Going to a convention, the Guest's perspective.

Convention planning 101.

Rather like the proverbial conundrum: “Which came first? The chicken or the egg?”At the end of each show you begin planning for next year’s show in that location.

Around six months before the show you begin to panic. “Did I remember to tell them I want table space?” You e-mail them. They e-mail back; “we haven’t yet begun booking tables, but go to our website in a few days and you should be able to do it through that”.

Six months minus one week. You try the website and it isn’t working.

Four months: you realize that you forgot all about it and try to recall what you were supposed to do. You actually make contact with the website and it still doesn’t work. You e-mail the convention and they apologize that the website didn’t work as it was supposed to. They say they’ll mail you an application.

Three months: Application arrives and you try to come up with a rationale for spending money on a table. Full table or half table? (This year I opted for a full table at Orlando’s MegaCon. A group which actually has a working website, BTW.)

Two months: Your check has cleared the bank, and assuming you’ve balanced your checkbook (I don’t always, bad idea) you are vaguely aware of the impending event. You begin to wonder if your car will hold up for the trip.

One month: Your passes have not arrived and you’ve forgotten if you even applied to this show or not. “Did I remember to tell them that my wife is coming?”

Three weeks: Your passes arrive and your table space is indicated. “Where the heck is section Mauve?” You check the website but the map of the convention center hasn’t been updated since last year.

Two weeks: You decide to pack everything you’ll need for the show. But suddenly you are swamped with freelance work and your wife, Mom and Dad are all sick at the same time. You spend the next few days shuttling everyone to and from the Doctor’s office and working late into the night to make your deadlines.

One week: You burn out on the freelance work and begin packing. You put everything into boxes and tape them shut so they’ll travel well. You discover a better box for every item, unbox them all and repack. You find some items you left out, unbox everything and repack a second time. You visit the bank several times to check on your checking account balance and to transfer funds, just in case. You visit your PayPal account to make sure that it’s still active. You make sure you have a number of figures pre-sketched for “spontaneous” convention sketches that don’t look like garbage. You realize that you have twice as many female figures as male and worry that the paradigm might have shifted back to heroes by now. You lament the fact that you haven’t got any new books out right now.

Three days before leaving: You worry that you might be coming down with the cold that your wife had. You take Echinechia, Vitamin C, and try to get more sleep. You begin to worry that you don’t have anything that would vaguely interest anyone at this particular show.

Two days before leaving: You are a sell out. You are a hack. You’re boring and your past work is passé. You remember that you have at least one stop at Steak ‘n’ Shake™ along the way, and things look a little brighter.
One day before leaving: You wonder if you can afford all those Steak ‘n’ Shake™ calories.

The trip to the show: You listen to music. You pig out at Steak ‘n’ Shake™ anyway. You get really tired. “Did I remember sharpie pens? I’ll pick some up at an office supply place.”
You get in dead tired after all that time on the road. Hopefully you’ve planned a day for rest before the show.

Set up day: You get on the road from where you’re staying (friend or family member’s house in the general vicinity is nice) to the actual venue a hour or so later than you’d planned. Don’t panic. The show starts TOMORROW, not TODAY. You arrive at the venue and the organizers haven’t set up yet. The union guy who’s supposed to have your table up by now hasn’t quite gotten that done yet. The air conditioning / heat won’t be turned on until tomorrow. There’s some comic book guy from Cincinnati who needs a little more sleep griping about how his shipment is late and / or trashed and how he’s going to sue the organizers. You wait for your table, which eventually gets set up (don’t try to do it yourself unless you want the union on your case!). You put up your display. Books, art, tee-shirts, CDs, whatever, go on your table. You stand back and admire it for a moment before worrying that you probably shouldn’t leave it out with all these people running around the venue. You put everything back in boxes so that potential thieves will have an easier time carrying it all and put it under your table. You go home to your friend or family member’s house, and worry that you might come down with stomach flu. You wash your hands a lot.

First day of show: Up early because it’s Show Time! But first you have to drive to the venue. The tollway is more crowded since you’re in rush hour traffic today. It’s going to take longer than you thought! You have to go to the bathroom, but there’s no exit until the convention center. Your wife tells you that she should have gone too. You’re going to be late! You stop at Stuckey’s anyway since there really was another exit before the convention center, and it’s better to have your wife on your side that have her mad at you during the show. You make the show on time (you knew you would), and have enough time to set up your table before the “advance ticket holders” come through the doors…fifteen minutes sooner than the announced start of the show. You leap behind the table as the first fan comes up to look at your wares. They think you’re someone else. You decide to take a rest anyway since you’ve been hopping since 6:30, and you really didn’t sleep that well anyway. Your wife says she needs to go to the bathroom and excuses herself just before the first actual customer comes up. He asks a million questions, you’re witty, you’re clever…he’s not buying today, but he’ll “be back”. Your wife returns and wants to know what you were laughing so hard about since she heard you three aisles away. The joke isn’t as funny the second time. The long haul begins. You sit. You fiddle with your display. You decide to warm up on a sketch or two. The first one stinks and you want to throw it out, but your wife won’t let you. You begin the second and just at a critical point a fan wants your autograph. Then someone buys a book! “Are you sketching?” someone asks. “That’s what the sign says!” you retort without sounding too sarcastic. You begin sketching. Your wife decides that it’s time for lunch. Somebody flips through your portfolio but doesn’t put it back the way you had it. Some kid tries to take all your business cards, “are these free?” he asks as his Dad puts the pile back and apologizes. “Just one to a customer, ha, ha!” Another actual fan arrives, “are you sketching?” he asks, ignoring both your sign and the fact that you are at this moment actually sketching in front of him! “I am, are you interested in something?” “How long is your list?” he asks. You don’t want to sound desperate, but then again you don’t want him to think he won’t get prompt service either. “You’d be number two on the list.” You actually didn’t have a list yet, but you hastily begin one. “Can you draw Captain Marvel?” he asks. “Which one did you have in mind?” This sparks a twenty minute conversation about all the characters with that name and the various costumes associated with them. “I’d like the late 60s Gil Kane version, “ he finally decides. “Do you have reference?” you ask, hopefully. It’s been a number of years since you saw that book and memory isn’t what it used to be. “I can get some, I’ll be back.” You wife has returned to report that the convention center has, “hot dogs, pizza, nachos, a chicken sandwich, hamburgers, and something called ‘tomato surprise’.” “Hot dog, just mustard.” You go back to sketching. “What did you want to drink?” “Oh! Um, do they have fruit punch?” “I’m not sure, if they don’t what do you want?” “Just water, I guess.” You go back to the sketch. “Are you sure you don’t want nachos? They looked pretty good.” “Oh, sure, whatever. Do you need money?” She’s gone. The guy at the next table asks you to watch his stuff so he can go to the bathroom. While he’s gone a dozen people come up and ask if the art on his table is “your stuff too?” He’s selling soft core porn and you’re embarrassed to be next to him. “No, that’s another guy’s stuff. He went to the bathroom. He’ll be back in a minute.” They wander off, not bothering to consider the work of anyone who would be seated next to a guy selling soft core porn. You want to scream, “my work’s family friendly!” but you don’t. You are just about finished with the sketch now and are pretty happy with it. Suddenly your wife returns with the hot dog and narrowly misses getting mustard all over the sketch. You ask a blessing and begin eating. Now the fans are in full frenzy. Surely if your mouth weren’t full of food they wouldn’t be asking so many questions. You sign two autographs and the smell of sharpie marker blends with the mustard on your hot dog. The fellow who’s sketch you haven’t quite finished shows up and asks how long it will be. “I’ve just got to erase the pencils, but my hands are all covered with lunch!” “Okay, I’ll come back in ten minutes!” (he has seen an old friend and wants to catch up with him). You decide that it may take a few minutes to finish the sketch after all and cram the rest of the hot dog in your mouth and choke it down with whatever this stuff is that your wife got for you to drink. (Not her fault, the convention center just ordered weird fruit punch and sold it to you for $2 a bottle). “Don’t you think you had better wash your hands?” she asks. “I dn’t hv tmmm!” you mumble through your hot dog. She thinks your tone isn’t nice. You apologize and decide that you had better wash up after all. You visit the bathroom for the first time in what seems like days. There’s a puddle in the middle of the floor that’s really questionable, you avoid it as best you can. When you’re done answering the call you go to wash up only to find that there is no soap left in the dispenser. You use hot water and regret it when you scald your hands and get a lap full of water splashed on you. There are paper towels, in a soggy pile by the sinks. You pick one off the top and hope for the best. You return to your table. “That guy came back.” “What guy?” “The one with the sketch, I told him you weren’t done yet. He said he’d come back later.” You sit down and finish erasing the piece. A hardcore Star Trek fan comes by and camps out for an hour or so, extolling the virtues of 23rd Century life. It would be funnier if he didn’t seem to be taking it so seriously. A warm body in front of your table usually helps attract customers, but once they hear what this guy’s going on about most of them steer clear. You hope that another Trekker doesn’t get within ear shot and decides to debate him in Klingon. A member of some special interest group comes by and asks you to contribute something to their auction. You try to explain tactfully that you don’t support that particular group and wouldn’t give him a donation if your life depended on it. You really wish that the group you DO support would come by and give you a clue when their auction is going to be. You suddenly realize that you haven’t looked at the program book and that maybe you are late for a panel discussion. You look through the program book in anticipation, only to be let down that you weren’t even considered. You get some more sketches, sell some more work. Your wife begins a game of Mancala with a teenage girl who’s there with her Dad, another artist. You make small talk with the pornographer on your right. You complete three sketches in rapid succession and your hand begins to ache, just then another customer wants a sketch but he’s “only here for today!” You wonder if you can do one more drawing today, it’s 4:30 and the show closes in an hour. You take his money up front and his address just in case you don’t make it. You sketch furiously in spite of customers and more people who want your signature on the program booklet. The day ends just as you hand the final sketch to the customer…eraser crumbs hitting the ground as the paper passes from your hand to his.

Tomorrow you get to do it all over again. But the friend and / or family members who you’re staying with are coming along too!

Simon Says

Lessons learned from American Idol:

It may come as a surprise to some that my wife and I are regular watchers of American Idol. Sometimes it surprises me as well. The early auditions can be painful to watch as hopeful after hopeful gets hurt in the process of elimination. But I think I’ve learned a thing or two by watching the show.

Over the past several days I’ve been doing something very similar. I was approached on Monday or Tuesday by a London advertising agency about possibly doing some comic book type illustrations. I was very excited by the prospect of breaking into the British market and very confident that I had a shot at this. The only other contender (so far as I knew was Scott Rosema, also at ComicArtistsDirect) and I have no problem sharing the spotlight with Scott, he’s a solid artist.

The agency art buyer sent a couple of scans of what the company was looking for. The images were of The Punisher and The Thing from Marvel. I’m not sure who the artists were there were no signatures on either piece. I have my suspicions but I won’t voice them here for fear of being wrong. They were really nice pieces and I am glad to have the scans for reference.

Anyway the art looked pretty straight forward. Black and White ink drawings that had been composited with color pencil (and maybe a little paste up of patterned paper ). Not that unusual, nor different than what I’ve been doing lately, technically speaking. My stuff is not usually that “gritty” but I figured I could adapt.

I sent back the WW and Batgirl that I recently posted figuring that they’d be able to see that subject matter would have an affect on how I’d draw the proposed pieces.

In the interim I got to watch American Idol. Last night, a very nice girl from North Carolina went to the open call in Austin, Texas. She blew her first shot due to a case of nerves, but was willing to admit that it was a truly awful audition. Due, at least in part, to her honesty and respectful attitude they gave her a chance to “walk off” her nerves and come back later. She did this, unfortunately not doing much better upon her return.

But I was greatly impressed by her attitude. She didn’t whine or complain. She didn’t curse or pout. No attempt at bravado, she simply said “thank you, it was nice meeting you,” and left. I suspect that she will go far in whatever field she ultimately chooses.

Today when I got the response from London; “Sorry, not what we’re looking for,” how could I do less? I wish I’d had as much maturity in my early twenties as that girl showed last night. But maybe now that I’m in my forties I can learn a thing or two.

I have no reason to complain. I’m swamped with work right now anyway. So it’s a blessing not to have to juggle another job. I wanted it, but it was probably not the best time for it. I didn’t go back and say, “Let me send you a better scan! That one wasn’t very high quality, this one has much better detail.” While that would be true, it would simply be a waste of time. They were looking for something different. It doesn’t mean my art is bad, just that it didn’t fit the bill.

I notice that Simon is pretty nice to the people who don’t talk back.