On Sunday, I went to the first Locust Moon Comics Festival at the Rotunda in West Philly. It was everything such a small, regional indie event should be: a little seedy, a little needy, a lot aspirational. I don't have a lot of comix cred to my name but I've hung out some with graphic artists, have the mandatory box or three of undergrounds in the attic crawlspace, and will admit to being influenced by the old B&W monthlies, Eerie and Creepy. So I like to check in on the scene every now and again, just to see if I can learn something.
Now that I'm beginning to grow Old, I can't help but feel protective toward all these talented (and semi-talented and in some cases hemi-demi-semi-talented) young people. I wanted to warn them about what a difficult road they were on, and how hard the artistic life can be, even for those who succeed at it. But then I reflected on how utterly without talent I appeared to be when I was their age, and how a good, Dutch Uncle-ish lecture could have prevented me from ever becoming a a writer. So I stayed my tongue.
God bless 'em all. They were to a man and woman (a surprising and heartening percentage of the introverted young artists were female), brave and noble. I bought a few comics, which I later read with pleasure, and I look forward to dropping by the event again next year.