a more sophisticated style, influenced by Nat “King” Cole. (The album was later cited as itself being influential for Sam Cooke.)

In February 1960, Jesse (along with Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson) performed in the first concert played before an integrated audience in Little Rock, Arkansas. The show was protested and halted twice by whites yelling racial slurs at the black performers and attendees. Community members interrupted and screamed for the white teenagers to go home. The performers even received several death threats prior to the concert. After the show, Jesse and his wife were killed in a head-on car collision. It is speculated that the vehicle was tampered with, but no proof has ever surfaced. Jesse was 27 years-old.

Comments

comments

IF: popularity

Posted by on

The new Illustration Friday suggestion for inspiration is “popularity”.
I'm never last picked/I got a cheerleader chick
“Popularity, I have always thought, may aptly be compared to a coquette – the more you woo her, the more apt is she to elude your embrace.”
— John Tyler, Tenth President of the United States

John Tyler knew of what he spoke, as popularity certainly eluded him. Tyler was the first person to succeed to the office of president following the death of a predecessor. When newly-elected William Henry Harrison stood before the crowd and delivered the longest inaugural address in American history, he refused to wear an overcoat or hat, despite the snow and cold rain that fell on Washington, DC. He wanted to show the country the same strength he displayed as a military general. Instead, he came down with pneumonia and died one month later. As per the line of succession as determined by The Constitution, John Tyler was sworn in as the new president of the United States.

Tyler was expected to carry on with Harrison’s ideals, but when he opposed his party’s platforms and vetoed several important proposals, the majority of his Cabinet resigned. Soon after, The Whigs (his political party), dubbing Tyler “His Accidency,” kicked him out of the party.

After a deficit of the federal government under Tyler’s leadership was projected, Tyler proposed to override the Compromise Tariff of 1833 and raise tariffs 20 percent. The defiant Whig Congress would not raise tariffs and Tyler was vocal in calling the act “unconstitutional”.  The House of Representatives initiated the first impeachment proceedings against a president in American history, spearheaded by Whig enemy Andrew Jackson.

Tyler’s pet project for the bulk of his term was the annexation of Texas, a proposal opposed by Democrat leaders Andrew Jackson and Martin Van Buren because they did not think the Union needed another Southern state. Tyler campaigned heavily for his cause, even forsaking his re-election. As his term came to a close, Tyler gave his support to an obscure, but pro-expansion, Democratic candidate named James Polk, who followed through with Tyler’s plan. Martin Van Buren didn’t receive enough support to make the ballot in the 1844 election. Polk defeated Tyler’s former Whig colleague Henry Clay  by a narrow margin and Texas became a state in 1845.

Tyler retired to his Virginia plantation and, in the last years of his life, supported the Confederate states in the Civil War. As a result, his death was the only one in presidential history not to be officially mourned in Washington. Historian Robert Seager II wrote, “Had William Henry Harrison lived, John Tyler would undoubtedly have been as obscure as any Vice-President in American history.”

John Tyler had an unusual method of wooing that coquette.

Comments

comments

from my sketchbook: josh powell

Posted by on

I am the eater of worlds, and of children.
On December 7, 2009 at 12:30 am, Josh Powell packed up his two young sons and set out for an impromptu camping trip in a remote area near the family’s Salt Lake City home. Susan Powell, Josh’s 28-year-old wife and mother of the boys, was still asleep in bed. Josh returned home with the boys sixteen hours later and Susan was not there. Her purse and cellphone were in the house. Her car was parked out front. There was a damp spot on a piece of carpet in the home, but otherwise, she was gone without a trace. A police investigation revealed little. Josh and his four-year-old son were interviewed and the camping story was confirmed.

And that was the story Josh stuck with for two years.

Josh became a “person of interest” in connection with Susan’s disappearance, but he was never charged. He repeatedly proclaimed his innocence and denied any involvement. He believed she had run off with another man, suggesting a likely candidate was Salt Lake Tribune  journalist Steven Koecher, who mysteriously disappeared the same week as Susan. Susan’s parents countered this theory as “impossible”, explaining her intense devotion to her children. Josh’s interviews grew less frequent and his cooperation with investigating authorities lessened as well.

In January 2010, Josh moved into his father’s home in Puyallup, Washington. Police in Utah continued to search for Susan, following all leads and all of them leading nowhere. One day in daycare, Josh’s son Braden drew a picture of a van with three people in it, explaining to his teacher that “Mommy is in the trunk”.

In September 2011, Josh’s father Steven was arrested on multiple charges of voyeurism and child pornography. Police produced evidence of Steven having secretly videotaped numerous young women, including his daughter-in-law Susan Powell. Several explicit photographs of Susan were discovered in a search of Steven’s personal items. After his arrest, Steven told of how his daughter-in-law came on to him and how he happily obliged her offer. With questions about the level of safety the home provided, Susan’s parents were awarded temporary custody of her sons while an investigation into Josh’s possible involvement in the child pornography took place. Josh still proclaimed innocence and denied any knowledge of or participation in his father’s interests. He maintained that he was a good and fit father.

In January 2012, Josh was ordered to undergo psycho-sexual analysis and custody of his children was awarded to his in-laws in the interim. Josh would be permitted supervised visits with his children. A few days before the weekend of the most recent scheduled visit, Josh donated his sons’ toys to Goodwill and withdrew seven thousand dollars from his bank account. On Sunday February 5, a Childrens’ Services worker arrived at Josh’s house to drop off the children . Little Charlie and Braden entered the home and Josh slammed the door in the agency representative’s face. Before the door shut, she got a whiff of the unmistakable scent of gasoline. Moments later, as she frantically called 911, Josh’s house exploded in flames.

An investigation of the charred rubble left from the fire revealed two five-gallon containers of gasoline and a hatchet near the three bodies. It is believed that Josh tried to kill his sons before setting the house on fire, but was overcome by smoke. The two boys had numerous wounds on their heads and necks, although the official cause of death for all three was “smoke inhalation”.

Twenty minutes before his children arrived, Josh — the man who had once told ABC News “I would never harm my children” — left a voicemail message for his church’s pastor and an email to his attorney, explaining that he could not live without his boys. He also detailed where his money could be found and gave instructions to turn off his home’s utilities. He ended the call by saying “I’m sorry to everyone I’ve hurt.”

Comments

comments

from my sketchbook: rusty hamer

Posted by on

Uncle Tonoose is coming!

For eleven years, Rusty Hamer traded barbs with showbiz heavyweight Danny Thomas on the popular sitcom Make Room For Daddy.  Most often, Rusty got bigger laughs than his veteran co-star. For a kid, his comedic timing was impeccable and rivaled that of actors with many times his experience. Shooting had to be halted quite often of the set, as Danny was constantly reduced to uncontrollable laughter by the deadpan delivery of his young castmate. Rusty’s popularity led to guest appearances on variety shows and even a cross-over episode on The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour  reprising his role of “Rusty Williams”.

After 325 episodes, Danny decided to end the show, as he had grown tired of the role and wished to pursue other projects. Rusty appeared in a few installments of The Joey Bishop Show  (a spin-off of Make Room for Daddy ) and later the ill-fated Make Room for Grand Daddy,  but he soon discovered difficulty in landing more acting jobs.

Rusty had entered show business at age 6 and spent his entire childhood on a sound stage. He was tutored on-set and once Make Room for Daddy  ended, he found that he was not prepared and that he lacked skills to function in a non-show business lifestyle. He bounced around menial labor jobs. He worked briefly on an off-shore oil rig, as a messenger and eventually, as a short order cook in his brother’s DeRidder, Louisiana cafe.

On January 18, 1990, 42-year-old Rusty, depressed and living in poverty in a Louisiana trailer park, shot himself in the head.

Comments

comments

from my sketchbook: debbie boostrom

Posted by on

everybody run! the homecoming queen's got a gun!
Twenty-three year-old Debbie Boostrom auditioned, alongside hundreds of anxious and hopeful young ladies, to become the coveted 25th Anniversary Playboy Playmate. Debbie was unsuccessful, but a little over a year later, she was presented in the magazine as Miss August 1981. In the following months, she appeared in several Playboy videos and participated in some of Hugh Hefner’s celebrity events at the Playboy mansion. Eventually, with her brief, minimal fame fading, Debbie married and settled in Kansas with her husband. When her marriage failed, Debbie returned to her Florida roots and started a small business designing jewelry. Although she acted in a handful of infomercials, for the most part, she stayed out of the public eye.

On July 29, 2008, Debbie, now 53 and diagnosed with terminal breast cancer, put a gun to her head and shot herself.

(HERE’S my original sketch of Debbie.)

Comments

comments

from my sketchbook: alexa kenin

Posted by on

she lives in the place in the side of our lives where nothing is ever put straight
Alexa Kenin began acting as a child, landing her first role opposite Academy Award-winning actor Jason Robards in the 1972 TV movie The House Without a Christmas Tree. She appeared in several more TV productions, including five Afterschool Specials.

The 80s brought Alexa her big-screen debut in the Tatum O’Neal-Kristy MacNichol teen camp film Little Darlings. After more guest roles on episodic television, Alexa found herself in a supporting role alongside Clint Eastwood in Honkytonk Man  in 1982.

Soon, Alexa was cast in her most-remembered role as Jenna in Pretty in Pink  with Molly Ringwald. Just after Pretty in Pink  wrapped production, 23-year-old Alexa was found dead in her Manhattan apartment. Although still officially classified as an unsolved crime, the belief is that she was murdered by a jealous ex-boyfriend.

Comments

comments

IF: forward

Posted by on

Forward, he cried, from the rear and the front rank died.
When my parents gave me my first box of crayons and a blank drawing pad, they had no idea I would turn it into a career. I majored in art in high school and attended a vocational art school after spending a year in the retail world and realizing that I was better suited for a more creative profession. After earning my degree, I became the art director for a small chain of ice cream stores in the Philadelphia area. This was a great opportunity for a young graduate and I was anxious to let my imagination and school-acquired skills loose on the world. After a year, the company eliminated their in-house art department (of which I was the sole member) and I was out of a job. I soon began the gruelling course of a freelance artist. I filled-in at a few production houses* doing paste-up for newspapers and other various publications. In between jobs, I concentrated my efforts on finding full-time employment, as I was newly-married with a child on the way. I checked the “Help Wanted” section of the newspaper on a daily basis, but the “artist” listings were usually short and limited to painter’s assistant jobs and counter help at quick-copy service stores. I maintained contact with some classmates and my art school’s placement office for job leads, but the pickings were slim.

One morning, I circled an ad in the Philadelphia Inquirer. It seemed an ad agency on the prestigious Main Line section of suburban Philadelphia was seeking an artist/designer. I called the number and spoke briefly to a female voice who made arrangements for me to come in for an interview this upcoming Saturday evening. I thought it was an odd day and time for an interview, but who was I to question? I needed a job. With only one car, my wife drove me and my small portfolio of printed samples of my work out to – what would hopefully be – my new job location.

After consulting a map (remember, this was the days before the Internet and the GPS), we navigated the streets. Surprisingly, we arrived in a residential neighborhood, not an office building as I had expected. Checking the address again, we pulled up to the curb in front of a modest house surrounded by other similar-looking houses. I, in my suit and tie, walked up to the front door and rang the door bell. I half-expected that I was at the wrong location, but when an expressionless woman opened the door and greeted me with “You must be Josh,” I knew this must be the place. I entered her home and was directed to the dining room table. The woman introduced herself as Zimra Chorney – slightly older than I with unkempt, curly hair and clipped, bird-like features – and asked to see my portfolio. I had been on many interviews since my recent entry into the art business, but most (if not all) had been conducted in an office or a working design studio. I unzipped my small leather case and opened it to face my inquisitor. Silently, she turned the protective plastic pages of newspaper ads, ice cream promotional flyers and the occasional illustration. She examined my work through squinted, judgemental eyes set in her vacant face. Zimra reached the final page and closed the back cover. She then turned to a shelf and removed several folded pieces of solid-colored card stock. Her claw-like hands opened one of the folded pieces to reveal a black-and -white printed advertisement for, what appeared to be, a bakery.

“This,” Zimra began, “is the sort of promotional work we do.” and she gently tossed a few similar pieces in my direction. (“We,”  I thought as I cautiously looked around, “Who is ‘we’ “? ) I opened one of the cards and skimmed the content. The outside of the brochure was solid, glossy magenta with no type or art whatsoever. Inside, it was very wordy with some small illustrations of birthday cakes and cupcakes spaced throughout, failing in their attempt to comfortably break up the over-abundance of descriptive text. I could tell the other brochures that I left unopened on the table were similar, the outside color being the only variance. I feigned a smile at the brochures and nodded, but offered no comment or criticism. That was good, because Zimra had plenty to say in the criticism department.

She stood across the table from me and expounded on the lack of professionalism of my work. She explained that my work was weak and of poor quality and content. She displayed one of her brochures, looked lovingly at the piece and, injecting a haughty tone into her speech,  said “This is more along the lines of the type of high-quality and professionalism we seek and expect.”  As she spoke, she caressed the folds of the brochure and ran her bony fingers along the glossy ink of the cover.

“In a few years, if your talent and abilities are more developed, we may be interested.,” she said, using the royal “we” once again. Zimra escorted me to the door and showed me out. I don’t even remember walking down to my car. My wife asked how things went and, by the bewildered look on my face, her question was answered.

Jumping forward a few years, I had produced a body of work of which I was quite proud. I had redesigned the mastheads of several newspapers and magazines. I had created adverting pieces for such varied companies as Motorola, Holiday Inn, an East coast chain of turnpike rest stops and some major area department stores. I worked closely with an advertising agency, where I single-handedly designed and produced an annual plumbing supply catalog. I briefly entered the publishing industry, where I maintained a roster of no less than twenty-five newsletters and dozens of books. I ran the creative end of a real estate ad agency. I returned to the world of retail advertising and became the art director for a local chain of carpet and flooring stores whose headquarters was on the Main Line.

One day, on my way to work, I stopped for coffee at a Wawa convenience store on Montgomery Avenue. (Wawa is a very popular spot in the Philadelphia area for a quick bite, great coffee and that forgotten quart of milk or loaf of bread on your way home. And it’s much cleaner and friendlier than 7-11.) The coffee service area was bustling and crowded, as is normal for a workday morning at Wawa. I filled a 20 ounce cup with java, cream and one Sweet ‘n Low. I dodged a female employee who was wiping up a spill at the counter with a dingy, gray rag. As I made my way to the checkout to pay for my purchase, the same female employee jumped behind a cash register to help handle to overflow of customers. She wore the standard Wawa-issued visor to corral her unkempt, curly hair. The dark brown of her apron could not adequately hide the stains that peppered the front of the garment. She looked familiar, too. The name badge affixed to her apron’s shoulder strap was emblazoned with “ZIMRA” in big. black letters.

As the customers before me, one-by-one, paid for their selections, I fixed my gaze on the woman who once belittled me for my lack of talent and professionalism. This woman, who just a few short years ago insulted the quality of my work, was now wearing a dirty apron, sopping up spilled coffee and running a cash register in a convenience store. The last time I held a job in the same range as this, I was eighteen years old.

My turn to pay had come and I happily tendered a buck to Zimra – who didn’t acknowledge me, just as she didn’t acknowledge me those many years earlier.

I walked out of that Wawa and I never saw Zimra Chorney again. My career as a professional artist has continued to flourish and I have learned, grown and improved with each subsequent job I have taken. My initial meeting with Zimra taught me a lesson, but not the lesson she wanted to teach. My second meeting taught me more. Do I ever wonder what ever became of Zimra Chorney? Honestly, I don’t give a shit.

* In the days before computers, desktop publishing and the Internet, printed materials – such as newspapers, books, and brochures – were produced and assembled by hand, in a tedious, time-consuming process called “paste-up” that involved X-acto knifes, heated adhesive wax, typeset galleys, rulers, border tape and non-reproductive blue pens.

Comments

comments