This Is The Place…

Time Spent: Too Long

From a creative standpoint, I’ve never felt quite the same after reading Alan Moore’s Saga of the Swamp Thing. Shifting the origin of a man turned monster into a monster turned man. A reimagining so beautifully written and illustrated I simply felt guilty for not reading it sooner. The pages I’m sharing represent one of my favorite moments: a dreamlike sequence where the Swamp Thing cradles the bones of who he believes he is. Even rejecting his bride in the process. Realizing the thoughts and emotions he has are not his own but simply taken from the corpse he carries. And the sadness and fear of losing the remains, as he believes it’s his only link to humanity. The despair in realizing that your reality isn’t even yours. Still kills me reading it!

This piece didn’t turn out quite the way I wanted it. I sort of “gave up” on it. I drew the skull with Swampy “mossing” over it just fine. Even dug the colors. But when it came to the composition I was pretty lost. Reflection. Water ripples. Didn’t really know what I was doing. And since this was simply a fun piece, I had other bigger things to move onto. So this is where we are.

As usual, prints are for sale at my store if interested. And fun projects are ahead!

This Is The Place…

Swamp Thing
I DID NOT WRITE THE BELOW POEM…I ONLY drew the above picture.

This is the place.

It breathes, it eats, and, at night, beneath a crawling ground fog with the luster of vaporized pearl, it dreams, dreams while tiny predators stage a nightmare ballet in sharp black grass. It is a living thing it has a soul, it has a face.

At night you can almost see it.

At night you can almost imagine what it might look like if the swamp were boiled down to its essence, and distilled into corporeal form; if all the muck, all the forgotten muskrat bones, and all the luscious decay would rise up and wade on two legs through the shallows; if the swamp had a spirit and that spirit walked like a man…

At night, you can almost imagine.

You can stare into those places where the evening has pooled beneath the distant trees, and glimpse an ambiguous shifting of the darkness, something large, large and slow, its movements solemn and inevitable, heavy with clotted, sodden weed that forms its flesh, its skeleton of tortured root creaks with each funereal pace, protesting at the damp and sullen weight, within their sockets its eyes float like blood-poppies in puddles of ink.

You can inhale through flared nostrils, drinking in its musk, green and pungent, there is the delicate scent of mosses and lichens adorning its flanks, there is the dry and acrid aftertaste of the pinmold that spreads across its shoulders, fanning out in a dull gray rash.

You can stand alone in the blind darkness and know that were you to raise your arm, reaching out to its full extremity, your fingernails would brush with something wet, something supple and resilient, something moving.

You shouldn’t have come here.

This is the place.

– Alan Moore, Saga of the Swamp Thing #1

 

Regards,

CMPLogo