Most of my cartoons are
humorous - or at least they're supposed to be. But cartoons aren't always meant
to be funny. Some cartoonists sum up a political point with a few pen squiggles
better than all the hot air a politician can muster. Other cartoons pick at
your emotions or goad you into to buying a box of Count Chocula.
I'd describe the one I did
on Sept. 11, 2001 as personal therapy. I didn't plan it. I didn't sketch it out
first. I just drew because I didn't know what else to do ... and I had to do
something. Now I drag it out every September. It's not some sort of masterpiece
or technically admirable. But every line, every ink blot, every scribble bring
that day back to me. I remember where I drew it, the amount of sunlight
filtering into the room, everything. But
mostly I remember how I was feeling - a bizarre mixture of shock and horror ripening into anger
and defiance. Sounds more like the stages of grief than a recipe for
cartooning. And maybe that's what it was.
So every September I take a
look at it and allow all the feelings to rush back - at least for a moment. It
doesn't comfort me. Quite the opposite. But sometimes that's what we need. Sometimes
we just need to remember a moment for what it was.
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