Last bit of airport sketches from the New Years travels.

Found these older pieces on the hard drive. Always liked how they turned out. Done when I first got my ipad pro.

Last year I had the pleasure of painting an oil portrait for a Christmas present. This was done alla prima on a large (No. 30) canvas. Most of my work is digital, and I've never worked this large in a traditional medium, totally underestimating the amount of paint and pure physical effort needed to push it around the canvas. A great experience all in all though. Posting most of the process here (some parts missing becasue my camera ran out of juice). Will post this with some details to my main Art Station page soon.  

Life drawing from a few weekends back. Short poses in conte and some pencils.

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Havent drawn from life in about 4 months, so decided to brush up a little. Here are some pieces from last weekend's short poses, mostly in black Conte.

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---continued from Part 1 https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/mOPp/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-1-8---

and Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/DKMa/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-9-18

---ON THE CLOCK (continued)---

“I started hooking,” said Terry. She shifted a little on the park bench and re-crossed her gartered legs. Her leather mini-skirt climbed a little higher up her scrawny thighs and she tugged at the hem. Terry was a skinny kid and looked odd in her outfit, like she was playing grown-up. Pretending.

“You ever consider grandma?” I asked.

“Grandparents are both dead. The step-ones I don’t like,” she said, looking down at her pumps. They looked too big for her.

“So what are you going to do now, Terry?”

“Dunno.”

“Come back home maybe?”

She shook her head no. Harder than she needed to get the point across.

“What if I help you go back?”

The headshakes again.

“If you’re not careful your head’s going to come off.” That got the desired effect; she finally looked at me, puzzled but better than nothing.

“C’mon, Terry, is this really better?”

“It’s not so different.” She looked away again. So much for progress.

We sat a little longer in silence, watching the joggers steadily make their way up the hill in front of our bench. It didn’t look easy, but at least they were getting somewhere. I wasn’t. I was more of a treadmill guy. Terry went back to looking apathetically at her oversized fuck-me-shoes. She didn’t look too worried, she was on the clock. And so was I.

Her mother, Gina Sotlas, had hired me to find the missing girl. Gina’s husband was running for governor and a runaway step-daughter didn’t seem to be the sort of thing that his political enemies would neglect to inform the public of. Oh, of course she loved her only child and was deeply concerned.

I was concerned, too. It was good to have work again, but I was not in a situation I wanted to be in. Now that I had located Terry, I wasn’t sure what to do. I wasn’t going to force her to come back, she was 18 and that wasn’t in the contract. But, I didn’t feel comfortable letting her go on the way she had been. As I was thinking of contacting my employer and updating her on the situation, my phone rang.

“McGloin Investigations, David speaking.” If this gumshoe thing didn’t work out I could always pursue a secretarial position somewhere.

“Mr. McGloin?”

“Speaking.” I was good.

“My name is William Roberts,” The voice began hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Billy the Kid, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nevermind. I know who you are.”

“Have you found my step-daughter, yet?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause on the other end. Finally the Roberts cleared his throat.

“That’s good news. Where is she?”

“On the Westside.”

Another pause.

“Is she—? Nevermind. Bring her to 900 N. State. I’ll have an associate pick her up. When can you get her there?”

“That wasn’t in the job-description.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t work for you, candidate Roberts. Your wife hired me to locate your daughter. I have done so. My work is done.”

Terry perked up and was now paying close attention to the conversation. She looked like a small, scared animal, ready to flee at any moment.

“Oh, I see. Don’t worry, Mr. McGloin, you will be compensated. Double your original fee.”

I thought about this for a second.

“Are you there, Mr. McGloin?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Just bring her to me,” he said and hung up.

“What did he say?” Asked Terry, panic creeping into her voice.

“He said he wanted to know if you were alright.”

“Why should he care all of a sudden?”

“He misses you?”

Headshakes. Even more violent this time.

“You sure you don’t want to go back?” I asked.

“No way,” she said and continued shaking.

“He says he’s sorry. Everything is going to be different this time.”

“Really?”

I nodded, feeling pretty shitty for lying to the kid, but not so shitty for moving closer to paying the rent.

“I don’t believe him.”

“Ok, fair enough. Want to grab something to eat? I always think better on a full stomach.”

She nodded, slowly.

“Variety’s the spice of life.”

She looked confused and then shook her head dismissively. I knew it was too good to be true.

We walked around a duck-filled pond, towards my car. I took Terry to a drive-thru and we picked up two cheeseburgers, which were promptly consumed in the parking lot. After satiating our hunger, I drove her to 900 State. Terry asked me where we were going and I told her I was going to consult a friend about her situation. The ‘associate’ turned out to be a guy named Alphonso.

“You’re still payin’ me, right?” Asked Terry.

“Yes. You’re still on the clock, don’t worry.” I didn’t.

.

.

.

“You ever end up finding her, McGloin?”

“Huh?”

“Terry. You ever find her?”

“Umm, no, no I didn’t,” I said. “I, ah, only knew her through pictures.” I pointed to the photos on the tabletop. “And those aren’t the prettiest ones.”

Phil looked me in the eye looking for answers. If he knew I lied he didn’t show it.

“You want to be the one tells her mother her daughter dead?” The low voice rolled into my ear.

I had my eyes locked on Phil, without breaking I announced that thankfully that was not my job.

“Enjoy yours, gentlemen,” I said. ”I’m considering a new occupation. Politics maybe.”

“Nah, you’re not a very good liar,” the voice rolled out again.

I told them both where they could go. Detective Campbell informed me that was a physical impossibility. Phil told me where I should shove my most prized anatomical possessions. 

They stared at me some more, then my lawyer came and chewed me out for saying too much. With prodding from the counselor, the detectives informed me that Alphonso was suspected of killing Terry, and I was suspected of killing him. After another half an hour they discovered that Alphonso met his end in a mob-related incident and, a little after midnight, I was released.

Alphonso and Terry went about being dead. Phil went home to his family, while Detective Campbell went about practicing his Darth Vader impression. Sgt. Cueball went on listening to his shitty music, enjoying his happy moment. The future governor Roberts went back to blaming poverty for the growing crime problem in this city, while Gina Sotlas went on crying over her baby-girl. My ex went on chewing on the back of my brain. And I went to get the bitter taste out of my mouth with some scotch.

THE END

And that's it! A little behind schedule and a little rough, but happy to have seen it through to the end. Thanks for reading.

Part 1: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/mOPp/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-1-8

Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/DKMa/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-9-18

---continued from Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/mOPp/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-1-8---

Part 3 here: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/vP93/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-19-end

---ON THE CLOCK (continued)---

At the station I went through the all too familiar procedure. I was sitting in a stiff, metal chair in a variation of “the Thinker” pose with my elbows resting on the stiff, metal desk, awaiting questioning. I wasn’t looking forward to the next couple of hours. They’d come in here, probably in stereo, and ask me about what they thought mattered. They would take turns slamming their fists on the tabletop for effect until I’d tell them my alibi while they’d tell me I was full of shit. Then they’d check it and release me, unapologetically. It was an old story, only this time something was off. 

This time, I was the one wearing the bracelets. I was the one chained to the stiff, metal desk. And as for alibis – I was fresh out of those.

They sauntered in, two detectives, one tall and lean in a powder-blue sport shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display powerful-looking forearms. He was flipping through a manila file as he walked into the interrogation room. He passed the file on to his shorter and paler colleague and took up his post, leaning on the wall behind me. I looked at him over the shoulder, he stared at me blankly, his arms folded. He was still and polished like an obsidian statue and made me feel slightly uneasy.

I returned my attention to the other as he tossed the file on the tabletop, sat next to it, and looked at me, his Buddha-like belly straining against the green of his polo. I looked back at him, fighting the urge to rub him for good luck.

“Well, you’re in deep shit, ain’t ya?” This was more of a statement. Probably meant to dispel any notions of luck-bearing.

“Am I?” I asked.

“Is he, Frank?” The Buddha asked of his statuesque, ebony partner.

“Seems so, Phil,” said Frank in a brassy bass. His voice rolled out from somewhere deep inside him and echoed through the room.

“Detective Campbell seems to think so,” said Phil. “He knows these things.”

“Oh,” I said. Couldn’t have found a better retort even if I tried.

Phil flipped through the file for no reason I could discern, he already knew what it said. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Well, tell us what we want to hear, David,” he said. “You know the procedure, don’t you? This room shouldn’t be all that new to you.” He consulted the file again. “Officer David E. McGloin, Third Municipal. You were there for five years before you went private. Wonder why you didn’t last on the force?”

He let the question hang dramatically while he made a show of scanning the file. Turning to me he said, “Conduct unbecoming? Hmmm.” Then he read some more and looked past me at Detective Campbell. “Looks like David, here, likes to drink. Looks like he doesn’t know his limit either. Seems he even tried to serve and protect in an inebriated state.”

“Am I here to have my personal history read to me, Phil? Or do you want it autographed?”

“No, you are here because you shot a man with a ten gauge.”

“Oh, that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, where’s my lawyer?”

“On his way,” Phil said. “Why don’t we pass the time by discussing our crime-scene photographer’s knowledge of composition?” 

He took out some pictures from the file and tossed them toward me. “These look familiar?”

I looked at the photos. They were of a dead man in a black leather jacket with a large wound in his chest. The space between the lapels of his jacket looked like it was stuffed with ground beef. I knew his name was Alphonso. I knew I had not liked him alive. I knew I did not dislike him dead.

“Alphonso Scott, for your viewing pleasure,” announced Phil in a loud voice that reverberated metallically around the bleak room. “Not pretty, is he?”

“He never was pretty,” I said. “What’s this got to do with me?”

Phil tossed more photos onto the tabletop. I looked. 

These were of a woman in a similar condition to Alphonso. This one bothered me.

“The whore you were supposed to find, right?” Phil said.

“Her name is Terry Sotlas.” I said. Phil put his hands up in defense, palms out. “Was anyway.”

“Yeah, how’s a step-daughter of a future governor end up hooking?” Phil asked.

“You’re asking the wrong guy.”

“No, I don’t think I am,” said Phil. “Just asking the wrong questions.”

I sat in silence, wondering how much they knew. Cops could be damn smart when they wanted to be. Hell, once upon a time I was one of them, and I was the smartest person I ever met.

“I’m still not sure what you want me to say,” I said, cutting the silence.

“You’re full of shit, Dave,” Phil said. I had a funny feeling he would. “Bill Roberts hired you to find her, didn’t he? Doesn’t look good to have your step-daughter hooking when you’re running on a ‘sweep this city clean’ platform, does it?”

I leaned back, cocked my head, and looked at him the way dogs look at answering machines.

“Fine, just sit there and listen. I’ll tell you what I think the connection is here,” Phil began. “I think that there were some problems in the House that old-money built. I won’t speculate on the specifics, but I think it’s safe to assume Terry wasn’t happy with her ‘new daddy.’ Her mother seemed to like this guy alright; he was rich and powerful, with ambitions to become even more rich and powerful. Around the time he decided to run for office, the angst-ridden Terry decided to run away from home. She tried to get in touch with her biological father, but soon discovered that her ‘real daddy’ was a dead-beat junkie that barely remembered he had a daughter. So she was now on her own and realized that there was little she could do with her 12th grade education. She had to resort to… ah… unskilled labor. So…”

Continued in Part 3: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/vP93/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-19-end

This year I decided to try something different for Inktober. I had an old story from college knocking about on the hard drive, a bit of a hard-boiled noir-ish thing, and it seemed pretty well suited for ink! So here is the first part of, "On the Clock."

Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/DKMa/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-9-18

Part 3: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/vP93/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-19-end

----------- ON THE CLOCK---------

A horrible acoustic cover of “Comfortably Numb” blasted from the speakers, doing violence not only to my eardrums but to good music everywhere. It was interrupted by the occasional incomprehensible radio chatter. I shifted in the backseat, unable to fight off the soft, six-stringed assault.

“Hey, can you turn it down a bit?” I asked the driver.

“Why don’t you turn yourself down a bit, sweetheart,” said his bald partner from the passenger’s seat. The man was all wit. “I happen to like this one.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” I muttered, sliding down in the seat until my knees were resting on the cage in front of me. The singer/songwriter went on and I felt my testosterone levels drop with every sensitively drawn-out word.

“Tell ya what, sweetheart, why don’t ya sing along? You seem to know this.”

“Nah, that’s OK. I don’t want it to be used against me in a court of law,” I said, shifting again. You’d think they’d make these damned things more comfortable. I guess the powers-that-be had a different agenda. Whatever it was, putting air-fresheners in the back of police vehicles to do something about the reek of vomit didn’t seem to be on it.

“You guys bust a lot of cheerleaders?” I inquired in search of a possible cause of the olfactory offense.

“What’s that?” said Sgt. Cueball.

“Nevermind, just grasping at straws over here,” I said and turned to look out the window. 

It was getting dark. The clouds had come in an hour ago and with them came the rain. It was pouring now. Outside of the cruiser the city had acquired that transparent grey quality as it often does when the rain washes away all traces of color, except the red of the taillights.

My head felt like it was about to explode. I wasn’t sure whether the lack of coffee, the rain, the shitty Pink Floyd cover (which was now replaced by an even worse rendition of Marley’s “Natural Mystic”), or some combination of the three, was to blame. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them, but that didn’t help much. My ex-wife used to rub her temples whenever she had one of her migraines. I considered doing the same, but the officers were nice enough to take preventative measures and cuff me behind the back. At least my ex’s headaches weren’t caused by her spouse. Most of mine were. The current throbbing pain was an unwelcome exception.

“Hey, Sergeant, you have any Aspirin up there?” I finally asked.

“No.” Charming fellow.

“Ibuprofen?”

“Look, McGloin, why don’t you shut your trap, eh?”

“Because my head hurts, Sarge.”

“Well, your whining is giving me a headache, suspect.” I was wrong about this guy – he had more wit than hair.

“Oh, please, call me David,” I said.

“Whatever, wise-ass. Now shut up, we’re almost there. Soon you can talk the dicks’ ears off.”

“Whatever, David,” I corrected him. “No need to ignore my offer of friendship, Sergeant.”

He turned so his hairless pate was replaced by his equally plain face and glared at me with that hard look that cops perfect early in their careers.

“Let’s get something straight, McGloin. I want nothing to do with you. It will be a happy time in my life when I get rid of you and let the poor bastards at the precinct deal with your annoying ass. A happy moment, McGloin. The clouds will part and the sun will come out. You understand what I’m saying?”

“You know, you say that, but those gruff words belie the compassion of your true feelings. ‘The sun will come out,’ that’s very romantic, Sarge, and the sun may not be the only thing. I can see it in your eyes--”

“You can’t see shit, McGloin! I have no compassion for assholes like you,” he said glaring at me even harder, his brows making a distinct ‘V’ in the middle of his round face. He looked like a cartoon. A bald, pockmarked cartoon with big, protruding ears and a five o’clock shadow.

“There you go again with your tough-love and looking at me all sweet like that. I bet you’re a real lady-killer, Sarge.”

He seemed to be concentrating on ignoring me.

“No?” I continued. “Maybe Rogaine then—”

“Shut up, McGloin,” said the driver wearily.

“Ah! It speaks,” I said and went back to staring out the window. The rain poured on.

I spent the rest of the uneventful car ride trying my best to ignore the radio and the dull sense of failure that was gnawing on my gut, while the cruiser sped through the de-saturated world.

Continued in

Part 2: https://www.artstation.com/misha/blog/DKMa/on-the-clock-inktober-2019-days-9-18

Doodling about during some free time