http://www.drawger.com/holland/ Thu, 02 May 2013 12:29:22 EDT FeedCreator 1.7.2 http://drawger.com/_images/drawger_leo_logo.gif http://www.drawger.com/holland http://www.drawger.com/holland/index.php?section=articles&article_id=14174


According to the theater’s website: "PaRaDiSo is a performance with a universal stage language comprising dance, music and special effects. The piece tells how art can only come about through the balance of the material and the intellectual. When this exists, it forms one of the final paradises.”   The Serapions Ensemble is directed by Ulrike Kaufmann and Erwin Piplits. For a quarter century it’s made a considerable contribution to the development of non-verbal, visual theater. Its home is the Odeon Theater in the second district of Vienna, a large, columned hall in the former Agricultural Products Exchange. Its first production,“Axolotl Visionarr,” was performed June 8, 1988.



One of the reasons I find these assignments so gratifying is that the directors treat each poster not just as a marketing tool, but as an extension of the production itself. Rather than ask me to illustrate what the audience will see on stage, they invite me to interpret what can’t be seen: the spirit behind the show.     This time, despite the special occasion, the brief was no exception. The synopsis Erwin gave me was succinct, provocative and open-ended. The title, he said, was conceived in the manner of the oldest forms of writing, like Hebrew, where only the consonants are written and each one has a special meaning:   P stands for Paschut: the simple, the material, the substantial and physical.  R stands for Remez: indication, hint.  D stands for Derasch: exegesis, cognition and apperception.  S stands for Sod: the secret, the mysterious – what cannot be said.    “If they are all in harmony, art can arise," he wrote and "art," quoting Friedrich Schiller, "is a daughter of freedom."    © Brad Holland

]]> Fri, 26 Apr 2013 21:09:09 EDT http://www.drawger.com/holland/index.php?section=articles&article_id=14171


In 1976, Ellen Cooperman struck a blow for feminism when she petitioned the New York State courts to change her name to Ellen Cooperperson. The world laughed, but 20 years later, the joke's on us.   Recently I wrote an article about craftsmanship for a trade publication only to discover that during editing, someone had changed the word to craftspersonship. No doubt some activist proofreader thought this was a politically righteous move, but I'm too much a craftsperson not to feel that my text had been personhandled. So I changed it back.   I've never thought of myself as sexist. I've learned to live with salespersons, spokespersons, congresspersons, and businesspersons.   I never did like the generic man, as in Family of Man; it sounds pompous. And mankind sounds bland. But personkind sounds prissy and Family of Persons sounds like a house full of Swedes.   If our society were to embark on a path of verbal cleansing, certain compound words would still be recognizeable, even without the offensive M word. Take personmade, personhunt, persontrap, and persondate. They may all sound like German constructions, but they wouldn't baffle the ordinary reader as more complex words would.    Try to imagine your first encounter with personuscript, personufacture, personicure, and my favorite: personipulative.   Would fashion models become personikins? It sounds like baby talk for "little people."   We'd have to rewrite history: "General Grant out-personeuvered General Lee."    "Yes, but that was after President Lincoln issued The Epersoncipation Proclamation."   Freed slaves were granted their Personumission papers.   And James Knox Polk pursued a policy of Personifest Destiny.   Conspiracy nuts would debate whether Lee Harvey Oswald was a lone marksperson.   And Karl Marx could be said to have written The Communist Personifesto (which sounds about right).   Verbal cleansors would no doubt ignore etymology and ferret the M word out of proper names.   But when they do, Persondrake the Magician wouldn't sound magical and Ethel Merperson would sound like a singer who's half fish.   Remember the famous baseball player Mickey Persontle?   Or the author of Citizen Kane, Herperson Personkiewicz?   What about the Gerperson novelist, Herperson Hesse?   If my name were Robert Zimmerperson, I too would change it to Bob Dylan. Mister Tambourine Person, anyone?    The Cherokee Indian chief Wilma Mankiller sounds like a formidable individual. But change it to Wilma Personkiller and she'd sound like a mass murderer.   A person-eating shark would sound like a wimp.   And a Portuguese Person O'War would make you wonder if a politically correct jellyfish isn't redundant.   Freshperson sounds sophomoric.   And would you want a middleperson to broker your multi-million dollar business deal?   We'd have to re-learn our geography. Can you say:    Personsfield, Ohio;    Personitoba, Canada;    Personchester, New Hampshire.     Or my hometown: Personhattan.   Mailman may be sexist. But mailwoman is less perversely attractive than mailfemale, and a mailperson only makes me glad we don't have any milkpersons left to skulk around in the morning leaving bottles of cream outside the door.   The Iceperson Cometh and Death of a Salesperson might open up juicy new roles for wymmin actors.    But I'm sure the Person of La Mancha would always want to “Dream The Possible Dream. Drawing and text © 1998 Brad Holland    

]]> Wed, 24 Apr 2013 22:22:22 EDT http://www.drawger.com/holland/index.php?section=articles&article_id=14029


Q: How did you come to be involved in producing the cover art for Texas Flood? A: I answered the phone one day and when they asked me if I’d do an album cover for a new musician, I said sure. Q: Why did the label choose to commission you rather than use a photographic shot? A: Artists are probably the last people to know why art directors pick them.   Q: How involved were Stevie, Tommy and Chris in the concept for the cover art? A: Well, in the initial stage, I wouldn’t really know. Whatever I was told would have been conveyed to me by the art director. At the time, remember, Stevie Ray wasn’t well known outside the Southwest, so I don’t know how much clout he would have had at Columbia Records. On the other hand, he was one of John Hammond’s “discoveries,” so it’s possible he might have had as much say-so as he wanted.



Q: How did the artwork come together? A: The original idea you can see from the first charcoal sketch I did. I call it the cowpoke picture. They told me Stevie Ray wanted to be portrayed in a western get-up of some kind and somebody – I can't remember who – it might have been Stevie Ray himself  – wanted to show him riding a horse with his guitar slung over his back. I can’t remember either whose idea it was to have him pushing on through a flood. That might have been mine, because I knew what the album was going to be called. On the other hand, that might have been part of the brief, I just don't recall. In any event, I told the art director that I thought the whole idea was corny and that a more straight-forward painting would be better. They had given me a crummy Polaroid of Stevie Ray playing his guitar to work from. I did the best I could with that, but you could barely make out his face. So I told them that if they wanted the guy on the cover to look like Stevie Ray, they'd have to fetch him in from Texas and send him down to my studio.



Q: So did you sketch Stevie in situ? A: Not at first. They said there was no way they were going to pay to fly him in. But the next thing I knew I got a phone call saying he was in town: when could I see him? A: What was the location? Q: My loft’s in Soho, which in those days was mostly an industrial district full of rag warehouses. Stevie Ray wasn’t in a very good mood when he got here. I met him downstairs and the first thing he wanted to do was to get some cigarettes. So we walked to a bodega around the corner and got some, then came back and started drinking Jack Daniels. After that, his mood improved and we got down to business.



Q: The Texas Flood cover has become iconic. How do you feel about it 30 years later? A: I’ve never really thought about it much, there’ve been so many other things to think about. On the other hand, I've never done many album covers – Ray Charles, Billy Joel, a few others. But out of all of them, the afternoon I spent with Stevie Ray stands out in my memory. 



As I said, he seemed kind of gloomy when he got out of the taxi at my loft. But maybe it was just shyness. After the first half hour or so he got rather chatty. He knew all about my art from Playboy and wanted to know what it was like to work with the magazine; or to hear about Hefner and the Playboy mansion. Then he got out a bunch of photographs of himself in concert, in his different costumes, you know: playing his guitar behind his back or over his head, or upside-down. He was a fantastic talent. By the time it began to grow dark outside we had become rather cordial and when I walked out with him to hail a cab that evening, I realized what a special afternoon it had been.



"Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble: The Making of Texas Flood" is out now in The Blues, Issue #5; and is currently on sale. It can be ordered here. Text © The Blues and/or Brad Holland // Album Cover © Columbia Records/Sony Music All art © Brad Holland

]]> Thu, 21 Mar 2013 20:33:04 EDT http://www.drawger.com/holland/index.php?section=articles&article_id=13886


I won't try telling the plot of the story here. It was more episodic than dynamic anyway. In a nutshell, it involved a day on the coast of Maine, starring the cats, a snake, a small mouse, a seagull named Sarah and before the story ended, a majestic lobster who arrives on the scene, accompanied by a seaborne posse of fish.   The supporting animals in the story had not been conceived at random. They were refugees from our home life. My girlfriend's family lived in northern Virginia, but owned an island in Maine. They summered there, not on the island itself – they rented that out – but at a big house they rented for themselves on a nearby coast, just a minute's walk from a sprawling old New England hotel.



These yearly escapes from the sultry summers of Washington had something of the character of family reunions for my girlfriend’s tribe. The big house had rooms enough for brothers and sisters-in-law, not to mention cousins and shirttail relatives of various kinds and numerous family friends who seemed to come and go like ghosts in the woodwork.   My girlfriend’s family would drive up from Virginia, all except for her father. He sailed in from the Chesapeake Bay on his yacht. He'd anchor it in the harbor and live on the boat with his crew. Every afternoon at the appointed hour, we’d paddle out in a little Sunfish for cocktails on the deck, while her father held court for guests from the hotel, generally long-time family friends for whom these summer gatherings were apparently some sort of yearly highlight



As for our own accommodations, my girlfriend and I found it best to commandeer a bedroom on the first floor of the big house.   It wasn't the most private room in the place, but it was the one nearest the backyard door, which we kept ajar, the better to let her cats come and go. They found this especially convenient at night, when watching people sleep could hardly compete with the entertainment to be had on a moonlight prowl.    It was from these nightly rambles that the cats recruited their co-stars for the story.  



The mouse was the first to enter the picture. He came as a hostage to fate. In fact, he was lucky to live to make his way into the story at all. His tale – if told from his point of view – might have made a childrens book of its own.   It began one night when my girlfriend and I were awakened from a deep sleep by long low growling in the dark. With the lights off, you could see little more than the two still shadows of cats sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. With the lights on, the scene became clear. We had left an empty suitcase lying open for them to play in. Now they were peering into it as if admiring their reflections in a pool of water. I went to investigate and inside found a bewildered mouse doing laps around and round the walls of his indoor track.   For all its potential as a disaster story for the mouse, the scene was benign, at least for the moment. The cats didn’t seem eager to eat or even torment the mouse. They merely seemed proud of their catch and happy to show him off. I figured they might stay entertained for another fifteen or twenty minutes. But ultimately I feared they'd start getting rough with their guest. I thought it best not to tempt Mother Nature.    I praised the cats for their good work and then, with apologies, rescued the mouse. I took him outside and sent him on his way. The cats were rewarded with two saucers of cream, then they bedded down on twin pillows for the night and the next day I found that the mouse had become a character in my girlfriend's story. 



The snake came next, a few days later. Like the mouse, the cats found him and fetched him home, not once, but night after night for several nights. Each night we'd praise the cats and release the snake, then one day we never saw him again. His fate has always been a mystery to me.    After that came the seagull, and finally the great lobster, although they were my girlfriend’s contrivances, thank God, and not something the cats dragged in. I'm not sure how either of us would have reacted if we had awakened one morning to find a mangled seagull on the floor.   By summer's end the story's cast was complete and the manuscript was in first draft. So, while my girlfriend started working on revisions, I started to work on the sample drawings.



Drawing cats turned out to be more engaging than I had imagined. When you have cats around, they're always ready to pose, at least for a second or two at a time. In this case, the striped cat took a shine to me and came to consider my drawing table home base for all his other activities. He rarely pestered me, but instead seemed happy to sit and watch me draw, the way when I was four or five I used to hang out in the garage and watch my father plane a board or monkey with some broken appliance.



Now, I need to take a second to explain the seagull.   She began as a minor character in the story, doing the kind of things seagulls do on the coast of Maine. She sat on weathered posts on the dock. She skimmed low over the whitecaps looking for fish, she pecked at shells on the beach and soared high above the pines that edged the water’s edge. And as the story unfolds, she becomes a confident of the beachcombing cats.   But as I started doing my drawings, she emerged as something else.



I don't remember how or when I got the idea of drawing the seagull as a little girl. I do a lot of thinking without thinking, so it's possible I had even done the drawing before the thought became a thought. But once I saw the sketch – still little more than a scribble – it seemed like a wonderful way to give the plot an extra dimension.   The story's words would still describe the seagull as a seagull and her doings would still be described as seagull doings.   But the pictures that went with the words would tell a story of their own.   I didn't show the drawings to my girlfriend as I went along. I waited, and within a week, I had the sketches I'm posting here. Then one evening, I handed them to her without explanation and watched to see how she'd react.   I don't recall her exact response. But I remember that she looked through the drawings slowly, smiling as she turned the sheets. Then she came to the drawing of the little girl towing the fish.   Suddenly, her jaw dropped in a pose of exaggerated speechlessness. She lingered over the picture, then looked up at me with a smile that said she was collecting her thoughts.   Either it meant "Wow, this is amazing," or else "Does this look like a seagull to you?"



I knew that by converting a minor character into a major one, and from a bird to a little girl at that, I had shifted her story into a different key. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had disliked the idea. If she had, I admit, I'd have tried to persuade her to like it: I'd have said it gave the story a human interest, an added dimension, a twist.   But then if all that failed, I'd have re-drawn the seagull as a seagull. It was, after all, my girlfriend's story.   To my surprise, however, I didn't need to persuade her. She loved the idea and even volunteered to re-write the text. Now, she said, she'd make the little girl the lead character and her masquerade the story's theme. It would all be about a little girl and her fantasy life.    This, of course, was not what I had hoped for.    To me, the charm of the girl's unspoken identity would be lost if you tried to spell it out. Adults might need a rational explanation – and maybe kids who would grow up to be bean counters. But any kid who had ever played army or dress-up – or gotten lost behind a mask, either real or imagined – would understand the magic contained in the silence of the text and would find it all undone if you broke the spell.   The best thing for the story, I said, was to leave the words alone and let the pictures convey something better said through the eyes.    I found that no further explanation was necessary. She had chosen to understand it in her own way. The story was still her story, she said. But now the pictures would make it our story too.   And with that settled, we pasted up the book dummy.



In the penultimate scene of classical Greek tragedies it was common for the playwright to gather his beleaguered characters into a pot of boiling water and start to cook them.   Then, just when you thought they were in the world's most impossible fix, the theater management would lower a lordly figure on a rope to rescue them, wrap up the loose ends of the plot and bring the play to a happy – or (considering that it was a Greek tragedy) at least a just – conclusion. A deus ex machina the Romans used to call such a character; literally a "god from a machine."   It was the ancient world's equivalent of bringing on Mighty Mouse. 



In my girlfriend's story, she resorted to a similar device to save the day, although in this case, the deus was a mighty lobster called forth from the rolling sea, who arrived in awesome splendor accompanied by a bodyguard of fish to settle everyone’s affairs and prepare an extravagant seafood feast for the cats and their friends.



Then with the conflict resolved, the day ended. The cats returned home to two saucers of cream and an indoor nap. The snake and the mouse returned to their lairs in the woods. The lobster ex machina returned to the deep. And Sarah the seagull retired to a weathered post on the beach to compose herself.   Then, having decided that she'd had enough adventure for the day, she launched herself into the wind, rose high above the harbor's cross currents, glided free of the incoming fog and with the clear dark blue of the twilight ahead of her, started flapping her wings for home.



My drawings did their job of getting our feet in the doors of a major publishing house. After that, however, things didn't go so well. The text became bogged down in requests for editorial fixes and changes; then there were re-writes and second guessing and uncertain conclusions. The editor we were working with offered me other childrens books to illustrate, but under the circumstances I chose not to accept. I thought it would be best to make this book work first.    In the end it didn't work and about a year later, my girlfriend and I separated. She went on to edit a couple of books and to author others and from what I gather, is still going strong. The drawings sat in a pile in my studio for a while, then were put away in a flat file, where over time, they worked their way to the back of the drawer and then to the back of my mind. A few months ago, I ran across them while looking for something else and fished them out to scan.   A couple of decades have now passed, but I retain a special fondness both for the story and for the story behind the story. I've always wished the book had worked out, but there's no special regret attached to the wish.   Just to see the drawings now gives me satisfaction. They take me back to a time when my future was still uncertain but the days seemed longer and I had the pleasure of spending a month or two every summer with some lovely people – some of whom are now gone – among the whispering pines on the coast of Maine.



]]> Thu, 14 Feb 2013 21:23:08 EDT http://www.drawger.com/holland/index.php?section=articles&article_id=13894


In that regard, I admit that Poor Bradford's has been negligent in providing that most basic of almanac services. You don't even get the weather predictions here. 



But all that’s about to change. Now that we’ve survived the Mayan apocalypse, I think it's safe to start off the new non-Mayan millennium with words of wisdom.



The first annual installment of Poor Bradford's Wise Sayings.



Not to be confused with poor sayings by an annual wise-guy.



A collection of inspirational messages with drawings that match the author's handwriting.



Thirteen lucky words of wisdom for the lucky year 2013.



Actually, there are 14  – just to be on the safe side. 



In Poor Richard’s Almanack, Benjamin Franklin always counseled thrift and courtesy, industry and frugality. (Which always led me to wonder why Poor Richard was poor.)



And while I admit that my own sayings are not exactly "early to bed, early to rise" material, they've got wise drawings to go with them.



Good artwork is something the Thirteen Colonies never got from Benjamin Franklin.



Except for "Join or Die." When he coined that slogan, he did the excellent drawing of the chopped-up snake to go with it. But then the colonists made a flag out of it and look at the situation that led to.



These posters were first published some months ago in the French publication Nine Weeks. Thank you Nine Weeks.



For more of Poor Bradford's Wise Sayings, you can go to the website Brainy Quote, although they appear to be too brainy there to use drawings with the quotations. 



And in my opinion, words are better with pictures. (In fact, that sounds like a good quote to start off next year's installment of Poor Bradford's Wise Sayings.)   Text and drawings © Brad Holland/ No reproduction without permission 

]]> Wed, 06 Feb 2013 21:07:09 EDT http://www.drawger.com/holland/index.php?section=articles&article_id=13706


The ancient Greek poet Archilochus wrote that all human beings could be classified as either hedgehogs or foxes. Foxes, he wrote, know many little things. A hedgehog knows one big thing.   Dugald Stermer had his own way of typing people. His take came from the world of art. To Dugald, people were either Dark to Light (like his friend Brad Holland), or they were Light to Dark.   Dugald was a Light to Dark guy. 



Some years ago, Graphis magazine invited Dugald and me to talk about our lives in art. The conversation was taped and published in two issues of the magazine.   We met in my studio and I began by talking about hedgehogs and foxes. Then I tossed the ball to Dugald and asked him to elaborate on his own theory of types.   "I've always admired people who seem to pull their work out of chaos," he began. "For instance, Beethoven is dark to light. You can’t pick out the individual instruments in his music. The melody and the power emerge out of a cacophony of sound. Bach, on the contrary, is light to dark. You know: counterpoint, you can hear every note.    "And I’m light to dark," he said. "Literally. I have a white piece of paper and I draw on it. And when I’m finished, every mark I make is visible."



Dugald was light to dark in his work. And he was light to dark in his life. The marks that he made during his years on earth were as clear and clean and direct as the marks he put on paper. There was no pussyfooting around with Dugald. There was no dishonesty in the man. 



I first met Dugald about 20 years before we actually met. I met him through his work.  Not through his art, Dugald wasn’t doing much of that in those days. I encountered him through the work with which he first made his mark on the world: the work he did as art director of Ramparts.   Ramparts was known then – and has been remembered since – as a radical publication. That is, its editorial content was radical. But in its art and design, it more closely resembled a limited edition book.    That was odd. But it wasn't an accident. It was Dugald's personality made visible.



The first thing I noticed about Ramparts was its typography. It was extremely classical. And I wasn’t the only one who was struck by that. Ed Sorel was one of the first artists Dugald gave a free hand to at the magazine:   "Stermer’s typography was revolutionary," Ed told Graphis. “[I]t's been copied so often by other magazines,  it’s difficult to gauge how innovative and refreshing it was when it appeared."



"I started with the premise that the magazine should look like chapters of a book," Dugald told me. "I wanted it to have the same editorial intelligence throughout. So I designed it in such a way that the typography was similar – I never moved from Times Roman. I also wanted to build a framework for the illustration. I tried to showcase the art."



And showcase the art he did. Dugald was probably one of the first modern art directors to use art in a glossy magazine not as illustration, but as a means of social commentary. And that meant treating the art as an editorial component on a par with the text itself.



Today the idea of a conservative look for a radical publication might strike some people as schizophrenic. But that's because in the mass mind, the Sixties is remembered as an era of revolution in lifestyle, music and the politics of the underdog.    It was, of course, all those things. But the cliche overlooks the fact that many of the radicals of that time were not trying to tear down the system. They were just trying to see that the institutions that govern society continue to wear a human face. That, in essence, is was what Dugald was trying to do.



In the work he did for Ramparts I think you'll find the key to the way he lived the rest of his life.   As an art director, he helped revolutionize magazine design by picking artists who had something to say, then giving them a place to say it. In that sense he acted as an art editor as much as an art director. That was something new.



Then as an artist himself, he went on to produce work that was precise, transparent and beautiful – or as he put it, work  “with no layers, glazes, or areas of mystery, no tricks."



And as a man he did what we were always taught to do in Boy Scouts: he left the campsite last year in better shape than he found it.



I'm sure most of you here in San Francisco know –  probably better than I do – about Dugald's long association with the Delancey Street Foundation. He served on its board for over 30 years.    For those who don't know, Delancey Street is a residential rehab program that provides housing and work experience in the catering and restaurant trades for ex-convicts, ex-drug addicts and people with no other home in the world. Dugald had his studio in their building on the Embarcadero, although his office seemed to be downstairs at a corner table in the restaurant they ran. At least that's where we always seemed to meet.   Dining there with Dugald was an experience that was inevitably interrupted by the residents who worked there as waiters and cooks. They all knew Dugald and seemed to be fond of him; and spotting him at his regular table, they'd just drop by for a chat.   Over the years Delancey Street has helped so many lost souls find themselves that Dugald was often stopped while eating at other places around town – or even in other cities – by cooks or waiters who had moved on from the program and found work in mainstream restaurants. Having recognized Dugald, they just wanted to drop by, as they once had at Delancey Street, to thank him for the part he had played in reconciling themselves with society.   Dugald was very gratified by this and was probably as proud of his work with Delancey Street as he was of his art. But it amused him that all the ex-cons who greeted him that way seemed to think that he had done time in prison himself.    He concluded that was because he looked like Johnny Cash.



It would be a mistake, however, to think of Dugald as a gentleman revolutionary. He had a heart of gold, but he was no Goody Two Shoes. He knew that to do the right thing in this world you often have to have courage. Dugald had courage.    I never knew him to pick a fight, but if a matter of principle turned into one, I never knew him to back away.   He didn't cultivate enemies either. But unless you're a potted plant and are ready to watch cynicism, greed and self-interest steal a march on the better interests of our species, you'd probably better resign yourself to having a few.   Dugald wasn't afraid to have a few enemies – at least not if they were the right ones.



The fire that that was lit when Dugald art directed Ramparts burned brightly after he left it for nearly half a century. It burned in the work he did and in the life he lived. It'll glow in the art he left behind. People like Dugald Stermer only die in the flesh.



At the heart of Dugald's character was his heart. And those of us who knew him knew how much it beat for others. Last year, it finally beat itself out.    Our mutual friend Steve Heller wrote Dugald's obituary for the New York Times. The kid who had grown up in Los Angeles and dreamed of becoming a cartoonist had left his mark on the world. It was light to dark. And every mark was visible. 



In his piece, Steve quoted from an interview he had conducted with Dugald just months earlier. In it, Dugald talked about his work and said about one of his books in particular that "it was a true labor of love."   I think the same thing can be said about his life.   – Brad Holland, San Francisco 10.12.12   The exhibition of Dugald's work was held at the California College of the Arts, where for years, Dugald chaired the illustration department and where, with luck, his tenure will cast a long shadow.    I want to thank Dugald's daughter Crystal, my friend Robert Hunt, and Alexis Mahrus, the department's Interim Chair, for giving me the opportunity to pay tribute in person to my old pal. They all addressed the audience too and had glowing things to say about Dugald. So did two other longtime friends of his: Eric Madsen and, by video, Steve Heller.   The show was beautifully curated, with examples of Dugald's work from over the years and photographs of him going back to his days at Ramparts. I was particularly moved by some of his first stabs at freelance illustration. He began with a flat and fairly undistinguished form of graphic art, but moved swiftly and with growing confidence into an original style that married design and lettering to his nearly microscopic rendering and came to focus most beautifully on depictions of the natural world.    This style, like his art direction, was Dugald's personality made visible and it constitutes a unique legacy in the history of our field. The best of it is work for the ages and if fate is kind, it'll find a lasting home there.



The art  shown here is the copyrighted property of the estate of Dugald Stermer or those to whom the rights have been legally transferred. No reproduction is allowed without permission. Text © 2012 Brad Holland

]]> Mon, 22 Oct 2012 09:51:42 EDT