Baker Mansion, Peter $$, Hellholes and Last Mail(er)

Random pics, linx, musings:

I had a dream this morning that I was back in Kubert School at the Baker Mansion.

I can't remember more than that, really, just shards of semi-events and splinters of motion -- the Baker Mansion (photos here by fellow XQB Tom Foxmarnick, thanks, Tom!) was the grand heart of my Kubert School experience from September 1976 to our graduation in the spring of '78, and a bit beyond. I've no doubt my dream was inspired by recent events at The Center for Cartoon Studies; it's been a remarkable month or two this semester, and this time of year -- as fall grows colder, and winter's temperatures ease in, and it's ideal to stay in and draw -- is irrevocably linked for me with The Kubert School experience.

Today, the school is located in the old Dover NJ school building, down Blackwell Street, which I understand has been completely renovated this year, and the Baker Mansion is now a dorm. It must be sagging a bit under that duty. In our day, it was a glorious building.

Our classrooms were in the Mansion; first year, we were on the main floor, and with the arrival of the new class in the fall of 1977 (including John Totleben, Marc Vargas, Tom Marnick aka Tom Foxmarnick since his marriage, Tom Mandrake, Jan Duursema, and many more), we were bumped up to the second floor. There was an apartment above that: first year, that's where vet cartoonist and beloved instructor Lee Elias would stay during his one overnight a week; after our second year and graduation, classmate Ben Ruiz and his family lived there, changing the complexion of the Mansion further.

Rick Veitch saw a benevolent 'ghost' on that second floor the first week we were in the building, when he and a few others waiting for their half of the carriage house (which were our dorm rooms that first year) to be ready for them to move in.

It was a blessing, it seemed, and everything that followed was indeed a blessing. My life, our lives, were forever altered, and for me it was for the better.

I just hope CCS means something like that to its students. This all seems to be working, though when it's happening the rush of hours/days/weeks/months seems breathlessly rapid. This week was a breath of gresh air, a meditative pause. That's what my dream felt tied to, stretching back to my JKS experience and memories, I think. With Lynda Barry's workshop this week, and more visiting artists to follow, it feels like we're having our visiting spirits giving their blessings, sharing their gifts, opening new possibilities and new paths. It's all good.

That's how my dream, unremembered save in fragments, left me feeling, lying in bed next to Marge and our cats Tuco (laying by my shoulder, purring as I stirred) and Lizzie. It's all good.

_______________________

More about Peter Money, poet, CCS sponsor and fellow instructor, kindred spirit; he's just posted an interview of sorts here, check it out.

Peter talks about his life, work, headspace and there's a bit about CCS, too, with links, so check it out.

The new downtown White River Junction presence of poets and writers like Peter and our fellow CCS instructor (and novelist) Sarah Stewart Taylor (with whom I teach Senior Thesis Workshop this semester) is another seed in the sorely-in-need-of-seed WRJ community, and Peter's one of the folks at the heart of that, too.

This brings to mind the similarities, too, between the late '70s-early'80s depressed downtown Dover NJ experience that was integral to my JKS years and the almost identical nature of downtown WRJ VT scene. The differences are many and striking, but emotionally they're very similar landscapes: the weight of the past is heavy, the light of new growth and future potential at times blinding, in short bursts. Let's see where it goes, and what I can do there as part of it. Kudos to Peter and Sarah and James (Sturm) and Michelle (Ollie) and Matt (Bucy) and everyone behind this change, this new presence in WRJ -- but most of all, the CCS students. It's their harvest, not ours.

_______________________

My paleo crony Michael Ryan just fired off these two links to me to share with y'all:

The Video Vulture,

which Michael tells me "has been running for over ten years now in Calgary [Alberta, Canada]'s free weekly FFWD (Fast Forward) newspaper. Written by John Tebbutt and illustrated by ace-cartoonist Tom Bagley (aka Tomb) it covers all the video/film items of interest that anyone who knows the name Mario Brava would appreciate."

Ahem, you mean "Mario Bava," I presume, Michael! A slip of the key, and you blow the evocation, like Ash in Army of Darkness. Bravo!

Michael adds,

"Tom -- as 'Jackson Phibes' -- also fronts the Halloween inspired band Forbidden Dimension, who have just released their new LP, Cool Sound Outta Hell." Here's that link, folks, enjoy!

Thanks, Michael, for brightening our collective Saturday.

BTW, Norman Mailer just passed away at age 84.

The news hit 11 minutes ago (as I'm posting)...

I think I'll go reread Armies of the Night...

Moving Day, Conclusion

Dave hit the water.

Waning sunlight caught the spray from his plunge. There were colors: blue, green, brown, red.

With the crack of flesh striking water (and what else?), sweat broke on my forehead and lip, I shivered -- and then Dave was gone, out of sight.

___

To make a long story short, Joe Kubert scanned my meager portfolio and the single copy of Abyss and said, “You’re just the kind of student we’re looking for. Can you start this fall?”

Thus, moving day approached, and I rushed to it.

Now, the leap from Vermont to Dover, NJ was a big move indeed. Culturally, I knew I was in for some seismic shocks, but I had no idea how many, or how primal those could be.

For instance, I had lived all my life looking people in the eyes. In my native state, it’s a human thing, not a confrontational stance: the eyes are the person, more often than not, the means of initial contact. But as my first couple of trips to Manhattan had taught me, looking other people in the eyes as we did at home was either an affront or an invitation in the Big Apple -- eyes darted away, afraid, or locked with your own, suddenly hungry. There seemed no median between those reactions, and both startled me. In NYC, making eye contact was a threat to some -- during my first-ever trip to NYC in ‘74, the look of naked fear that distorted one Manhattan woman’s face walking past me after I’d made eye contact really jolted me to the core. It was an open door to others -- primarily, circa the late ‘70s, crazies, Moonies, or religious fanatics (both of the latter were particularly thick in urban areas at that time). Having already skirted Moonies more than once in Port Authority, I had no desire to offer those kinds of inadvertent invitations. But it was part and parcel of my upbringing, who I was, who I am... and I was heartbroken, during my first walk in downtown Dover, to see the same unspoken “eye contact rules of conduct” applied in NJ. Joe Kubert and his family were atypical of Dover’s population when it came to casual eye contact -- sigh.

But moving day is inevitably a physical exercise, a displacement and reorientation of home, heart, and, uh, one’s shit.

First, let’s talk about moving one’s shit. Specifically, in this case, my shit.

As I mentioned, my parents had sold our Colbyville home and store on Route 100, and when I moved to NJ, they were moving to North Port, Florida (my sister Kathie was going with them, too, though her own stint in the military overlapped this period -- ah, this is my story, not Kathie’s, so suffice to say we were all leaving Colbyville and Vermont).

During my two years at JSC, I had compacted most of my belongings into the tiny dorm room I shared with not one but two roommates my freshman year. My sketchbooks, comics & comix and records were essentials, of course, and had come with me. But beyond that, I had been free to leave the rest of my life in my bedroom in Colbyville: my books, a huge library of movie-related tomes and clip files, my art, furniture, drawing table, odds and ends. That was no longer an option. There would be nowhere to stash my stuff any longer -- all that could come with me would be all that would fit in a tiny Carriage House room (the Baker Mansion Carriage House was, at that time, the only ‘dorm space’ available at the Kubert School) which would be shared with someone else.

Since leaving home to attend JSC, I had prided myself on traveling with no more than I could carry in one ragged old Scout backpack, keeping my clothes and necessities to a minimum (this was a practice I maintained for years, until I married and we had children). With the imminent move to Dover, NJ and my new life as a budding cartoonist, I now worked to strip my worldly goods to the bare minimum. This occupied much of the remaining summer of ‘76, and resulted in some pretty bizarre scenes.

See, I had a lot of shit. For one thing, I had enough books on film to donate to not one, but three libraries, including UVM and JSC... and still had to leave some behind in four boxes on the floor of my JSC summer dorm, hoping someone who gave a shit would find them. Ditto my one-drawer file cabinet full of newspaper and Variety clippings on horror and exploitation films of the era, which I’ve no doubt ended up in the Johnson land fill. I sold as many of my LPs as I could to friends and JSC students that summer, breaking up my massive jazz and soundtrack record collection. On my last day at JSC, I still ended up hauling the last of it -- five boxes! -- to a sweaty fat man somewhere in the Northeast Kingdom who gave me five dollars for the lot, take it or leave it. There went my original releases by Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Danny Zeitlin, Cannonball Adderly, Jerry Goldsmith, and much, much more. It sucked, but there were no options. Only those few I couldn’t live without (though of course, I could) went with me to my new life and much tighter accommodations at the Kubert School.

One of the comedic low points came when a group of my Johnson cronies and I made a run to Montreal and bought as much Maximus Super as we could afford -- and get across the border with -- and brought ‘em back to our room in Governors Hall to savor an afternoon of drinking and schmoozing. At that time, Maximus had a much higher alcohol content than any beer sold in the US, so this was a treat, even for a relative non-drinker like myself.

Now, I knew my parents were planning a family ‘moving day’ auction at the Colbyville house. What I didn’t know was that Dad had chosen that very day for the setup of the tent for the auction: a huge, circus-sized tent, with a central pole, pitched in our driveway. Without prior arrangement or announcement, Dad showed up at JSC and marched into Governors to collect his son, who was by that time fairly tanked on Maximus. To the high hilarity of my drinking buddies, I trundled off with Pop for the 45 minute drive to Colbyville to take my place in the tent assembly. I was in no shape to hold an outsized elongated center pole steady, but there I was, teetering like a stewed sailor and weathering whatever cussing was flung my way as I held onto that pole for dear life, fighting gravity and vertigo until the job was done.

The auction was one signpost of the move; my farewell to JSC was another.

To be honest, I don’t recall the final hour at my family home in Colbyville, but I do remember my farewell to Johnson, my first home-away-from-home. I took a last lingering look at my Governors room -- coincidentally, the same room Joe Mangelynx and I met in my first day at JSC in ‘74, the room we shared with a third roommate that first semester away from home -- sighed at the orphaned boxes of books and that damned one-drawer file, and walked away from JSC for good.
______

Once I was at the Kubert School, I found myself in a new community that felt more like home than any I can remember since childhood. For the first time in my life, I was among people who were into everything -- and I do mean everything -- I was into. We lived, breathed, ate, shit, slept, talked and drew comics from our first day onward.

I’d left home -- two homes -- to find home. What’s the old saying? “We are born into the families we grow up with; we make the families we choose to be part of.” I had made many fast and lasting friends at Johnson, by happenstance of being tossed together in the half-basement of Governors Hall (the ‘subfloor,’ hence our adopted moniker ‘The Subhumans’), and by the gravitational pull of shared interests and at-first-undefinable emotional ties.

But those of us who came together at the Kubert School, Year One were there because of communal interests. We were a pioneer brood, the first Kubies, and it was all a new adventure, unlike any anyone had ever had before: for Joe and Muriel, for our instructors, for every one of us. Rick Veitch often tells me this time of year how a special feeling washes over him -- how seminal that September of ‘76 was for all of us -- and I reply, “ya, I know what you mean.” Whether the experience proved good, bad, or ugly, we were all exploring something fresh, new and experimental. I was lucky to be part of it, and am forever thankful for everyone and everything that brought me there at that unique time.

There’s some debts you never repay (I’ll save that long list for my bio page). But I owe something special to Dave Booz.

I don’t know if I would have made the leap of faith I did into the Kubert School and the unknown of a future as a cartoonist without Dave’s leap from the ledge as a touchstone in my life.

Both were potentially dumb moves -- either could have resulted in disaster. I saw classmates crash & burn at Kubert School, just as I had at JSC, and any one of ‘em could have been me (unlike Dave, I, at least, had a safety net, a place to go other than down, should the worse happen). But in my case, it turned out to be the right move at the right time.
_________

In a heartbeat, it was over.

Dave broke the surface of the water on the rebound, tossing water and hair out of his face. He spat and spouted and then turned and grinned like a rock star up at Mangelynx and I.

“Hey, what’re you pussies waiting for?”

The red I had glimpsed was the rust-red of the round-edged rocks at the base of the pool Dave had kicked up. He was fine; the pool was shallow -- about four and a half feet deep -- but deep enough to jump into, even from 20 feet above. As long as you kept your legs tucked and ready to spring off the rocky bottom, it was easy pie.

With great relief, Joe and I made the jump, one at a time. Dave didn’t just stay clear; without hesitation, he began negotiating the crawl down over the ledges from that pool to the larger swimming area below. We scrabbled over the rocks like crabs, grinning and laughing and stoned with the whole experience. Thanks to Dave, we were soon drying off and heading back to the dorms within the hour.

Sometimes, somebody just has to make the leap.

You screw up your courage, you give up the only footing you know --

-- and you jump.
____

(To Dan, to Maia, and to everyone at CCS, Year One.)

Moving Day, Part Two

The broken rope dangled above, out of reach.

Other than that, there was the ledge under Joe's and my own bare feet, and the pool of water -- how shallow or deep, we still couldn’t tell, though the shadows were growing longer -- below.

And there was Dave in mid-air, between the two.

Dave was tucking himself into a sort of fetal position (not into a cannonball: that wouldn’t break his fall), his legs bent to spring if needed, shaggy hair flying.

Joe and I watched the plunge, holding our collective breath. My gut fluttered when Dave took the leap, and I felt giddy, useless, weightless. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

What if there was only six inches of water? Four inches? Two inches? The only way down off that ledge was to jump -- How would we get Dave out of there, injured -- or worse? What if -- ? But there wasn’t time for more than one or two fleeting ‘what ifs.’

Dave hit the water.
____

Sometimes lives change with momentous events -- a car crash, a death, a hurricane, an earthquake. Sometimes life changes with the subtlest of gestures: a look, a shrug, a turning of the back, an embrace. Mine changed irrevocably with a handshake.

I’ll never forget my first handshake with Joe Kubert. Joe has a bone-crunching handshake, a macho handshake that is a challenge, a test, and the warmest welcome imaginable, all in one. But it’s not the handshake alone you’re responding to (though it's impossible to ignore): it’s Joe’s face, his eyes, his presence. You might think it difficult to sort the memory of that first meeting out from all the hours, days, weeks, months, years I subsequently spent with Joe thereafter -- as a student at his school, a hanger-on in his studio that first year, as a laborer in the first (I think) Tell-A-Graphics studio, where Rick Veitch and I were the first artistic staff. But it’s easy: his face, his eyes, that killer handshake. I’ll never, ever forget that moment.

But that wasn’t the moment that changed my life. It was the moment after, when my father shook hands with Joe. There was an instant camaraderie, a spark, an arc of energy: Richard Bissette and Joe Kubert met as instant peers.

I’d seen this spark before, whenever my Dad met someone who’d been in the military. Sure enough, the instant rapport between Dad and Joe intensified with an exchange of words: which branch of the service, which unit each had served in, when and where. Both relaxed with one another, and I felt something fundamental shift: the conflict between my father and I that had defined so much of our relationship and intensified so in the past two years evaporated like alcohol off a hot brick in the sun.

There was nothing suspect about Joe’s handshake, about the man himself. With that, the path I had fought tenaciously for, which had seemed so foolish and disconnected from reality, seemed within seconds viable, concrete, even alluring to my father.

To my father, the new reality was: If Joe had done it, it was conceivable that his son could do it, too. I could do it.

As talk moved from their respective military pasts to Joe’s family (the fact Joe had raised such a large family on a cartoonist's income made a lasting impression), the school, and what it was like living in Dover, a weight I hadn’t really known I was carrying so badly for so long eased from my neck and shoulders and melted away for good.

It was okay that I wanted to be a cartoonist, because Joe was a cartoonist -- and Joe was clearly okay in my Dad’s book.
__________

It had been a wild ride to Dover, NJ with my father. We drove the seven hours+ from northern Vermont, and much to my Dad’s initial disgust, my friend Scott Sampietro from Johnson State College tagged along with us.

Scott was a thoughtful, brash, outspoken Italian, a few years older than I, prominent among the circle of JSC friends I’d bonded with doing theater with Dick Emerson. Scott had lived life more fully than I: already married and divorced, a world traveler, someone who told me he had once reached such an impasse in life that he had painted on the walls of his apartment with his own blood in a grand and glorious evening of despair and near-disaster. He'd survived that, but he sure missed that painting. But that was then: now, Scott was eager to get to NJ and connect with his then-girlfriend Patty, another of our JSC circle.

Scott had none of the countercultural baggage my father loathed: no long hair, no love beads, no granny glasses. But he did have a beard, and that particular day he wore an insane set of overalls with a big, green frog sewn onto the front. This was enough to have Dad sputtering after Scott introduced himself. But Scott was nothing but respectful, calling my father “Mr. Bissette” until Dad insisted, “call me Dick.” When it came out during conversation that Scott had served in Vietnam, Dad’s demeanor toward Scott visibly changed. Still, though, there was that fucking frog on his chest...

So we three travelers hit the road and shared the driving to Dover. Suffice to say it was an unexpectedly pleasant trip, and Scott even booked a room at the same motel on Route 46 Dad and I stayed in that first night. There’s more to tell, but this is neither the place nor the time; next morning Patty arrived. It was a joyous reunion, and Scott and Patty headed out as Dad and I headed to the Baker Mansion, headquarters of the soon-to-open Joe Kubert School of Cartoon and Graphic Art, Inc.

En route, though, we stopped at a stop light on Route 46. We were the second car in the line of stopped traffic heading west, when a car shot out of the facing traffic against the light -- and was slammed into by a car moving south through the intersection legally, with the light.

They collided in front of us, and that nanosecond of collision was suspended uncannily in a spray of glass. The shards hung in the sun and air for what seemed an impossible duration. But it was over in a heartbeat; the car coming across with the light was moving so fast it pushed both vehicles out of the line of traffic. I then experienced my first dose of NJ indifference: as soon as the light changed to green, the traffic carried on as if nothing had happened.

It was, in its way, an omen: there were many aspects of living in Dover that seemed, then and now, like a slow-motion car accident. Dover itself was in some stage of precipitous decline as a city. As students without cars, we could measure that decline by the increasing distances we had to walk to and from -- wearing empty backpacks to, lugging overloaded backpacks from -- the surviving grocery stores, as those shops nearest to us went out of business in the two-to-three years we lived in the area. We were soon hiking miles every week or two just to buy groceries. The decay and eventual closing of the beloved downtown ‘nabe’ (Variety-speak for “neighborhood theater”) was a bummer; it was a once-glorious single-screen grindhouse movie house which had brightened our nights with AIP double-features, current mindblowers like Taxi Driver and brand new “what’s this?” gems like The Hills Have Eyes and The Last Survivor amid the more turgid major studio fare of the late ‘70s. By the time we had graduated, that was history. Thereafter, a walk through the woods to the new Rockaway Mall offered us multiplex choices at bargain first-show prices, but it was further to go and had none of the glow of the now-defunct downtown theater Larry Loc and I had lived across from during our second year at Kubert School. Veitch and I would occasionally wander the woods around Dover, seeking something like the solace we both had grown up with in our respective corners of Vermont, only to find remarkably hearty stashes of garbage, broken furniture, and debris in the most out-of-the-way patches of woodland. We once stumbled upon a heap of busted refrigerators, a rotting couch, and car parts, including a rusted engine, and wondered aloud, “Were these air-dropped here?” It was a toxic landscape in more ways than one: We were once concerned about a stream of dead fish running through the park bordering Route 46; the next day, Veitch and Tom Yeates followed the stream down and out to the apparent source of the contamination, a formica factory. This was topped later when a local newspaper article about a fire at a local facility that was experimenting with irradiating food prompted a phone call to the place -- sure enough, they were indeed experimenting with radiation and food as a means for ensuring longer shelf life, which we considered sheer lunacy. With the exception of our little outpost of creativity at the Kubert School and the good people we came to know and love in Dover and nearby Hopatcong and elsewhere, it seemed at times to us that the entirety of NJ was a slow-mo car accident in progress. Whenever that thought arose, I flashed on that glittering halo of glass shards my father and I had beheld our first morning in Dover.

If I thought then that was an omen of what was to come, our subsequent arrival at the mansion and school grounds -- an idyllic patch of trees and green framed by hedges and stonework, at its center the imposing stone Baker Mansion -- certainly provided an alternative snapshot of my possible future.

Muriel Kubert met us at the door, putting us at ease as best she could, though I could see Muriel was a bit nervous, too. I mean, what were they getting into? This was new to her, this vast undertaking -- The Joe Kubert School -- she and Joe were about to launch. And here I was: another skinny, scruffy, unshaven applicant from someplace far away, standing with my worn black art portfolio and my beefy Dad. How many of “us” had Muriel already greeted at that door? But she radiated hospitality and grace, and ushered us into Joe’s studio on the right as we stepped inside, the largest single room on the main floor.

Then came the handshakes, and the sparks, and the change.
______

Dave hit the water, and for a terrible second, I saw red --

(Continued tomorrow...)

Moving day: Part One

All right, enough of my political rants. You can read that everywhere, anywhere on the web, from much better informed folks than me. Here's something you can only read here:

My 19-year-old son Dan is moving out of the house this week into his first apartment. It's a big step, a big change, and one I can empathize with, for reasons we all understand.

That, coupled with the fact that I begin my faculty work with the first-class-ever at the Center for Cartoon Studies in White River Junction, VT in about a week-and-a-half, is bringing back rich memories of this very week in my life 29 years ago. As a break
from my ranting about the grim realities of this week, I'll share some of those memories with you now.
__

During my second year at Johnson State College, a bunch of us went swimming at a spot we'd been told about, far from the campus. My friends Dave Booz and Joe Mangelynx and me wandered away from our amigos to explore the ledges above the main swimming hole. It was a gorgeous afternoon, sunny and hot, and we decided there might be some interesting spots in the waterfall-riddled ledges above the main swimming hole. So, wearing only our cutoffs and dripping wet, we found a pathway up around to the topmost set of falls, and went exploring.

We ended up stepping our way down a series of smaller pools formed by a progression of waterfalls. At one point, the only way down to the next set of falls and uppermost pool was a rotting rope tied to a narrow but sturdy tree leading down to a wide overhanging ledge. Below the ledge was a crystal-clear pool, the sunlight shimmering off its surface.

Booz, being the ballsiest in such matters, didn't think twice: he shimmied down the rope, stepped out onto the ledge, and shouted up to us, "so, what are you waiting for?"

I made the climb down second, and then Joe did the same. Joe was (and most likely still is) a strapping fellow, built like a football player, and damned if that rope didn't break when he was about to set foot on the ledge.

So, there we were: on the ledge. The rope was gone, we couldn't go back up.

The pool was below, but there was a big problem: we couldn't tell how deep it was. The sun was shining directly down into it, and we could see every one of the perfect, round stones covering its floor with incredible clarity. We could damn near count those rocks on the bottom -- that’s how crystal-clear it was.

That pool could have been six inches deep, it could have been six feet deep: we simply could not tell.

I don't recollect how long Joe and Dave and I sat up on the ledge. We perched there a loooooong time, it seemed, until our friends were shouting up from below, asking where we were. A few shouts back and forth established we were OK and would be down soon, and all the while Dave hunkered down at the edge of the ledge, staring down into that pool. We all pondered that pool until we rationalized every possible scenario: the only option was to jump, which seemed like no option at all the longer we stared at that pool.

As the afternoon wore on and the sun moved and dropped the shadow of the ledge over us, we began to shiver: it was getting cold standing on the rock, and even with the shift in light, we couldn't tell about that pool.

Was it so shallow that we'd shatter our legs hitting those stones?

If we tried to land on our seats, was it so shallow we’d smash our hips?

Was it deep enough to cushion the sizable drop into those waters?

We just...
couldn't...
tell.

It was getting later and colder.

It was Dave who finally laughed, "Well, fuck it." He gave us a grin, and made the leap.
___

I was 21 years old and moving from Johnson State College to Dover, NJ. It was a momentous move in my life -- a definitive turning point, the most radical I'd ever dared. I was diving off a ledge into a body of water I couldn't make out below or beyond; I didn't know if I was diving into a pool six inches deep or an ocean. But this was the week I made the dive, and I've never regretted it.

I'd been a student at JSC for two years, ostensibly arriving two years earlier to study art, but instead pouring most of my energies into the theater department (thanks to Richard Emerson, who was the dept. head at that time and my advisor) and running the film program at JSC. My plans to study art were immediately derailed upon my arrival due to the small size of the college and the fact that seniors, logically enough, had first pick of classes; by the
time lowly freshman Bissette got to sign up for his classes, there were only two miserly art classes open to me, so theater is was.

As it turned out, this was for the best: Emerson was a fantastic fellow and great teacher, and I worked my ass off in his technical theater studies, particularly loving the study and application of theater lighting. The McCandless Theory of lighting the stage, it turned out, was central to the color work of two of my all-time favorite artists: the cinematic Italian horror and fantasy maestro Mario Bava, and Kansas City cartoonist extraordinaire Richard Corben. Whether Bava or Corben knew of McCandless, I had and have no idea, but McCandless's theories of light, color, its meaning and techniques beautifully articulated the visual universes of Bava, Corben, and all of theater. So, my JSC theater studies ended up feeding my art in ways I wouldn't have imagined possible. By my second year at JSC, I had talked Emerson into indulging a year-long independent study of Bava's films, and talked the rather imperious head of the art department, (the late) Peter Heller, into indulging three independent studies on comics: (1) to produce three comics publications and publish them, (2) to steep myself in a full semester of anatomical studies, and (3) to write a paper on "The Comic Epic," which was a radical thing at the time.

An aside: How did that go? Well, as for (1), only one published comic was completed, Abyss #1, that ended up being my key portfolio piece when I applied to the Kubert School; as Peter Heller said when grading time came, "This is remarkable -- I never thought you'd finish even one, much less publish it. Forget about three, I knew you were overreaching. You finished one. So, good for you." I completed (2), but Peter was so depressed by the comics I chose to analyze that he dismissed that project altogether, simply acknowledging it as "completed" and moving on. This was before the term 'graphic novel' even existed, and Peter had refused to permit adapted works (like Joe Kubert's Tarzan into the blend; thus, the works I studied in that pre-graphic novel era were Enemy Ace, Kamandi (alas, New Gods had been canceled before completion, so it had been rejected by Peter as being irrelevant), Kona: Monarch of Monster Isle, and Jack Katz's just-out-of-the-starting-gate The First Kingdom. Peter couldn't stomach looking at any of them -- Charles Schultz and Pat Oliphant were the only contemporary cartoonists he had any respect for -- so that was that. As for (3), I indeed completed initial anatomical studies to Peter's satisfaction, drawing every bone in the human body from three-to-four different views (working from the science lab skeleton and a brace of anatomy books), and four different views of the full skeleton. "Good, good," Peter muttered while gritting his cigarette holder between his teeth, "now, we get you to UVM to draw from cadavers. You must learn to draw the entirety of the human body. You've got the stomach for that, yes?" Well, no -- my one session drawing from a cadaver was a bust, not due to squeamishness, but because I couldn't take my eyes off the dead man's face, wondering who he was, had been, and how his body ended up where it was. End of aside.

The decision to even apply to the Kubert School had been a major leap of faith. Peter told me from our first discussion, "Listen, little man, you're going to be competing with New York City art students to get in there, the best of the best. Look at your chin: I can see the weakness in you there, in your face. You won't be able to hack it. You need to stay put here. There's nothing for you there."

I spent that final blissful summer in Johnson, prolonging my JSC stay by tutoring at the College's summer learning program. The campus was and remains an insular, lovely spot, and it was a great way to see out my stay at JSC. That was a maturing process: I was tutoring high school students who still didn't know how to read or write, which astounded me at first. I worked in particular with two students, one a tow-headed young man who was frustrated with anything that forced him to work indoors, the other a brunette young woman with intense green eyes who grew up on a horse farm and didn't see why reading was so important, though her frustration and the toll it took on her sense of self-worth was readily apparent at the close of our first session. She was hungry to make connections, doing so often by diverting our studies: knowing I loved horror films, she regaled me with her account of a film she'd seen that spring at the drive-in, Don't Open the Window, which had made a big impression on her. I assigned her to write a synopsis of the film, and write a new ending; it was the only writing assignment she'd completed with any passion. I was accepted as a peer by the other tutors, most of whom were older than me, either seniors at Johnson or graduate students, while I was a lowly college sophomore bolting from what would have been my junior year to pursue a new adventure: entering the first-class-ever of a wholly new college in Dover, NJ, The Joe Kubert School of Cartoon and Graphic Art, Inc.

To everyone but my closest friends at JSC (including the three who had talked me into going to the Kubert School: Jack Venoooker, Mark 'Sparky' Whitcomb, and Steve Perry), this was a crazy endeavor. In 1976, the thought of anyone, much less a hick from Duxbury and Waterbury, making a career in comics was a reckless, delusional undertaking -- I mean, comics weren't a profession, they were a hobby (to quote my old buddy James Harvey, "Art it just a hobby"). To be pursuing it at a brand-new college that wasn't even accredited, could not offer or accept grants or scholarship, and was furthermore based in (groan) New Jersey, seemed crazier still. Only Peter Heller took it seriously, but did so only to test my mettle; when I applied even after Peter stared me down and cut me down verbally, he called me into his office with an arrogant wave of the hand, pointed to the empty chair next to him, and bellowed, "You did it anyway, didn't you?" I nodded yes, and he smiled and said, "Good for you." And that was that.

My parents (who, thankfully, are still with us) were making the big move to Florida from our home in Colbyville, VT. My Dad had worked hard to convince me to stay put, to take over the family store and make Colbyville my home. I think he thought I'd settle down with Jill Chase, my high school sweetheart who lived up on Blush Hill (Jill would marry and remarry, live in Japan, and raise a daughter). I had no interest in such plans, much less staying in Colbyville.

More on that in a moment: first, I have to impress upon you the precipitous drop I was about to make from that cliff-ledge into I-didn't-know-what was made all the more perilous by the fact my parents had sold the store and home and were pulling up stakes to move to North Port, Florida.

There was, after this week 29 years ago, literally no going back. There would be nowhere to go back to.

So, my saying no to considerable pressure to take over a thriving business -- the store and our home, a living and a house -- was a big fat no, and one at the time that seem completely irrational. Give up all that -- a certain future -- to try and find a means of making ends meet in comics???. It made no sense to my father.

But I had to do it, I had to give it my all. I knew if I didn't, I might regret not taking that plunge every day of my life -- whatever it led to, I knew I had to make the leap.

When my best friend Bill Hunter was found dead in his basement two years before (an apparent suicide), I swore I would make use of the time Bill no longer had and do what I wanted to do with my life. That was making comics -- and the Joe Kubert School sure looked like a lifeline to me! My father had always expressed his disgust with my staying indoors and drawing, and my desire to make comics made no sense to a man who'd served in four branches of the US military, worked as a lineman for the Green Mountain Power Company, and went into business for himself twice: once with the Eagle Oil Company (a heating oil business based in Duxbury), and again with Bissette's Market, of which there were three incarnations. My brother had done the Bissette name proud when he joined the Air Force, but I wanted no part of it, and my need to draw and tell stories simply didn't fit Dad's worldview.

That all changed in a heartbeat: the moment my father and I met Joe Kubert. When Joe shook my Dad's hand -- that steel-crushing Kubert handshake I still love -- my world was forever altered, for the better.

(Continued tomorrow)