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And, no. Nobody had him in the Dead Pool.

Frank Frazetta died today. Stroke. 82.

Me, I was a huge fan of his art — a thing I am completely unembarrassed to admit, despite the pulp-y, porn-y nature of so much of his work.

He had the best grasp of how all the pieces of the human body interlock and slide around each other since Bridgeman — which is not surprising. Apparently, early in his career, he was given a copy of one of Bridgeman’s books — probably Constructive Anatomy — took it home, copied every drawing in it, brought it back and said, “okay. Now I know anatomy.”

I have reproductions of some of his early work — notably Shining Knight comics — and they were…oh, what is the word?… really not very good. There were only a couple of hints that he was an artist of extraordinary promise.

How he went from that to the painter and draughtsman he became is, I guess, tribute to the gigantic amount of art a comic artist has to crank out to make a living. Practice making perfect, and all.

At the height of his skill, he not only made a living, he was one of the few to get rich at it. I remember reading in the Seventies that he just painted whatever he wanted and they found books to suit them. Frazetta covers moved merchandise.

His wife died last year and he’s been ill with one thing and another for a very long time, so. Well. Rest in peace. I wouldn’t sell my immortal soul to be able to draw like that, but I might hock it for a few months.

May 10, 2010 — 9:47 pm
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