Picking-up the digest (there was also an 8½ x 11 version), it was apparent that it was far from the average comic in terms of panel layouts with the books narrative on the bottom of the art. I shyly glanced at him and back at the Chandler cover when I suddenly realized that the picture of that mean streets private dick was actually a self-portrait. “How you doing over there,” Steranko said in his world’s greatest showman voice. wardrobe, sunglasses and spit-shined boots, he was iceberg smooth. issues on Drew’s bedroom floor.įor a moment I just stared at him, as the man himself flashed me one of his trademark Kodak smiles. On top of the book in yellow type it read, “A hard-core detective thriller by Steranko.” It took a few seconds for my brain to register the name, but then I almost screamed when I realized that this was the artist I’d fallen for that fateful afternoon when I saw the Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. wearing a raincoat and ready to protect a distressed damsel as a lightning bolt crackled over their heads. The cover was dominated by blues and showed a noirish, gun-toting P.I.
He was selling copies of a stylish newspaper called MediaScene, two volumes of The History of Comics, an illustrated calendar of female pin-up superheroes called SuperGirls, an art portfolio of Mike Hinge drawings, a poster for a barbarian character named Talon and the digest-sized crime comic Chandler that was, arguably the first graphic novel.
JIM STERANKO AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT MOVIE
Behind the table was an immaculately dressed gentleman with movie star looks and hair that rivaled Elvis. Moving to the center of the room, I found myself in front a huge table covered with various materials. I walked through the crowded gathering and slowly absorbed the overabundance of comics, original art, trading cards, animation cels, slides and Star Trek products. Far from the luxury of its heyday when Glenn Miller played in its ballroom, the 22-floored hotel, much like the city itself, had seen better days, but even in its shabbiness it was majestic. With its high ceiling and plush couches, the lobby was already crowded with other overanxious convention customers milling about as well as vendors carting boxes merchandise onto the elevator. Within minutes, I was standing in front of the Hotel Pennsylvania’s massive pillars and pushing through the revolving doors.
After riding the graffiti scrawled subway to 34th Street, I was soon pushing my way through the crowds emerging from Penn Station and the holiday shoppers headed towards Macy’s. Leaving the house with a knapsack, inside were a few shopping bags and a spiral artist’s pad so I could buy sketches from creators. The day after Thanksgiving, 1977, I awoke at dawn, excited about the attending the annual Creation Convention. Later I learned that those eye-popping graphics were the work of artist Jim Steranko. The images were vibrant and seemed to leap from the page. covers, the designs reminded me of the James Bond posters I admired dearly.
While I had no idea who drew those striking Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. In those days the medium was macho and Nick Fury was a man amongst men. That Saturday night I stared eagerly at the four-color pages spread out on the floor of that Riverside Drive apartment, their glossy covers bearing the names of The Hulk, Doctor Strange, Captain America, Silver Surfer, Daredevil, Thor and Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.įlipping through Fury’s newsprint pages, I was transported into a modern day, yet futuristic landscape of espionage, killer robots, baddies working for an evil agency called HYDRA, pin-up beautiful women and the coolest weapons on the planet. My love for comic books began in 1970 when I was seven years old and my babysitter’s nephew named Drew, who was a few years older than me, shared his stash of Marvel Comics.
0 kommentar(er)
