Magpie's Gold

Myeh. This doesn’t do justice to the cuteness of Shino at all, but then again, its been ages since I drew him. Years and years. I’ll do better next time.He’s Corey’s!  

Myeh. This doesn’t do justice to the cuteness of Shino at all, but then again, its been ages since I drew him. Years and years. I’ll do better next time.

He’s Corey’s!  

Happy New Year! Every year is my tradition of starting a drawing in one year and finishing it in the next, and here’s the one for 2011/2012. Here’s to a bright future. :)

Happy New Year!

Every year is my tradition of starting a drawing in one year and finishing it in the next, and here’s the one for 2011/2012. Here’s to a bright future. :)

Obligatory cat post. I’m terrible at photography, but the combination of downy kitten fur and my sheepskin was too easy.Nice and deceptive. This from the fluffball who broke his first lamp this evening. =P

Obligatory cat post. I’m terrible at photography, but the combination of downy kitten fur and my sheepskin was too easy.

Nice and deceptive. This from the fluffball who broke his first lamp this evening. =P

And once more, with color! It’s been ages and ages since I just sat down and put pen to tablet in Photoshop until I was finished a piece of art. At least one that wasn’t a comic page.

And once more, with color! It’s been ages and ages since I just sat down and put pen to tablet in Photoshop until I was finished a piece of art. At least one that wasn’t a comic page.

Corey’s character, Scott! Doodled him last weekend, and actually used photo references for once in my life.

Corey’s character, Scott! Doodled him last weekend, and actually used photo references for once in my life.

The cast from Jon Kowitz’s comic, The Fold Space, housed on DeviantArt. He’s been a constant supporter of ProtC for ages, so I felt I owed him a little something. :)

The cast from Jon Kowitz’s comic, The Fold Space, housed on DeviantArt. He’s been a constant supporter of ProtC for ages, so I felt I owed him a little something. :)

More thinking-out-loud sketches. Possibilities of what Jahrd’ll look like at different ages, but as always, nothing set in stone until it appears on an actual page.He just gets scruffier and scruffier.Nerf herder.

More thinking-out-loud sketches. Possibilities of what Jahrd’ll look like at different ages, but as always, nothing set in stone until it appears on an actual page.

He just gets scruffier and scruffier.

Nerf herder.

Definitely needed something cheery after that last post. So: Shanka! Smiling! Woah! Who knew!Needed to do something stupid and fun after constant comic work, sooooo I leap right back into the comic universe even when I’m recovering from drawing endless panels. Haaaaaa, man I need a life.

Definitely needed something cheery after that last post. So: Shanka! Smiling! Woah! Who knew!

Needed to do something stupid and fun after constant comic work, sooooo I leap right back into the comic universe even when I’m recovering from drawing endless panels. Haaaaaa, man I need a life.

introspective asked: What do you love most about yourself? What do you like least?

Most? I’d have to say that it’s the most simple and basic fact about myself: that I can create things. I’m proud of having the imagination and the dedication to tell stories and to make art. It’s a whole other language to speak in, it took a long time and lots of work to develop (and there’s always so far to grow), and it lets me leave pieces of myself behind.

Least is that I’m shy and self-conscious to the point that it holds me back. I’m good at leaving those inspirational pieces and thinking about what should be done, but I’m not the sort who acts. I encourage others, but I hesitate to make a move myself. I don’t like to be noticed. Worst is that I’ll often find myself thinking hopeful, good thoughts at others in need but being too quiet to step up and voice that I care. I break out of that far too rarely. I admire courage because I tend to lack it.

This was drawn quite a while ago already, while I was in the midst of exploring and coming to terms with a piece of history that I doubt I was alone in being reminded of recently. At the time, I told myself, more than anything, that it was just practice: I’d liked the photo, and drawing from reality is a challenge that could teach me a thing or two. I do plan to continue the effort.More than that, though, it was a sort of catharsis. I’d been reading voraciously, learning all I could since Fukushima had made me realize that the extent of my knowledge of nuclear power came from The Simpsons, a sad state of affairs in its own right. It’s a slippery slope, I’ve discovered, from learning the technical details to falling into the black pit of Chernobyl’s history and becoming lost. It was especially poignant for me, who is, by blood, mostly Ukrainian, raised in a very Ukrainian-Canadian way, and who heard the buzzword over and over growing up, without understanding the truth of it because who wants to tell horror stories to a small kid? Subconsciously, I was fascinated enough to dream about the place, although never with any accuracy. But I never researched until I realized it was happening again.So I needed to know. And I learned. For anyone who hasn’t gone digging… well, this is no one I know. It is no one I ever met, and no one I ever will meet. His name was Volodymyr Shashenok, and he died on this day, twenty-five years ago, at the Chernobyl disaster. He honestly didn’t do much in terms of cause or of clean-up. In fact, when you get down to it, his legacy is that of the Star Trek red shirt: to be in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time. He wasn’t supposed to be there, and was called in on an expected day off. He was the second to die, after Valery Hodemchuk, who was never found, and despite a relatively quick rescue from his predicament after the explosion, he was badly burned and injured and died only hours later in Pripyat hospital. As it turns out, he was one of the lucky ones. Most, whether they’d acted heroically, foolishly, or just been unlucky, died over a period of weeks, sometimes months, from the effects of radiation exposure. No distinction was made, and for the most part, all that’s left is a list of names and a fraction surviving.It was really pure fluke that I came across his existence. Just a name among names that caught my eye, and the serendipity that only days before, his family had released the photo this is based on to the world. There it was to be found after a single quick Google search. The first real person from a catastrophe that’d happened when I was only nine months old. I remember staring at it when I could finally put a face to the tragedy I’d been reading about. It felt important. He was the starting point, and felt something like a guide as I dug through the stories of the operators, firemen, liquidators, and civilians who lived, sometimes died, and were all deeply effected by the disaster. I kept coming back to him with a silent thank you that maybe only makes sense to me. And this is a gift to his memory, and the memory of all the others who were there, and aren’t anywhere anymore.This, I think, represents the most important piece of the story. More so than the technical detailings, not more shocking but more real than the alien shape of the sarcophagus, more poignant than the endless arguments of pro or anti-nuclear, it’s the people who mattered, and who always matter, and who I worry are in danger of being forgotten. I wouldn’t say I’m pro-nuclear or anti-nuclear. I’m a realist: if we crave electricity the way we do, then we’re going to have to keep dealing with nuclear until a better solution is found, if one can be found. It works when it works, and when it doesn’t, it really doesn’t, but we can’t get rid of it with a snap of our fingers, so we have to learn about and know what we’re dealing with and try to be intelligent and informed when we make decisions.But I’m in strong favor of safety, and responsibility, and remembering people like Volodymyr and everyone in those endless lists along with him. Of learning from our screw-ups.Today’s April 26, 2011. Twenty-five years ago, we as a human race made a terrible mistake. I live in hope that we’ll nip this cycle of repetition. For the sake of real human beings.

This was drawn quite a while ago already, while I was in the midst of exploring and coming to terms with a piece of history that I doubt I was alone in being reminded of recently. At the time, I told myself, more than anything, that it was just practice: I’d liked the photo, and drawing from reality is a challenge that could teach me a thing or two. I do plan to continue the effort.

More than that, though, it was a sort of catharsis. I’d been reading voraciously, learning all I could since Fukushima had made me realize that the extent of my knowledge of nuclear power came from The Simpsons, a sad state of affairs in its own right. It’s a slippery slope, I’ve discovered, from learning the technical details to falling into the black pit of Chernobyl’s history and becoming lost. It was especially poignant for me, who is, by blood, mostly Ukrainian, raised in a very Ukrainian-Canadian way, and who heard the buzzword over and over growing up, without understanding the truth of it because who wants to tell horror stories to a small kid? Subconsciously, I was fascinated enough to dream about the place, although never with any accuracy. But I never researched until I realized it was happening again.

So I needed to know. And I learned.

For anyone who hasn’t gone digging… well, this is no one I know. It is no one I ever met, and no one I ever will meet. His name was Volodymyr Shashenok, and he died on this day, twenty-five years ago, at the Chernobyl disaster. He honestly didn’t do much in terms of cause or of clean-up. In fact, when you get down to it, his legacy is that of the Star Trek red shirt: to be in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time. He wasn’t supposed to be there, and was called in on an expected day off. He was the second to die, after Valery Hodemchuk, who was never found, and despite a relatively quick rescue from his predicament after the explosion, he was badly burned and injured and died only hours later in Pripyat hospital. As it turns out, he was one of the lucky ones. Most, whether they’d acted heroically, foolishly, or just been unlucky, died over a period of weeks, sometimes months, from the effects of radiation exposure. No distinction was made, and for the most part, all that’s left is a list of names and a fraction surviving.

It was really pure fluke that I came across his existence. Just a name among names that caught my eye, and the serendipity that only days before, his family had released the photo this is based on to the world. There it was to be found after a single quick Google search. The first real person from a catastrophe that’d happened when I was only nine months old. I remember staring at it when I could finally put a face to the tragedy I’d been reading about. It felt important. He was the starting point, and felt something like a guide as I dug through the stories of the operators, firemen, liquidators, and civilians who lived, sometimes died, and were all deeply effected by the disaster. I kept coming back to him with a silent thank you that maybe only makes sense to me. And this is a gift to his memory, and the memory of all the others who were there, and aren’t anywhere anymore.

This, I think, represents the most important piece of the story. More so than the technical detailings, not more shocking but more real than the alien shape of the sarcophagus, more poignant than the endless arguments of pro or anti-nuclear, it’s the people who mattered, and who always matter, and who I worry are in danger of being forgotten. I wouldn’t say I’m pro-nuclear or anti-nuclear. I’m a realist: if we crave electricity the way we do, then we’re going to have to keep dealing with nuclear until a better solution is found, if one can be found. It works when it works, and when it doesn’t, it really doesn’t, but we can’t get rid of it with a snap of our fingers, so we have to learn about and know what we’re dealing with and try to be intelligent and informed when we make decisions.

But I’m in strong favor of safety, and responsibility, and remembering people like Volodymyr and everyone in those endless lists along with him. Of learning from our screw-ups.

Today’s April 26, 2011. Twenty-five years ago, we as a human race made a terrible mistake. I live in hope that we’ll nip this cycle of repetition. For the sake of real human beings.