Presenting: a milestone in our macrofungalphilia!
Click to make it bigger.
This watercolored page is available for sale at our store. It costs a bit more than our usual page-rate. Besides it being twice the size of our usual output, this is because quite honestly, we’re in love with this page, and don’t want to see it leave so soon.
And frankly, after reading this article, our basic perception of what Art is “worth” has all but been pitched onto the midden. Since quaint notions like “value” have been quietly dismembered & discarded, like so many goat carcasses stacked on a sidewalk in Queens, by the schizophrenic spin-art contraption of late-stage capitalism; and since apparently $60 of crappy art is literally indistinguishable from $20,000 of same by the shadowy necromancers affixing the pricetags to these canvases, we’ve figured, what the fuck. Might as well stand up and Be the pocket change we want to see in the world. Consider it an artistic statement on our culture. Or consider it halfway to making our rent next month. Either way, by all means, consider it.
(Speaking of which, if you value this page — digitally or actually — as more than its utterly arbitrary ‘retail value,’ you are encouraged — begged, really — to use PayPal to settle the difference, via the poorly named “Donate” button at the toppish-right corner of this page. After all, you ultimately hold in your merest clicking finger the power to define just how deeply the Artist must be devalued.)
In other news, we’ve officially begun rehabilitation, construction & expansion on the “Sick” narrative, in hopes it will be forged (with dozens of never-seen added pages) into a real paper book sometime before the collapse of the publishing industry. So expect a few less original comics this Fall, & a few more of those cop-out “process” pics we Art Bloggers lard our site with when we’re preoccupied. We can only hope that, like patient gardeners, you keep watch over these tentative little blog-buds, so that they may reward you with a bounty of Real, Actual Graphic Novels come the Spring. (That is, unless our drawing hand succumbs to frostbite necrosis in the coming Iowa Winter.)