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Tag: G. K. Chesterton


Columbo à la Colan

With the news of the passing of two creative gents yesterday, comic artist Gene Colan and actor/artist, Peter Falk, it dawned on me they would have made a great pair. Wouldn't a Columbo comic drawn by Colan have been great? So, as best I could sketched up what that might've looked like, with apologies to both men. Both men had a distinctive style about them. Their personalities came through in their work, real passion and character. They were, each of them, one of a kind. Peter Falk was a great character actor for some time, somehow finding a long career as a leading man as seemingly bumbling and fumbling detective Columbo - my favorite fictional detective, followed closely by Chandler's Marlowe and Chesterton's Father Brown. I'm not a big fan of the mystery, solving the puzzle of the Whodunnit. I don't really care to solve a riddle, preferring to go along for the ride with a Why'd-TheyDoit? or How's-He-Gonna-Figgerit-Out? This approach focuses instead on the cat-and-mouse dance, the characters and situations, philosophies, ethics and world view. Peter Falk as Columbo was the best. And who could forget his fine turn as the grandfather in The Princess Bride? Marvelous and pitch perfect. Gene Colan was a superb comic book artist, handling superheros in a unique fashion, but really found his niche in the horror genre, with his long run on Tomb of Dracula, his black & white Blade tales, and his Creepy and Eerie stories for Warren. After those of Alex Toth's, Colan's just may be my favorites from these series. Nobody created mood, movement and drama on a comic book page like Colan, with an illustrative style and flamboyant sense of page layout. Here's to ya', Peter and Gene. You did it your way, and well. A larger version of this drawing can be viewed at the Saturday Sketch Day blog. Just click the small image there.


The Man Who Was Thursday

Sketch of a Chesterton fan. So am I.


Not really a poet; but surely he was a poem

The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not "artists," the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face--that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat--that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.
G.K. Chesterton - from the first paragraph of his The Man Who Was Thursday.