Nick Galifianakis - The Art of Richard Thompson

Acknowledgments

Richard Thompson would like to thank the authors to start with. Everyone who tried to teach me art. Then everyone Ive ever drawn for, especially Tom Shroder, Lee Salem, Mike Keegan, and my mom.

Wed like to thank the following for their assistance:

Amy Thompson, for all kinds of assistance. And for putting up with Richard, and the rest of us... especially Nick.

Steve Conley, who designed this book.

Cathy Hunter, Kevin Rechin, Andrew Postman, and Karen Yankosky assisted with the production.

Britt Conley, who scanned and prepared hundreds of the images in the book.

Joe Procopio, who jumped in at the last minute and dammed the ever-changing scanning overflow created by editors who couldnt make up their minds, thus saving the day. Twice.

Sara Duke and Martha Kennedy of the Library of Congress; Jack Thompson, Richard West, Hans Bruland of the Hay-Adams Hotel; Matt Wuerker, James Sturm, and David Bragunier; John Glynn and David Ohman of Universal Uclick; Jenny Robb, Caitlin McGurk, and Marilyn Scott of OSUs Billy Ireland Library; John Read of Stay Tooned! Magazine, Tim Thompson, Steve Sullivan, Tom Specht of BonoTom Studio, Carolyn Hax, Peter Docter, and Tim Cookall of whom provided artwork for the book.

Delve Withrington, who is Richards font designer, and gave his permission for its use in this book.

Bruce Guthrie, Richards long-time friend, and the Team Cul de Sac photographer.

Dorothy OBrien, our editor at Andrews McMeel, with thanks for her patience and support.

Conte n ts

Introduction

By Nick Galifianakis

Poor Richard.

Hes finally stretched out on the lounge chair he spends the night in, ready for sleep, tucked in by his wife and illuminated only by the light from his studio where Im working on this book. After a while, I turn off the light and sneak out, but not before considering my old friend.

I have felt sorry for Richard Thompson exactly once.

It wasnt when his startling symptoms arrived, or when he was subsequently diagnosed with Parkinsons, or any of the times Ive witnessed the myriad difficulties and indignities he navigates without complaint. It wasnt even when he was rushed to the emergency room with a pulmonary embolism last fall.

No. The only time I ever felt sorry for Richard was twenty-five years ago, when he first looked through my portfolio.

Id just had my first cartoon published, in a small paper down South, and I came back home to the D.C. area to conquer bigger mountains. While I browsed a gallery that specialized in animation drawings, the owner suggested I call a regular customer of his, this cartoonist I had never heard of. I did. Richard Thompson agreed to meet me at a restaurant in the city.

He walked inloped, reallyat just under 6 feet tall and what seemed like 75 pounds. Dirty blond hair hanging over one eye, Ichabod Cranes Adams apple and glasses perched on... that spectacular nose.

He smiled, upping his charm. Immediately, I felt a protective affection for him.

He seemed to enjoy letting me indulge in storytelling, which I did enthusiastically because I feared awkward silences with this very articulate (anyone who uses the word lapidary cant possibly draw, right?) but soft-spoken man. He peppered our chat with dry asides but possessed what seemed an air of uncertainty... or was it just old-world courtesy? Still, we managed to talk about whom we liked, in the way all cartoonists do.

I let a respectable interval of time pass before finally reaching for my portfolio. I didnt want to bruise this exceptionally likable fellas ego before his career had really started.

So, yeahI felt sorry for him.

Richard went through each page with great deliberation, studying and chuckling over each picture. Maybe my drawings would inspire him to get out there more, I thought. I appreciated (and expected) the nice things he had to say about my work. Then, more out of politeness than anything, I asked to look at his portfolio.

I opened it.

And Richard was immediately and forever transformed in front of me as I realized I was sitting across from the only actual genius I had ever met.

I couldnt speak. I could scarcely even gasp. A stunned expression undoubtedly contorted my face. The entire restaurant seemed all of a sudden empty but for us. The ceiling parted; the clouds and sky itself parted. Celestial light beams flooded our table. Rubenesque cherubs hov-ered above. Somewhere, the sound of a choir.

Richard Thompsons drawings staggered me. Their deftness, humor, and depth made mine feel amateurish, self-important, and shallow. In an instant, I saw not only just how long the road was... I was astonished to realize I wasnt even on the road. Ability? Sure. Effort? Absolutely. But how does one convince the gods to fashion your visions, and an angel to guide your hand?

Richard provided me with the aha! moment of my creative life. This book exists partly because I want current and future artists to feel as worthless as I did.

In the years that followed, a warm friendship grew. But there were always bracing reminders, aside from his regular, published brilliance, that my friend was working on another plane from the rest of us.

Richard has been a relentless experimenter across a wondrous variety of media, creating masterful digressions that no one outside of his studio would ever see. He was as unconcerned with money or fame as he was exacting in pursuit of artistic purity. His studio wastebasket regularly filled with what he calls first thoughts and false startswhat everyone else calls suitable for framing. He can come across as unaware or even naive, but then a week or a year later hell describe in a cartoon a personality or situation so accurately and with such observation that one is frightened into self-consciousness. He once insisted that I destroy an oil painting of his that I and every artist I know would have been thrilled to produce. It broke my heart to do it. But he stood firm, and the painting it would lead tosomehow, even betteris in this book.

Indeed, among those who know, it has long been considered a crime, even a sin, that a book featuring the breathtaking range of Richard Thompsons work has not existed before now. That inexcusable absence is due mostly to the fact that Richards talent is in direct proportion to his stubborn unwillingness to self-promote. Quietly creating in the predawn hours against a soundtrack of classical music in a tiny studio, while consuming food of decidedly negligible substance (usually from a bag or Styrofoam box), contented to measure himself artistically only against himself, has always meant more to Richard than publicly shouting, Look at me!

Art director Bono Mitchell, who hired Richard so many times that she long ago became more family than friend, has been pushing for a book like this for years. So have Richards wife, Amy, and his parents, his artist friends and admirers, and pretty much anyone who ever stepped inside his studio and had even the tiniest aesthetic sense.

And then Fan Boy Extraordinaire, Chris Sparks, rallied the cartoonist community for the book Team Cul de Sac: Cartoonists Draw the Line at Parkinsons , which honored Richard while raising money to help others fight a terrible disease. This worthy adventure led Chris to share some of Richards non Cul de Sac work with Bill Watterson, the famously private creator of Calvin and Hobbes (who had previously been wowed by Cul de Sac through his friend and cartoon historian Rich West), and a door once barely cracked was thrown wide open.