Inferno XXII: The Falling Man.

Inferno XXII: Ciampolo and the Malebranche

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

Their tour of the eighth circle continues in Canto XXII, and Dante and Virgil attempt to stall the brutal mauling of a sinner, plucked from the tarry pitch below, by asking questions about his background. While Virgil quizzes him, the antagonistic demons cut bits of flesh from the pitiful soul, but he ultimately escapes their escalating torture when he distracts them sufficiently—leaping from the cliffs to the black goo below. The scene is summed up at the end of the canto:

  

The Navarrese chose his time well;

He planted his feet on the ground, and in an instant

He leapt and escaped their designs.

*    *    *

I remember having dreams as a kid in which I was hiding from something—a monster or some other menace (Blacula, or Charles Manson, glaring with his coal black eyes as he did in news photographs, were perennial threats). In these dreams I was always wedged in the triangle of space behind an open door, looking through the crack on the hinged side. While safe for the moment, the threat was imminent and I was terrified of being discovered, and then God-knows-what. The primal instinct to flee overpowered the rational need to remain in hiding and the decisive moment always came. As the perp came closer I would leap from my hiding place, arms and limbs flailing in self-defense, screaming like mad to scare him off. I would then find myself awake.

The last bit of Canto XXII of L'Inferno evoked immediately a now famous image from 9-11 known as The Falling Man. Having lingo ago reached meme status, I'm a little sheepish about my exploitation of it for this drawing, but it remains potent to me so I wanted to refer to it. The image is that of a man plummeting head first from the World Trade Center tower, his arms to his sides, his left leg elegantly crooked to lend graceful proportion. The beauty of the image belies its horrific narrative. Moments before, the man was on the ledge of the building, undoubtedly agonizing in the face of a terrifying decision: jump or suffer an excruciating death by incineration. 

I like illustrating most when I am able to anticipate the visual literacy shared by most people and yet leave a few secrets to be discovered in the process of deciphering an image. Depending on this for dialogue with a viewer's memory and expecting their semiotic response system to engage, enabling them to answer the questions I am posing, can be deeply gratifying. This image unfolded that way, and—despite its tedious making—I really enjoyed all phases of its development.

Inferno XVIII: Fecal Matter

Inferno XVIII: Fecal Matter

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

Dante has arrived in the eighth circle of Inferno, in the first of ten pouches (ditches) called the malebolge (translated as “evil pouches”). Here he witnesses a band of panderers (pimps, flatterers, et al), tormented by demons as they move in procession along the floor of the valley His gaze is arrested by the sight of one pathetic sinner whom he recognizes, covered with a thick layer of excrement.

*    *    *

Dante’s cruel sarcasm is on full display in his exchange with Alessio Interminei of Lucca, a flatterer who asks Dante why he feels compelled to stare him down more than the others. The retort is mean-spirited and antagonistic:

"Why, if I remember,

I saw you once before with dry hair.

You are Alessio Interminei of Lucca,

so I study you more than all the others.”

Dante’s towering literary reputation sometimes overshadows his arrogance and cruelty. He can be a tool, but he’s still funny as shit.

This is a shitty drawing in more ways than one. I’m pleased enough with the bottom half, but the top surrenders itself to whimsy, my eternal predilection. Not that whimsy can't be terrifying. Just ask the two foolish children who, lured by promises of treacle tarts by the androgynous, superficially mirthful Child Catcher, met sudden, horrifying entrapment in Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang. The bottom of my drawing is certainly whimsical, but there is to me more perversity in the characterizations and the way lines, visual hierarchy, and other formal/design decisions contribute to a sense of severe agony in its figures. I need to do something about the demons—they’re a bit more like characters from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show than the fierce antagonists they’re meant to be. Maybe I’ll simply obfuscate them in an inky cloud. Things are scarier when you can’t quite see them.

I need to study how imagery evolves this way for me, how some parts go wrong while other parts seem to fall in place almost effortlessly (although I should be careful to say that nothing ever feels effortless); how sketches sometimes seem more essential and honest than finished drawings or, conversely, how finished drawings finesse the seeds of simple ideas into more sophisticated form. I had a wonderful student once, Matt Leines, who had undertaken an independent study project with me. We met every week to discuss his ideas, and I recall at one point he came to me with an expression of frustration. He had a sketch—small and in a notebook—and he had a finished illustration—a bit larger. His question was simple: “why doesn’t this look like that?” In other words, what was it about the sketch that he had been unable to apprehend in the finished image? We went round and round and—apart from the typical technical explanations (eg.: perhaps his use of mediums didn’t translate well at larger scale and on a different substrate?) I think we ultimately decided that sometimes the honest impulse for mark-making, the exploration of form and meaning in its most naive, open and meandering mode of drawing and painting, is impossible to replicate.

So, some things turn to shit.

Inferno VI: Cerberus

Inferno VI: Cerberus

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

In the sixth canto, Dante and Virgil encounter Cerberus—the three-headed hound of hell—who guards their passage with his fercious barking as he lords over miserable sinners, writhing in the mire below.

*    *    *

This is a classic case of a good idea gone wrong. Its compositional lethargy is the result a my well-intended yet ill-conceived notion that, by placing Cerberus in the center of the image and surrounding him with a heaving mass of pathetic souls writhing on the ground beneath him, I could metaphorically represent the scene without showing the literal geography. I was trying to introduce some variety to my repertoire of visual presentation tropes. 

I think that most conceptions of this moment in L'Inferno picture Cerberus perched on a rock, enabling him to survey the bodies below while rain and huge hailstones pummel the crowd. But what I've created is not sufficiently depicting that dynamic and, instead, Cerberus is simply plopped in the center of the image, hovering sans gravity and sitting at the same time. The hail disappears when it's superimposed over the figures. So many bad decisions—this is definitely a "do-over" when I have time.

The saving grace for me is the figures themselves, which were a joy to draw in all their puling agony. Nothing like a little misery to brighten one's spirits.

Inferno V: King Minos, The Adjudicator

Inferno V: King Minos, The Adjudicator

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

The dead line up to confess their sins to King Minos, who encircles himself with his serpentine tail, the number of times it girds his body corresponding directly to the circle of hell to which each soul is destined. The Prince of the Lilies, from Knossos on Crete, served as inspiration for the costuming.

*    *    *

In one of the most unnerving moments of L'Inferno, Dante and Virgil observe King Minos holding court over countless souls who must report to him their transgressions before he can damn them to the appropriate circle of Hell. Dante often indulges in generous poetic license to re-imagine characters from myth and history, and his chimeric mutation of Minos from ancient Greek King to serpentine monster is one of his most colorful and sinister characterizations.

The Prince of the Lilies, a fresco unearthed at Minos' infamous Knossos palace (where beneath the floors lurked another hybrid beast, the Minotaur) gave me a great head start in imagining the adjudicator's flair for elaborate, peacock-and-lilies headdress and long, wavy locks.

Inferno IV: The Great Poets

Inferno IV: The Great Poets

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

In esteemed and honorable company, Dante is invited to walk alongside the shades of four ancient poets, thereby placing himself among giants of verse, but slyly doing so in the guise of fictional narrative. Here he meets Homer, Horace, Ovid and Lucan, all wandering expressionless in Limbo.

*    *    *

After the "Gates of Hell" drawing (27 January), I realized that I was setting a stylistic and technical precedent that would be tough to live up to in the time I had allowed to finish the project. Creating so much density and complexity with a 00 Rapidograph pen would be tough. So, I took a gamble and developed an image of the four poets which was much lighter in tone. My hope was that the delicate lines would adequately express the spectral nature of these four shades. I pick up the lighter treatment again later, and I'm pretty pleased with the unity of the series. In fact, I'm glad I did this, because the shifting qualities of each—while related to the others—provides a little variety in the sequence.

The encounter described in Canto IV displays Dante's considerable ego and false humility in full flower. Staging a fraternal invitation by four of the greatest poets to have ever walked the earth was a pretty convenient way to exalt his own status as a living poet, all the while humbling himself by proclaiming his unworthiness. 

Inferno III: The Gates of Hell

Inferno III: The Gates of Hell

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

Dante and Virgil soon arrive at the Gates of Hell, whose forboding inscription reads “Abandon All Hope, You Who Enter Here.”

*    *    *

Dante struggled with deeply conflicted feelings about his native city, Florence. Exiled in 1301 because of his affiliation with a political faction known as the White Guelphs, he spent the next several years traveling and writing, his chief accomplishment being La Commedia.

The symbol of Florence for many centuries has been the fleur-di -lis, and in depicting his arrival with Virgil at the entrance to l'Inferno, I wanted primarily to do two things: emphasize the scale of Hell's formidable architecture and—perhaps more importantly—investigate whether some analogous relationship could be forged with Florence. I have incorporated the fleur-di-lis in many places in the series, and this is its first appearance (in the ornamentation on the pyramidal part of the structure on top).

Incidentally, the stepped pyramid above the inscription is a deliberate foreshadowing to the Purgatorial mountain, whose seven levels Dante must ascend in Purgatorio, before reaching Paradise and his beloved Beatrice.

Inferno I: The Three Beasts

Inferno I: The Three Beasts

Ink on paper, 2016

22 x 15”

As he begins his journey, Dante is three times turned back for fear of attack by three wild beasts: a leopard (representing lust), a lion (pride) and a she-wolf (avarice).

*   *   *

What began as my favorite Inferno image in my sketchbook—indeed, the one that kicked off the project in an exciting way for me—has lately haunted me in its lack of sophistication and gravitas since I committed it to larger scale. I drew this spread no less than five times before arriving at this version and I'm intent on developing an improved iteration, once the whole series is finished and I have time to backtrack and fix things. It's driving me nuts. It's too playful and disarming.

Providing narrative context is important if one is to understand the relevance of Dante's encounter with the leopard, lion and she-wolf, set early in the poem, shortly after Dante awakens in the forest, filled with regret and fear. As he makes his way through the landscape, he encounters three savage beasts. In almost all scholars' minds, these animals represent three grave sins of man, but there's sometimes disagreement about which transgressions they are. 

I'm most familiar with the edition of La Commedia that was translated and glossed by Robert and Jean Hollander in 2000. They eloquently discuss the animal metaphors in their notes:

“The early commentators are strikingly in accord; for them the beasts signify (1) three of the seven mortal sins: lust, pride, and avarice. Modern interpreters mainly—but not entirely, as we shall see—reject this formulation. One of these interpretations is based on Inferno VI. 75, the three “sparks” that have lit evil fires in the hearts of contemporary Florentines, according to Ciacco, who is seconded by Brunetto Latini [Inf. XV. 68]): (2) envy, pride, and avarice. Others suggest that the key is found at Inferno XI. 81–82, where, describing the organization of the punishment of sin, Virgil speaks of (3) “the three dispositions Heaven opposes, incontinence, malice, and mad brutishness.” Even within this approach there are strong disagreements as to which beast represents which Aristote-lian/Ciceronian category of sin: is the leopard fraud or incontinence? is the she-wolf incontinence or fraud? (the lion is seen by all those of this “school” as violence). For instance, some have asked, if the leopard is fraud, the worst of the three dispositions to sin, why is it the beast that troubles Dante the least? A possible answer is that fraud is the disposition least present in Dante.”

Excerpt From: Dante, Robert Hollander & Jean Hollander. “The Inferno.” iBooks. https://itun.es/us/sBENE.l

I would be perfectly content if scholars could reach some consensus on these interpretations, if only for my stumbling on the convenient formal metaphor that associates the leopard's camouflage with the concept of "fraud." Nothing's easy in hell.

Introduction to Inferno: Una Selva Oscura

Introduction to Inferno: Una Selva Oscura

Ink on paper. 2016

22 x 15”

In the opening canto of L’ Inferno, Dante finds himself in a dark wood (una selva oscura) having lost his way in life, both morally and intellectually. Thus begins the journey to Hell, Purgatory and Paradise, before returning to life a saved man.

*   *   *

For a couple of years, I taught a class with a brilliant RISD colleague—Mark Sherman, a medievalist in the Literary Arts and Studies Department. I learned a great deal from our experience, and particularly from Mark, who was not only a knowledgeable scholar but also a perfectly competent critic of visual communication. The class, "Illustrating Dante's Comedy," encouraged deeper reflection on the poem in its entirety, with the challenging premise of total immersion in both scholarly and studio investigation. We met for eight hours each week and talked constantly about the poem, its metaphorical and historical richness and how best to visualize it. I do think it was important for most of the students, as their apprehension of the content—written 700 years ago—was made more meaningful by their attempts at illustrating it, while their literary interpretation deepened their relationship to the content as artists. This was the goal, realized with exactitude through a huge investment of sweat and brain work.

It affected me too, and I remain grateful to Mark for resurrecting the poem for me. I don't think that any other teaching experience—at RISD or elsewhere—has more strongly influenced my own creative trajectory. I began by sketching in class as we discussed the poem and these little drawings eventually took shape as a project that's been consuming my attention for the past several months. Most of us read L'Inferno in high school or freshman lit classes in college, and its pulpy, phantasmal imagery appeals universally to youthful sensibilities. I last encountered L'Inferno (sans the rest of the poem) at age 19, my mind mired in newfound pleasures of freely available sex and beer and (finally, after 12 years of public school in which art class was shoved to the periphery) full-time dedication to art making. But in middle age I suspect the poem resonates more profoundly as it mirrors the preoccupations of people (like myself) whose paths in life are pondered with affection, regret, lost love, resentment and a desire to clarify, once and for all, the rest of the journey. Pick up Dante at age 50 and it will be a different literary experience. Spend many hours translating and drawing its tercets of terza rima and you'll realize how much you have in common with a 14th century poet, despite the hundreds of years and linguistic traditions that separate you.

I'm on sabbatical from teaching Illustration at RISD. My proposal, which was submitted in earnest many months ago, boldly (and with naive, puppy-dog enthusiasm, I will admit it) involved completion of 100 drawings based on La Commedia, an ambitious undertaking, to say the least. I've knocked a dent in it but I have a long way to go, of course. I still have time, and—as I near the ninth circle of hell in my efforts to illustrate this huge masterpiece—I'm probably about as intimidated as our hero was just before he encountered Lucifer, embedded in ice and chomping away on three sinners.

Recently (and I'm surprised that I never bothered to research this before) I took a look at relevant dates for the poem's creation. It took Dante, politically and socially exiled from Florence and couch surfing in other Italian cities, twelve years to complete the poem—from 1308-1320. He was, during its creation, between the ages of 43-and 55 years old. Coincidentally  (or perhaps not) at age 43 I came out to my kids, friends and colleagues after almost 20 years of marriage to a beautiful, wise and forgiving woman and found myself in a dark wood: una selva oscura. Desperate for jarring change and a fresh start, I moved to Rome to teach for RISD and enjoyed the departure from routine for two transformative years. This was certainly a momentous turning point in life and the beginning of a period of introspection and self-awareness that has culminated in innumerable life changes. During the past eleven years I have experienced a protracted awakening. I stopped drinking. I enjoyed a seven-year relationship with a man I met in Rome. I became vegetarian. I tried to steer my kids from harm as they teetered on the cusp of adulthood. I lost my mother, a beautiful force of nature, who passed away a month ago at age 96. I looked back on the countless mistakes and losses I experienced along the way. I became a more courageous man.

I'm not presumptuous enough to liken my own artistic pursuits to those of Dante, but I've been awed by the richness of experience this project has afforded me. I have undertaken it analogously, approaching each canto, from beginning to end, in the proper sequence. Like Dante, I begin in the dark wood, wondering how the hell I got here, grateful for so much but cursing myself for squandering some unusual gifts. The project has been deliberately structured as time-consuming (and occasionally maddening, especially when my own lack of resourcefulness or other obstacles slow me down). And, more than any other aspect of learning it has afforded me, I have been allowed to study my own processes—intellectual, formal and technical—and this is precisely what the gift of sabbatical is about. 

I'm including below the opening lines to L'Inferno, no doubt mirroring the experience of many of my brothers and sisters in mid-life, along with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's 1867 translation:

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

ché la diritta via era smarrita.

—

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Two more sketches for the cover of a book of poems.

The author wasn't feeling it with the former two images, wanting instead a more figurative approach, which is aligned with the nature of his work. Since the poems are so much about the human condition, it makes sense to include figures engaged in some conflict in the imagery. I understand.

The poems are about loss, detachment and reconnecting with life through pursuit and observance of beauty. The imagery is derived from some of the more profound sections of the book.

Abstraction as illustration.

I was pretty pleased with this. In an unusual and highly appreciated affordance of artistic license, the client allowed me to work with abstraction in the cover image for the magazine. The reason was that the concept was terrifyingly complicated: the theme of the issue of this journal was meeting the challenge of engaging parents/families communities in school leadership, but with an added emphasis on how plans may often come together, only to be collectively reviewed and revised, and ultimately result in a successful outcome—a higher level of community involvement with greater numbers, less distance and unified direction.

Cover Art.

"Bringing Transformative Family Engagement to Scale: Implementation Lessons from Federal i3 Grants"