The Mariner

I grad­u­at­ed with a bachelor’s degree in art, but in the art world, that degree is only worth as much as the paper it’s print­ed on after you draw some­thing on it. There are no guarantees.

That twist­ed cliché is what runs through my head as I put .5mm mechan­i­cal pen­cil to Can­son brand com­ic book art board. Page 1, pan­el 3, of my first issue of the Tales of the Mariner series, The Demon Purse. Wait…panel 3, that’s a bit of an odd place to start?

Nope. It aint. Not at all.

The Mariner sits at the bar, cradling a shot of rum. Nobody sits near him, his slouched pos­ture, his rat­ted gray mane, his odd dress. His shab­by exte­ri­or does not invite guests in this crowd­ed estab­lish­ment. He does not belong. The bar buzzes with tales from the mun­dane to the mag­nif­i­cent and he mere­ly lis­tens. A wit­ness, an observ­er, a con­sumer from his bar stool as the crowd around him con­tin­ues their enter­tain­ing chat­ter. They tell their tales. Tales of humor, tales of vio­lence, tales of debauch­ery. Tales of tri­umph. Tales of fail­ure. Tales of the shared human expe­ri­ence. Tales that invite oth­ers to lis­ten. Tales that engage. Tales that repulse. Tales to enter­tain any who would listen.

And he does, he lis­tens. There are count­less sto­ries to be told. Each offers its own van­tage point. Each offers its own per­spec­tive. Each has mer­it, but not nec­es­sar­i­ly an audi­ence. Tell the right tale to the wrong indi­vid­ual and it falls on deaf ears. Tell the wrong tale to the right indi­vid­ual and inter­est fades. It’s a roll of the dice, but sto­ries are made to be told.

And in the next pan­el, the Mariner takes his shot.

And in the next, he stands to find his audience.

That is how it begins.

Pen­cil to paper. Page 1 pan­el 3.

And right­ly so…

 

–chris