By Chet Roush
Hard to believe that it’s been less than a year since our first comic con in Eau Claire Wisconsin. We drove there in the middle of a blizzard, going down a country road with no more than a few feet of visibility, the car loaded up with comics and merchandise by two guys who didn’t know what they needed or how it would go.
It’s been an amazing 8 months since then. We launched our Free Comic Book Day giveaway, gave out prizes to the winners of our Art and Comics Contest, and got thrilling responses to our art and creativity from Louisville, Kentucky to Omaha, Nebraska. Throughout, our goal has been about more than merely promoting our art, or offering a few more trinkets to buy in a world filled with them. We seek to bring out the creativity in others, to make people aware of their profound and unique capacities for self-expression.
And so, when we were invited to Indy Popcon, we leapt at the chance. The creativity on display by the many fandoms that are drawn to “comic book conventions” (as they were known when a few scrappy critics, fans, and entrepreneurs first got the idea of bringing creators and audiences together around a celebration of art and fandom) has been a constant source of fascination and inspiration for us. We have been awestruck by the artwork, and endlessly intrigued by the original concoctions of independent writers and artists. Indy Popcon promised to be our biggest convention yet, and a chance to show friends and family what Do Art is really about.
In addition, we celebrated Jerry’s 33rd birthday! Jerry wanted to celebrate his “Jesus age” in a style befitting our mission, and so his whole family (and my girlfriend) joined us in Indianapolis over the weekend. We brought a full complement of artwork, as well as equipment for our comic book workshop. I was even more excited to find out that our latest comics Zine Heist and Gerald Bear had finally arrived from the printer. After years spent in production and editing, the tales of Gerald the Bear and our collaboration with independent artists from around the world would finally see the light of day.
The Set-Up: Artist and Comic Con
In stark contrast to our first comic con, the weather on the ride to Indianapolis was incredibly hot. We kept the windows down in the car to avoid running the AC too much. We arrived at the house Jerry’s mom had rented around sunset, a farmhouse less than 20 minutes from the convention center but strangely rural, removed. Jerry’s family arrived in his stepdad’s truck a few hours later: his mom, stepdad, and two aunts piled out and we unloaded a weekend’s worth of food and supplies. What had been apprehension in February had become a kind of elation. Every comic con is different, and questions like how we would unload, and what the set up would look like, could only be answered in the moment.
The story of the comic book convention is about more than simply the rise of a single variety of print media, and the spandex-clad mythologies it created. It is also the story about how, in the middle of the twentieth century, creators and their audiences found one another and created the thing we today call “fandom.” You could see fandom as an endlessly chattering cacophony, manipulated by massive content houses like Warner Brothers or Disney, but ultimately a beast of taste and expectation beyond the power of any one entity to control. You could see it as an outgrowth of art in the age of its mechanical reproduction, when narrative can be transmitted to audiences far beyond the small groups of aristocrats or monks that had patronized or preserved most art before the invention of the printing press. You could see it as a kind of capacity of the human psyche, the power to empathize and identify so strongly with a piece of fiction that the boundaries between ego and character break down–you cry because Iron Man is dying, you are scandalized when Batman is not your Batman–and the bridge between flesh-and-blood experience and wildest fantasy becomes shorter than the distance of your nose from the page.
You could also see it as a business opportunity. We arrived at the convention center to find the loading dock filled with cars, trucks, and vans, people hauling their goods up a ramp into the building. Jerry and I found somewhere to park the car and headed inside. It took a few minutes to find our spot in the corner of the room, next to a giant sculpture of Appa, the flying bison in Avatar: The Last Airbender, next to a prop cabbage stand. Appa’s face was masked to protect his nose. Con-goers could climb on his back and take pictures for a few dollars.
Comic cons are host to all manner of enterprises like this. You get celebrity autographs, comics or collectibles stands, artists selling fan art in their individual style, indie comic artists and publishers hustling next to authors of fantasy, sci-fi, and humor novels, cosplayers taking photographs, video game stands, and things like Appa the Flying Bison: an experience dreamed up by a group of people with the skill and grit to bring it to life.
The sheer variety of it all can be overwhelming, but at root is a mixture of love and craft, a desire not only to make a few bucks off the attendees but to receive validation that your art matters, that people think it’s cool, in the simplest manner that capitalism has devised. The encouragement of friends means a lot, everything even, and kind words from strangers are appreciated, but there’s something about someone handing you money as you give them something you made, a perfect stranger willing to part with cash she could have spent on ice cream or a plastic sword because she was intrigued by what you placed before her. It’s a rush beyond mere avarice–it puts a spring in your step, a rush of adrenaline that makes you forget how much your feet hurt and how long the drive home is.
We set up. Jerry walked from end to end, considering where the crowd would come from, while his mom and I set up tables and banner stands. The goal, more even than to sell comics, was to give the audience at the con a taste of our comic book workshops. We had tables set up for participants to draw. The idea was to ask them to draw us in a “wacky” way. The word
Is
WACKY!
And then, more or less, to put a pencil and paper in their hands and let the magic happen. Kids, adults, all kinds of people will scribble something on the page, in exchange for a small prize. We’ve seen little kids delight as they move the pencil on the page, me crying out excitedly at the abstract spaghetti monster and saying YOU CAUGHT MY ESSENCE while the parents laugh. We’ve seen a dad coax his kids over, only for him to draw a professional-level masterpiece while they gawk in awe. Once, a woman sat her grandkids down at the table, saying “They’re the artists.” She drew Jerry as a bearded merman, tail folded in front of him with pond weeds in the background.
We arranged the immense space we’d gotten in two sections: one for the workshop and one for our artwork. The workshop section was situated around a large white board, three tables in a half-square facing it. The other side had our art, me arranging the canvases, prints, and comics in an aesthetically-pleasing way, around the constraints of time and available space.
Birthday Party: Friends, Family, and the Wu-Tang Clan
Con-goers began to file in. The first day was an electric experience–people enticed by the premise of Zine Heist and the power of artistic collaboration, kids and adults alike drawing Jerry while he juggled or rode around on a unicycle. After lunch, Jerry’s mom left and my girlfriend and good friend Matt showed up. The crowd tapered off, and soon enough Day One was over. We walked from the convention center, my feet hurting after a day of very little sitting down, to the parking lot where I’d stashed my car. From there we headed to a bar across the street, admiring the lovely, friendly atmosphere of downtown Indianapolis.
Back at the house, we ate hamburgers and I gave Jerry my present: THE TAO OF WU, by the producer Bobby Diggs, better known as the RZA. 2023 may be the year of the comic con, or the comic book workshop, but it will also be known among Jerry and I anyway as the year of Wu Tang. After day one of our first comic con we unwinded at the end of the day by watching the premier of the 3rd season of WU TANG: AN AMERICAN SAGA. We’ve followed the show, a fascinating exploration of the rise of one of hiphop’s most legendary rap groups, since virtually its debut. We’ve been listening to the group obsessively ever since, most prominently this year, when we delved into their discography after Enter the 36 Chambers, which we play at the beginning of every comic con. Wu Tang, and our fascination with it, deserve its own post, but the show (and the real-life experiences of RZA and the other members of the Clan) demonstrate the power of art, craft, and community to give a sense of identity to those willing to seek it out. Even before the colossal success of the group (witnessed in Season Three, when they tour the world and sign the biggest hiphop record deal of the decade), each member of the Clan sought their way out of a cycle of poverty, violence, and desperation, often with little more than a notebook, a pen, and the support of their loved ones. In telling their stories, and crafting their music, they found not only themselves, but something that could inspire audiences of all backgrounds, and continues to do so today.
Whether Frida Kahlo or Raekwon the Chef, the ability of art to empower has been frequently tested, and proven. But anyhow, the first day was over. I went to bed, exhausted but excited for day 2.
Day 2: What am I Doing Here?
On Day 2 Jerry’s aunts Tammi and Sue joined us. We had been particularly excited to get Sue to come along. A recently-formed artist, Sue had started painting at the age of 50. We had taken many trips to the Art Institute in Chicago, the treasures of centuries revealing their curious secrets among brush strokes or the chiseled edges of stone. We had seen her blossom from a beginner struggling to draw pictures of cats into an artist with her own unique style, and an amazing eye that could transform the world around her. We knew that she would love the friendly atmosphere of the con, as well as the chance to talk to fellow artists and share her love of creativity with others.
I joined the group after parking my car a few blocks from the convention. Jerry had rearranged the booth, so that the drawing tables and the merch switched places. Now I was nearer Appa the Flying Bison, standing on a corner looking out toward the convention’s many stalls and entertainments. Like the day before I would call out in friendly fashion to the con-goers, smiling and telling them all about our original art and comics, and the drawing station we had set up. But on that Saturday I found myself struggling to maintain a facade of cheer over a deeper attitude of discontent. Watching Jerry, Tammi, and Sue playing with the kids over in the drawing section, while I looked people in the eye and tried to get them to buy a comic, made my own work seem less successful, and more drab. Every time someone walked past without buying something, or even responding to me, I got this nasty sense of futility. What was I even doing here?
I recognized this aggravated whining of the ego from my days doing sales. My foray into door-to-door sales hadn’t lasted long, but towards the end this feeling became constant, to the point that I had a miniature nervous breakdown driving to Chicago one evening after a long day of knocking on doors, and selling nothing. Some of it is that, no matter what you’re “selling,” your actions are ultimately a projection of yourself, a version of you more confident and assured than you usually are. To have this projection rejected, again and again, or just plain ignored, becomes physically draining. You start to think that something is wrong with your process, or that today “just isn’t your day.” You fantasize about hanging it all up, crying yourself to sleep and maybe trying again tomorrow. Worse, you look around for what everyone else is doing wrong, your own insecurities bloating to monstrous proportions, taking revenge on innocent people for your own exposed vulnerability.
A few people bought comics. One woman bought a blanket of J. Cole. By the end of the day I was feeling better. Three things are helpful to remember in any bout of insecurity. Firstly, that it’s your insecurity. Emotions usually become smaller when we make space for them, and face them head on for what they are. Secondly, remember that the only person who “knows” that you can’t do this is you. Nobody knows you’re having a “bad day” except you, and these perfect strangers don’t know that your persona is an act, or that you aren’t the person you wish to be.
Thirdly, remember why you’re doing this. Common advice for salespeople, but every sales job I’d had before this had floundered on the why. I’ll talk more about my experiences in a separate post, but the bottom line was that when I looked at my why I saw no real reason to continue except that I’d have to say I failed if I quit. Success was simply not enticing enough, if success meant knocking on more doors, making a few dollars commission off a product that I didn’t really believe in or understand. But this time I knew what I was selling: not just some pieces of glossy paper bound by two staples, but proof positive that I am an artist, and that people can follow the same path I did and become artists themselves.
Sue was elated with the “wacky” drawings people made, especially of her. She proudly noted that, while she was there, the drawing tables were filled with artists. One fellow vendor even stopped by and drew her wide brimmed hat and coat in a Wild West style. She reveled in the new nickname: Cowboy Sue.
Like Sue, I was not some kind of artistic prodigy. I loved reading and writing from an early age, but art always frustrated me. I would scribble in the margins of notebooks, fumbling around in art class, jealous of kids with seemingly effortless linework who could make drawings that looked like they belonged in galleries or museums. I dabbled in painting in college, more or less because Jerry and Matt goaded me into it. I started drawing seriously at the age of 26, struggling with the fine details of portraits, or making an abstract landscape somewhat recognizable as the place I was painting from photographs. I only started coloring comics because, as Jerry and I wrote them, it seemed natural that he (with more flair for line art) would draw the comics and I would add color in order to contribute and get the project finished faster. So I began coloring Jerry’s pencil drawings in Microsoft 3D paint, cursing the program every step of the way as I ran through page after page, becoming more daring with background patterns and more confident with contrast and shading.
4 years and one pandemic later, people at Indianapolis’ biggest comic con were praising the vivid color of Bubba Samurai. The progress was less evident to me because I’d been there for all of it, feeling every bump in the road. After day 2 wound down Jerry led us outside. We wandered around downtown Indianapolis for a few hours, enjoying the Monument Circle and the Art Garden before we ended up playing ping pong in a bar just up the street from the convention. I’m no more a prodigy at ping pong than I am at art, but I managed a few good volleys and told myself that, with practice, I’d be smoking Matt and Jerry in no time.
Day 3: the Wrap-Up
The last day of a comic con is usually a slower affair. The crowds thin out a bit earlier on Sunday, and the vendors are often tired after 3 days of nonstop action and stimulation. Indy Popcon was much the same, except that this time we wanted to use our creative energy to show appreciation to its lead organizer, Randy. Randy had been immensely helpful to us, negotiating the comic con space as relative newcomers, and had by all accounts thrown an absolutely amazing con. We wanted to transmit not only our thanks but love and appreciation from the attendees. So Jerry took a simple piece of white paper, folded it in half, drew a big Thanks Randy on the front, and had people sign and add artwork to it throughout the last day. My girlfriend and I added color to the front cover to make it more exciting, and little doodles as well as notes of thanks and signatures soon filled the inside of the paper.
My girlfriend and I took a short trip downtown on our lunch break, enjoying the city’s downtown one final time before we had to leave. When we came back, Matt and Jerry’s whole family were helping out at our booth–Tammi standing behind our merch, Sue and Greg encouraging kids to draw while Jerry’s mom Karen practiced juggling next to our sign. One con-goer had drawn Greg with cat paws, whiskers, and ears coming out of his hat–his own likeness given a dash of anime cuteness, the colored pencils lending the drawing a pastel feel.
By the end of the day, the card was filled with drawings and names. I added some art of my own, a quick sketch from memory of a pot of sunflowers, sitting on a table. I could have spent an hour at least finessing the lines and color, but we were out of time. As ungainly as we began we packed up our stuff and loaded into the cars in the loading dock. The hot day, and the fact that I had to park even further than usual from the door, made moving out a more strenuous experience than loading in, but soon enough everything was packed in my car and we went to help Karen and Greg with their truck. Karen deftly managed everything, loading our things alongside the supplies we’d brought for the weekend.
Jerry said Randy was brought almost to tears when he saw the card we’d made for him. I can only imagine that organizing an event like this is often thankless work, managing the little fires that need to get put out with little time to enjoy the fruits of your labor. Knowing that an event like this touches people–and it really does, all the beautifully strange misfits that come to these cons looking for a community based on art and passion–I drove back to Jerry’s house thinking that it was one of his better ideas. And it managed to showcase one of our favorite aspects of art–the artist collage, each artist adding some touches of their own, creating a finished product bigger than the vision of any one of them. The key, which Jerry does amazingly well, is thinking of a frame, an excuse for collaboration to get people working on the same project–which the thank-you card, though simple, accomplished perfectly. I instantly regretted not getting a picture of it, to show you all. But then, some art is made to be shared with the world, to inspire myriad visions of what the world could be like. Some art is made to touch one person, as much with the dedication it took to make it as for what it portrays: to say YOU WERE WORTH THE TIME.
Matt drove home by himself. Jerry and I dropped by girlfriend off in Chicago and then drove to Rochelle, Illinois. We got home late but still managed to get there ahead of Jerry’s family. After all was said and done, all the supplies and convention equipment put away, we sat in the basement watching some TV with Jerry’s mom. Greg came down to join us, rather unusually for him. Typically a man of few words, he had something to say to the three of us. “That was really cool. I really enjoyed that.”