Illustration Process, or the Blogging Tour

I was asked by illustrator Jessica M. Lopez to take part in a form of artistically-blogged round-robin, which involves artists providing details regarding their creative processes and so forth. Jessica is a fantastic illustrator of ink, water-colour, and goodness knows what else. She specialises in themes of nature, tranquility, and all things magical.

Q: What am I working on right now?

I'm currently working on the third book in a series I’m illustrating for Boyd’s Mills Press called “Thor Speaks!” by Vicky Alvear Shecter. I unfortunately cannot provide any images of the work in progress, but I can present the cover of the previous title I did for the series which is “Hades Speaks!” due out this October.

Q: How does my illustration process work? 

I start out with various rough and ridiculous sketches and eventually narrow them down and fine-tune the ones I believe are in the right direction. If I’m illustrating for someone else’s work then I submit several sketches for them or their editors to examine and they will critique the ideas and let me know which direction they prefer and offer suggestions for things they wish to see in the illustration. We continue in this fashion until the final composition is equally accepted on both sides. Occasionally, if preferences begin to foreshadow an impasse, one of the party may offer salty language or throw a shoe.

Why do I illustrate what I illustrate? 

Because if I illustrate anything else I’ll turn into marzipan.



Nearing a week from now look for a continuation of this theme by another artist named Karla Giguere, who has an amazing imagination filled with vast, silent landscapes and peculiar individuals with questionable dispositions.

The Curious Contents of Canopic Jars

This morning I found hidden within the canopic jar I purchased from an antiques dealer last Wednesday (whose shop has since vanished altogether, by the way) an epistolary of singular interest. Normally, I would not dare inspect the contents of such a vessel; let me be quite clear upon that distinction. My discovery was made solely upon the clumsiness with which I attempted to relieve the artifact of dust, which resulted in its subsequent enterprise to the checkered floor so fine for walking yet so destructive to a clay proprietor of the dead. To my bewilderment, that which revealed itself from out the rubble of pottery was not in fact, the ancient sand of gore but a folded bit of tanned paper bearing the initials S.S. I reflected a moment and considered the situation. It seemed the only logical counter to such an event would be to inspect the paper and observe its contents, which I did, but leisurely, so as not to appear too eager. I observed a single record in what seemed to be part of either a correspondence to a friend, an imaginary friend, or simply an entry in the authour’s own diary if he had one. If he hadn’t, I would suspect the former two possibilities suggested – unless the writer decided upon keeping a journal that very day and this was the start of his chronicle. In either event, the entry itself is unquestionably strange. It runs thus:

October 22^nd, 1889

Shipment received from Cairo last evening was discovered empty this morning. Why, oh why did I wait to inspect it? At the o’clock of it’s arrival I had been late for a lecture in Paisley’s By The Sea and settled upon opening it in the morning. As I reached the foot of the stair the following day I observed the box had been opened, seemingly from within, and the contents missing.

I have since discovered curious tracks leading from the grounds into the moor. I shall investigate directly.

That was all that had been recorded. The significance of its contents is objective, and indeed, the mystery presented is very plausibly of natural instigation. Though the fever that haunts my brain naturally suggests otherwise.

J.E.L

Illustration © 2011 by J.E.Larson

A Bat-Man Mystery

What melodramatic melodies the dread shadow of the Bat-Man plays upon the walls of an Old Dark House! That fearsome creature of the night created by the adventurous mind of Bob Kane in 1939 is silhouetted perfectly within the looming door frames and rain-soaked windows of a ghostly estate. It is this pairing of character and setting, which is so uncannily suited to one another, that inspires these series of images.

J.E.L

Batman is a registered trademark of DC Comics

Batman created by Bob Kane

Illustrations © 2011 by J.E.Larson

The Dreaded Dance of the Hamburglar

From this morning's Mysterious Missives of Mystery:

Last evening at tea this paper accepted a parcel containing intelligence of a singularly provoking nature. The dispatch was authoured by none other than the distinguished Mayor McCheese – that merry magniloquent hitherto silent for so many years. It is true that communication from the strange and bewildering region of McDonaldland has been scarce if not entirely nonexistent, and that the authenticity of any news claiming origin to its boundaries may certainly be subject to ribald incredulity and utter disbelief. My own skepticism concerning this delivery was given not a nail to revolt as the dispatch bore the unmistakable seal of the good mayor’s office. In tones of great dismay (adjudged audibly as the message was set to a wax cylinder cleverly disguised as an oversized roll of Necco Wafers) the good mayor confessed his morose temperament was the result of the reappearance of one thought deceased some time ago following an illogical campaign of evil deeds limited to the purloining of hamburgers and confounding victims with incomprehensible mutterings garbled beyond any method of deciphering. Hamburglar! What nightmares that name conjures! Many suspected the inexplicable dialect of the rogue was either a tactic of terror, or a separate language altogether. In either event, the villain’s speech has never been understood by any living soul save the dread Captain Crook, who is believed to have been lost at sea soon after the bandit’s supposed execution. After which a less fiendish and more lovable personage usurped the primary scoundral's status as his corpse was presumably laid to rest in the McDonaldland Cemetery.

The incoherent and illogical fiend known as the Hamburglar is suspected to have resurfaced, quite literally, after nearly twenty-five years of supposed interment. It is now attested that a wave of burglaries has commenced in the region of McDonaldland which are in character suspiciously similar to those previously implemented by the muttering miscreant long ago.

Suspicions of his return prompted the exhumation of his grave under the supervision of the rogue's capturer, Officer Big Mac. Attendants looked on in horror as the villain's coffin was unearthed and opened to reveal a wax dummy attired in his trademark stripes and cloak.

Where the villain had secluded himself these great many years is open to the wildest of conjecture. What is known with relative certainty is that the original Hamburglar has returned to haunt the shadows of McDonaldland, and heaven help any unsuspecting hamburger.

* * * * * * * * * *

In truth I have always been fond of the Hamburglar, as well as the entire cast of McDonaldland. The representation of the character in the early eighties is what I remember most clearly, and as a child I was delighted at how spooky he was then. The illustration below was inspired by these memories and of the Hamburglar's portrayal at that time.

Robble, Robble.

J.E.Larson

A Very Merry Halloween

On this evening of evenings, may Dracula rise from his coffin in good humour, may the Wolf Man roam the countryside in reasonable safety, may the Mummy find his Tanna leaves with little difficulty, may Frankenstein's Monster be understood by not only the blind, may the Invisible Man find himself without losing too much of his mind, may the Witch fly free from cannon fire, may Fruit Brute and Yummy Mummy return to Monster Mansion, may scarecrows gambol by the light of the moon, may skeletons dance with impressive harmony, may zombies communicate more articulately, may spooks and spectres find merriment without fear of being chased by cats, may Garfield be not pursued by dead pirates, may Charlie Brown construct his costume more skillfully, may Linus see the Great Pumpkin, may haunted houses be even more so, may the candy corn be sweet, may the Jack-O-Lanterns be lit and may this world and the next be wished a very merry Halloween.

Snarky Cheshires and Ghostly Etiquette

Several nights ago I was replacing light bulbs and distributing literature in an attic that is seldom, if ever, the location of my footsteps. I keep in order such places in the event a listless spirit or bogle might be passing by and wish to have a nice read before they continue with their spooky business, for, as the historian had said after my putting him to inquiry so many years ago, “It might behoove one to keep such spaces well lit and tidy, which is the method behind this exercise – for ghosts can be induced to mischief if treated carelessly.” It so happened that on the evening I am accounting, my large, tuxedo cat had a mind to accompany me in this task, and directly following an exasperated comment on the deplorable disposition of a herringbone lampshade, made note concerning my latest illustration which he attested may be somewhat “lacking.” Being more than nettled, I addressed him haughtily and inquired, “In what, oh master?” To this he responded with an expression singularly feline, and at length suggested I consult the conceptual sketches I had done of the Cheshire for Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and from these I might be enlightened. It took me a moment to realise that I had in fact, never produced a sketch of the Cheshire Cat, despite my illustrative excursion into Wonderland the previous year. “Brute,” said I, “you know very well I have accomplished no such sketches.” To which he quipped was precisely his point, and that in place of the “foolishness” I was at that time in occupation, I might consider producing an image of the feline who had been, according to him, “most worthy of attention to begin with.”

Never wishing to commence a creative instigation upon a flame I myself did not ignite, I was uffishly pestered then at the tempting nature of the suggestion, for the Cheshire Cat is after all, wonderfully charming, utterly delightful, and possibly the most familiar face in Wonderland. My dear tuxedo knew very well that I could not resist such a prospect, and purred triumphantly as I sat and began conceptualising the fellow later that evening.

Now, when executing an illustration that is intended to be a visual representation of a scene or story written by someone other than myself, I try to be as faithful as I possibly can to the author’s descriptions, while at the same time dressing it freshly in apparel of my own. The illustration I offer below is perhaps the furthest I have allowed my liberty to stretch, for there is no mention, as far as I know, of Jack-O-Lanterns in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The image of the smirking fellow perched atop a grinning pumpkin was too much an attraction that I gave in to my insistent reverie and situated him thusly before Alice. I do hope Lewis Carroll, the brilliant authour and creator of Alice and her adventures would consent to this bit of visual emancipation. After all, the Cheshire Cat is written to have only appeared upon the bough of a tree – who is to say he did not move about at some point during the interview?

Below is the latest sketch I have composed for the Cheshire Cat found in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. The scene takes place in Chapter Six, directly before the Tea Party.

The Toothy Villainy of Wisdom

Having a tooth removed from one's head is probably one of the single most distressing operations one might be unfortunate enough to undergo. Like most humans with teeth, I was the unwitting subject of four useless dental growths that are unscrupulously propagated as being wiser than any of the others before them. Three of these monstrocities were discharged soon after they made known their plans of despotism, foolishly leaving the fourth to brood and scheme at its leisure. Recently, this remaining miscreant began subjecting my mandible to excessive discomfort. Having sheltered this tooth for more years than is sensible, the devil was finally removed the day before yesterday following a considerable struggle. After witnessing the brute's tenacity in retaining its situation, the fight was, in retrospect, by no means fair, nor was it quick. The procedure was a battle, in all sense of the word, and after a length of time sufficient to promote worry, following volumes of incessant prayers, the tooth, at last, was excised. However, as it was directly held before me clamped in the jaws of that ominous-looking tooth-extraction device, it looked very incensed and offered me a few words, strangely enough with a dialect not unlike a certain Edward G. Robinson, that I cannot duplicate if I wish to retain my integrity as a gentleman. Now as I sit and record this experience, I am certain that not only was that tooth ill-tempered, but rancourous as well, for the requital of pain that has arrived following its removal is beyond description.

I have provided a sketch of the fiend as it looked succeeding extraction.

Haunting Expressions and The Hands of Orlac

Among the gloomy procession that marched through the psychological fog of German Expressionism, the emotionally charged masterpiece, Orlacs Hande, or The Hands of Orlac, may very well be one of the most haunting. The brooding atmosphere which lists within Orlac's world is as elusive as a snark, yet tamed accordingly by the very capable Robert Wiene, who had helmed The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari four years prior, and was once again directing the tall, sharp-featured Conrad Veidt in the lead as the tormented Paul Orlac. The film was an adaption of the book Les Mains d'Orlac, by Maurice Renard, and has been twice remade. The most notable being the 1935 Peter Lorre vehicle directed by Karl Freund, who was himself not enirely unfamiliar with the movement which incited the first adaption, having been cinematographer to such films as Metropolis, The Golem, and the Bela Lugosi classic Dracula. The story centers upon an accomplished pianist deprived of his hands in a horrendous train wreck, which are in turn replaced by the hands of a convicted murderer. A nightmarish conspiracy soon eclipses his life as he descends slowly into madness and despair, terrified that his hands "demand blood" and are irrevocably unclean.

I was recently moved to compose an illustration depicting the tortured Orlac - I do hope it maintains the respect for the works that inspired it.

Printing Prints of Printable Printings

Out of curiosity and sneaking speculation I thought I would perhaps amble the path of online printing resources, thus offering a few of my works in larger and more three dimensional attitudes. I was referred to a site which deals in such, and so started a small collection of illustration prints available for purchase in various sizes and guises. I am steadily adding to it every few days so I hope you might investigate and extend the word to any who might enjoy these works. And I have also begun doing commissions as well, so any who might want to visit with me about projects or possibilities, feel free to send me a note -

The link to my purchasable prints:

http://www.redbubble.com/people/jelarson

J.E.L

The Hands of the Paper Fan, or Le Ventilateur de non-Sequitur No.2

The second of the Paper Fan procession, what may best be termed as a "relief limited to two-dimension." I am quite certain The Hands of Orlac flavoured my dreams as this partner to the first was conceived. Below is the two together in their intended formation. I am not entirely sure of this project's ambition, but the internal visuals were intriguing and insisted exhumation. "Le Ventilateur de non-Sequitur No.2"

Le Ventilateur de non-Sequitur

During the afternoon before last I had taken to the foothills of the Loombezzo's for a walk when a rainstorm quickly overtook the vicinity and I was moved to extend the embrace of my umbrella in an effort to keep at least a portion of myself from becoming damp. The breath of the atmosphere became so hurried, I quickly lost grip of the bamboo handle to an impolite gale and my benefactor had been carried into the obscurity of the churning nimbus thundering aloft. Immediately following this occurence an excited paper fan of an alarming size flip-flapped through the surrounding thicket and proceeded in this manner straight towards my position inducing me to take to my heels at once. I was pursued by this frantic beast for several hours until I escaped it's interest and it began chasing an untenanted pram. This unfortunate experience incited the composing of the work below, and further suggested it be one in a series of similar attitudes. Respectfully, here lies: "Le Ventilateur de non-Sequitur No.1"

Striped Sea Creatures and the Depths That Hide Them

Near the end of last year - indeed, the end of last decade! - I had been working on a series of illustrations for a gentleman in San Francisco for a manual of sorts of his own composition exhibiting a lesson on teamwork. Training manuals, as might well be suspected, are not my forte - but he was a very open-minded fellow and interested in unorthodox avenues of expression, much to my delight. He composed four steps to his programme and I provided a visual accompaniment for each, ending with a cover. This was barrels of fun to do, and below are the five pieces I did for the literature.

Lightbulbhead Cometh...

Recently I was moved to play with wire and clay, which I am apt to due whenever those two find their way into my possession. What resulted was a curious little fellow named Lightbulbhead. Being the Christmas season I shall attempt an attempted attempt at being a toymaker and list him for purchase. This dashing chap can be found in Amalthea's Attic, a delightful "boo"tique which is haunted in Mastic Beach:

http://www.amaltheasattic.com/catalog/music-sculpture-plush-lightbulbhead-sculpture-p-937.html

Candy Corn on the Road of Yellow Brick

As most sensible people are aware of, Halloween visited for it's annual haunt not long ago - twenty-three days subsequent, in fact. During that blessed season I am usually moved to create an assortment of leaf-men, or scarecrows, and since this tradition began many years past since the Wednesday before last, scarecrows have been of a particular affinity to me. Of course, the obvious suggestion of being stitched together on a cold, autumnal afternoon being a definite influence upon my emotion, as well as the empathy exhumed by the fondness I have for the brutes, it is of little wonder that among the many wonderful characters in literature I have felt an especial sympathy for the Scarecrow from Oz. This inclination towards fellows of the harvest, and indeed, the many forms of golems in general, thus provoked the illustration below. Again, as with Alice, I tried to include all that was described by the creator of the Oz tales, L.Frank Baum, in the initial book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. I did, however, take the slightest of liberties in my interpretation of the scene I selected for subject, which takes place in the third chapter - the "post" impaling the poor fellow's back has been translated to a small, dead tree. I sincerely hope the authour would not be upset by this, for if the respect I have for Baum and his creations were to be raised any higher, it's head would most assuredly meet with the ceiling, causing it much irritation and discomfort. That being said, the admiration I possess for the Scarecrow and the stories themselves I pray will not be questioned, and the little contribution below to the visual aspect of the enchanting Oz mythos I pray as well may please and delight.





The following is an excerpt from Chapter Three, How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow, from L.Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz -

"Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes, nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on his head, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded, which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck up its back.
While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her. She thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked."

- L.Frank Baum, from "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz."

Crocodiles and a Room With No Doors

The other morning after having awakened to the sounds of crocodiles playing draughts outside my window, I had a brief mental image of a room madly askew and confining, and soon set myself to inking it as the back of my eyes had beheld it. As with most attempts to capture a thought on paper, I am certain I have neglected details which inhabited the original reverie, but I whit this is the closest I am able to express. I am not altogether unaware of the piece's suggestion of possibly being a self portrait, though this was not the intent. Sometimes a little truth cannot help but confess itself in the creation of a fabrication, especially if that truth is subject to extroverted behaviour, or is in fact, of a very flamboyant disposition.

A Shameless Plug For A Carrollian Shirt

A time past I did an illustration of the Jabberwocky based on the poem of the same name by Lewis Carroll. I was put to the idea of submitting it for consideration of being printed on a T-Shirt. A bit of colour I thought may look attractive for such a proposition, so I added a bit to the black and white piece and settled on what appears below. Apparently, it takes votes from fellow human beings to help with the possibility of printing - thus is expounded this shameless plug.

I would be overjoyed and resoundingly grateful if you, my fellow blog friends, would take a moment betwixt sips of coffee or hops in Hopscotch to visit the design and vote to your liking. I extend my most thankfully thankful thanks -

http://www.threadless.com/submission/236722/Jabberwocky

A Midnight Meeting at Borgo Pass

The current month being October I am naturally more sensitive than usual to “ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together” and, searching for an appropriate subject to examine for an illustration, found myself inevitably gravitating towards one of the single most inspirational characters and stories that began haunting my fascination so long ago I must have entered this world with it already tenanted in my brain. "Dracula," by Bram Stoker, is a listing, beautiful novel with waves of intense horror rising throughout the epistolary narrative like impatient heartbeats and its clout as a classic of gothic literature leaves no mystery as to the reason. There are many captivating examples of the un-dead throughout fiction's history, such as John Polidori’s Lord Ruthven or Varney the Vampire from the infamous Penny Dreadfuls, though none have claimed the superiority that Dracula has silently for over a century. In the story, Stoker's description of Dracula’s appearance suggests something quite grotesque and horrifying as opposed to the suave and aristocratic gentleman Bela Lugosi popularized in Tod Browning’s film version which, as Karloff did for Frankenstein’s monster, gave Count Dracula a face and dialect of iconic significance. I admire both versions of Dracula – the original plague-like monster of Stoker’s masterpiece, as well as the baroque, tuxedoed charmer Lugosi presented on stage and film. The illustration following was done with an effort to flatter the former, and was suggested by a particularly chilling point nearing the end of the first chapter of the novel when the coachman transporting Jonathan Harker entreats him to go on with the others to Bukovina, but was cut short by the arrival of Count Dracula’s caleche…



“…They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us.
He said to the driver:
"You are early tonight, my friend." The man stammered in reply:
"The English Herr was in a hurry." To which the stranger replied:
"That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend. I know too much, and my horses are swift." As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore".

"Denn die Todten reiten Schnell."
("For the dead travel fast.")

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself.”

- Bram Stoker

Above this and below the illustration is an excerpt from the novel "Dracula," by Bram Stoker.

The Ghostly Findings of a Ghost-Finder

Halloween is fast approaching and what more appropriate time to visit the mysterious exploits of Thomas Carnacki than when “the leaves are crisped and sere.” The English investigator of things that go bump in the night was created by authour William Hope Hodgson in the early years of last century. The "Ghost-Finder’s” initial appearance in the publications The Idler and The New Magazine coincided with the ever intriguing age of Spirituality which was pockmarked with candle-lit rooms and mournfully adorned individuals of heightened sensitivities to the visits of the deceased and otherwise ethereal passers-by. The Edwardian detective shares similar shades of tone with the brooding Sherlock Holmes, and as a Holmes enthusiast I can honestly expound of my own conviction, Carnacki as most deserving of sharing a hansom cab with the enigmatic gentleman of Baker’s Street. Of the ghosts haunting the pages of Carnackian adventures one may be reminded at times of the dreadful manifestations of H.P. Lovecraft, who was so wonderfully capable of provoking a sense of fear and uncertainty of the unknown foliations and age of existence. The world of spooks is indeed a large one, and its expanse is jealously fogged. Thomas Carnacki, though skeptical until the very last shadow of scientific causation has vanished, is a most intrepid believer compelled to explore this region and his adventures are utterly thrilling. From what I have been able to unearth concerning the literature and publications of Hodgson’s creation have suggested limited illustrations, which only availed my desire to pen my own. The composition of the drawing below was done simply for love of the craft and the stories. Attempting the somber atmosphere of those stories required a tremendous amount of ink and my nose has been greatly piqued by the applications.

Immortality and Mayflies

I am recording this only to state a point which not only nettles me, but instigates a curiosity of its impression upon my fellow human beings. I find that more often than not my brain is surprisingly taxed with the knowledge that, as far as I or any living being is aware of, one has but a single lifetime to animate their inspirations and influences. A considerable volume of time that would be best spent sleeping is increasingly becoming exhausted by the contemplation of just this fact, and I daresay every morning I wake up a trifle madder than I had been the previous day. My mortality finds this thoroughly hilarious and spends a great deal of time informing my ambition just how much. The acquisition of lifetimes, like smell-collecting, can be very difficult and best left to Biblical notables though not necessarily people with very large noses, unless they occupy antediluvian earth. Though this does not necessarily impede my thoughts on the subject, and I am afraid it will only strengthen their reserve because they can sometimes be tenacious even when asked not to be. Furthermore, I have just learned that the Dolania americana mayfly exhausts it’s lifespan in a matter of minutes. This bit of knowledge makes me feel very unusual and a bit ashamed for complaining. In any event, I should like several additional lifetimes, or the ability to execute compositional feats at alarming speeds. I hope this is not unreasonable.

The Jabberwock's Waistcoat

Lewis Carroll’s masterpiece, “The Jabberwocky,” is perhaps the zenith of nonsense poetry, whose titular villain is deliciously suited to stalk the wilds behind the Looking-Glass. The origin of the poem began in a periodical the young Charles Dodgson (years before Alice and the pseudonym of Lewis Carroll) composed exclusively for the delight of his family entitled “Mischmasch.” The poem at this time consisted of only the first stanza, and was named respectively, “Stanza of Anglo-Saxon Poetry.” The original verse was hand-lettered by Dodgson in slightly varied spelling from its present form in “Through the Looking-Glass,” as well as accompanied by definitions slightly differing from Humpty Dumpty’s. The original poem ran thus:

Twas bryllyg, and ye slythy toves
Did gyre and gymble in ye wabe:
All mimsy were ye borogoves;
And ye mome raths outgrabe.

This wonderful bit of fun was later lengthened of course to what is presented in Alice’s second adventure, where it confessed an even more alarming world filled with bizarre flora and several new beasties including its fantastical namesake, the Jabberwock. Sir John Tenniel’s original illustration is quite a treat to look at, and it is amusing to note Carroll’s initial apprehension to it with regard to its potential of possibly frightening his younger readers. Fortunately, Tenniel’s Jabberwock remained and has forever been a particular feast for the eyes hiding within the pages of “Through the Looking-Glass.” One aspect of Tenniel’s illustration that has always warmed my heart is his inclusion of a waistcoat about the ferocious bugbear so pandemically feared. With my interpretation of the poem I attempted a similar path in beastly apparel, and of course, tried to retain all the attributes defined in the story, as well as the Tumtum tree. I do hope my contribution offers some degree of amusement.



The poem "The Jabberwocky" in its entirety found in "Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There." Nonsense at its very finest -


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"



He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.



And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!



One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.



"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.



'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


- Lewis Carroll