Today Will Be Different(16)
“I’m having a solo show at the Seattle Art Museum,” he said. “They asked me to do some stuff at the sculpture park too. There are banners all over town. Of course I just presumed you saw my name flapping in the breeze everywhere you went. But here you are again, holding up the mirror.”
This toadying wannabe, this sweaty ass-kisser, this fraudulent quasi-minority, now he was somebody? Now he was the shit? He’d turned everything topsy-turvy and instead of rubbing my face in it, instead of serving revenge cold, he was nothing but hugs and two-hundred-dollar pens and pervy gratitude and— “Mom?” It was Timby.
He held up what he’d been reading, from Spencer’s bag, a fancy magazine or catalog… It took me a second to even recognize it.
THE MINERVA PRIZE
From my Looper Wash days. It was a prize (now defunct) for graphic novelists. I’d been nominated for one in 2003 by Dan Clowes.
That year’s Minerva Prize winner was going to be announced at a dinner at the Odeon. We were in the middle of production on Looper Wash and I intended to blow off the ceremony. But at the last minute, I grabbed the gang and walked over. We were horribly underdressed and seated at a good table. Across the expertly lit orchid centerpiece, the wife of the arts commissioner looked askance at our rowdiness and dirty jokes. (Ask anyone: being in production on a TV show turns you feral.) I didn’t expect to win, and didn’t. We each came back with a swag bag: POM Wonderful, a Murakami thumb drive, a mug with the Bear Stearns motto: Ahead of the Curve (!).
And that program.
“I wasn’t invited to the ceremony, of course,” Spencer was telling Timby. “But the next morning I fished a program out of the trash. The other day I was doing some spring cleaning and came across it. I thought your mom might want it.”
Something terrible was occurring to me…
“What?” asked Spencer.
… that program, the one Timby had in his hands. It had profiles of each nominee and their work… which meant my work, all twelve illustrations.
“Hey,” I said to Timby, reaching across. “Gimme that.”
He yanked it away. “Who are the Flood Girls?”
The Flood Girls
Eleanor Flood
The Flood Girls
Nominated
by
Daniel Clowes
I first met Eleanor Flood in 1995, back in the olden days of what we once called the San Diego Con (to differentiate it from Dallas Con, Sac Con, Leper Con), a few years before it was gentrified by Hollywood, and comics were still the main focus. Off in the indie/alternative/underground ghetto corner it was me, Peter Bagge, Joe Matt, the Hernandez brothers, Ivan Brunetti; the usual gang of idiots. We’d sit at tables with our art spread out, praying that Matt Groening would come along and buy something. We were strong believers in noblesse oblige.
For long stretches, nobody even glanced our way and the only time we got anyone was when the line for Todd McFarlane was so long that the occasional bearded man-child would shuffle a few steps off his path to deliver a disdainful glare or perhaps to use one of my originals as a coaster for his drink.
It was during a soul-numbing moment of career introspection such as this that an anomalous young woman emerged from behind the crowd. She had good posture and wore a dress (an actual dress, not a Troll Queen dress). She was apparently a fan of Eightball because she recognized the pages I was selling. “Ghost World! That’s the cutest!” and “I can’t believe you’re selling Ugly Girls, it’s super-cute.” Cute wasn’t a word I usually heard in relation to my art (Ew was number one, followed by Why?). I saw her turn to survey the now-endless McFarlane line. “I suppose I should feel sorry for them,” she said. “What’s the point in that?” I responded. “They don’t even know they’re sad.” We discussed whether this gave us the right to hate them and agreed that it probably did. Then she picked up my whole portfolio and asked, “Would it be bad if I just bought everything?” I told her that would be fine.
She wrote me a check. ELEANOR FLOOD. NEW YORK, NY.
The next time I saw her was nine years later. I was in New York for something and promised my sister I’d go see my nephew who was answering phones for a production company. She said, “You know the show. Looper Wash. The short about girls on ponies that played before Ice Age and now it’s a series on Fox?” I had no idea what she was talking about (thank God), so I just said, “What’s the address?”
I went to a building in SoHo, which sounds impressive but surely was not, and walked up to the fourth floor. Apparently, everyone was in a screening down the hall because the place was deserted. In a corner office I saw a drawing board with a big mirror propped in front of it. That struck me as exactly the kind of egomaniacal, solipsistic self-focus I so admire in myself, so I went over to explore further.
On the drawing board (along with viciously mean doodles of Fox executives, which instantly endeared this person to me) were colored-pencil illustrations. They were busy and “pretty,” full of soft tints and delicate expressions, which aren’t qualities I usually go for. But they were also disturbing, and not in the usual ironic Jughead-with-a-crack-pipe way. They were disturbingly sincere.
I heard a bubbly voice. “Dan Clowes!” It was Eleanor Flood. Turns out she was the animation director at Looper Wash and my nephew had told her I was coming. She pulled out the portfolio of my art that she’d bought years before.