Apr 6, 2014

International Biographic and the quotable Moore

Alan Moore: Biographic book: Italian (on the left) and Spanish edition (on the right).
Last year I worked on the Italian edition of Alan Moore: Biographic, which included Moore's graphic biography written and "assembled" by Gary Spencer Millidge in occasion of Moore's 60th birthday, an updated version of the one realized by Millidge in 2003 for the Alan Moore: Portrait of an Extraordinary Gentleman tribute book.
The original version was digitally released by Sequential in 2013 whereas the Italian printed book was published at the beginning of 2014 by 001 Edizioni which also realized a Spanish edition. 
Both books included 60 Moore's quotes selected by me from several interviews and pieces he did over the course of his career. The quotes were also included in Infinity N.5, downloadable for free in pdf format here.

In the following you can read the 60 Moore's quotes matched with the links to their original sources. Enjoy!
[1] That’s characterization the Marvel way. They’re neurotic. They worry a lot. If they haven’t got anything wrong with them like that, something physically wrong will do— perhaps a bad leg or dodgy kidneys, or something like that. To Marvel, that’s characterization.
(1983, from Hellfire fanzine)

[2] The only difference with Adrian Veidt is that he didn’t do it in some far-off country full of yellow people; he did it in the middle of New York. That’s why Americans were so shocked by the ending, because it’s unthinkable. All right, maybe some people do have to die to make the world safe, but not Americans! That’s too great a price.
(1987, from Christian Lehmann’s blog)

[3] I didn't want to give one person a black hat and one person a white hat. It's obvious where my prejudices lie, but I wouldn't be a very good writer if everything in my writing reflected my prejudice.
(1987, from Christian Lehmann’s blog)

[4] Some people think that the future will be exactly the same as today, but with smaller radios and bigger cars. Other people think that there isn't going to be a future, just a mushroom cloud. So, in either instance, on one hand, if the future's the same as today, why prepare for it?
(1987, from Christian Lehmann’s blog)

[5] My understanding is that when Watchmen is finished and DC have not used the characters for a year, they’re ours.
(1987, from The Comics Journal #116)

[6] If people did start, say, for example, treating women more accurately and realistically in their comics, and if those comics were well enough crafted to be superior comics then I would hope that through a process of Darwinian natural selection that there would gradually be less and less sexist material appearing in comics because they would be perceived by the readers as being more and more dated, more and more offensive. That form of pressure I have no qualms against bringing upon people because it seems to me to be perfectly fair and equitable. And there’s no guarantee that I’ll succeed in it. Any other sort of pressure, I really don’t go along with.
(1987, from The Comics Journal #118)

[7] it’s Larry Gordon and Joel Silver who want to do [a Watchmen movie]. I spoke to Joel Silver on the phone, and he seemed like a real nice bloke. He was saying that he wants me to write the screenplay, starting next year maybe, and he also said, “Can you do it panel by panel like the comic book?” which I don’t think will be possible because that would make a real crap movie. It was written to be a comic, not a movie, and they’re not interchangeable, but the fact that he wants it done like that speaks volumes to me. They’re not going to give Rorschach a friendly waggy-tailed dog. Although that might be a good idea, mightn’t it? [Laughter.]
(1987, from The Comics Journal #118)

[8] I’d say Burroughs is one of my main influences. Not the cut-up stuff, but his thinking about the way that the word and the image are used to control, and their possible more subversive effect. I’m surprised Burroughs didn’t do more comic strips himself. To the best of my knowledge he’s only done one, for a magazine called Cyclops, a British underground magazine that came out in 1969. It only lasted four issues; Burroughs and - I believe - an artist called Malcolm MacNeill did a strip called The Unspeakable Mr.Hart. I always thought that comics would be a perfect medium for Burroughs. With Watchmen I was trying to put some of his ideas into practice; the idea of repeated symbols that would become laden with meaning. You could almost play them like music. You’d have these things like musical themes that would occur throughout the work.
(1988, from Strange Things Are Happening vol. 1, no. 2)

[9] The relationship between films and comics has been overemphasised to a degree. If you understand cinematic techniques then you’ll be able to write better, more gripping comics than someone who doesn’t, but if cinematic technique is seen as the be all and end all of what comics can aspire to, then at the very best comics are always going to be a poor relation to the cinema. What I’d like to explore is the areas that comics succeed in where no other media is capable of operating. With a comic you can stare at the page for as long as you want and check back to see if this line of dialogue really does echo something four pages earlier, whether this picture is really the same as that one, and wonder if there is some connection there.
(1988, from Strange Things Are Happening vol. 1, no. 2)

[10] All the great comics are yet to be written, all the masterpieces, all the Citizen Kane and stuff. It's really exciting but very nerve-racking because you have to build the ground in front of you. Also, there's a charm and innocence which has gone from comics and a lot of that is my fault, I feel bad about that. There's a lot of very cynical and nasty comic books being done now which have taken their cues from me. On the other hand comic books are starting to break into all sorts of areas, anything can be done with them. Like in 'From Hell' which I'm doing at the moment with Eddie Campbell, that's an historical piece that's based around the Jack the Ripper murders; an historical investigation of all the different threads of events and myth that led from the Whitechapel killings. [...] I've done 150 pages already and I haven't got to the first murder, I've just been building up the characters. It's really facinating to actually try to use comics as an historical tool because although I'm only doing it as fiction, there's a great application there. It could be a tremendous teaching medium.
(1991, from Ptolemaic Terrascope N. 8)

[11] Eventually you’ll use everything. You usually put them in some kind of code unless you’re doing a straightforward biography. There’s things I did like ‘A Small Killing’. The central event in that was a boy burying some bugs in a bottle. I did that when I was 8 or 9 and it haunted me. In ‘Big Numbers’ the writer was me, not exactly, but there was enough experience. I borrowed voraciously from my friends lives, sometimes that can feel a bit dodgy. These people, they’re your friends and they’ll pour out details of their lives and part of your brain is this cold vampiric thing writing it all down to use later. I can’t help it I’m a writer. I’m getting closer and closer to actually writing about myself. The next thing I do will have a significant autobiographical slant to it. As I get older I’m less worried about revealing myself and looking a prat. It gets to a point where you feel comfortable about being a prat when you do that.
(1996, Eclectic Electric) 

[12] Usually [collaborating with an artist] is like sex, if it’s good it’s brilliant and if it’s bad it’s awful. But generally I have had pretty good sex with my co-creators, it’s the union of two minds. If I’ve got any real outstanding talent in comics, it is my talent of getting on well with my collaborators and respecting them. Very often it’s seeing things that they are capable of, which they themselves are incapable of seeing. ‘V for Vendetta’ was a perfect moment for me and David Lloyd, we’ve never done anything like that since, it’s just me and Dave. With ‘Watchmen’, Dave Gibbons and I have never done anything like that since, and neither have I. All these things are the perfect expression of my energies meeting the energies of another artist. It’s better than sex, you don’t have to wonder about avoiding the wet patch afterwards.
(1996, Eclectic Electric)

[13] The plight of Henry Jekyll is resonant as a metaphor for the whole of Victorian society where virtue was never lauded so loudly in public nor vice practiced so excessively in private. You can almost see in that novel the exact point where the mass Victorian mind became uneasily aware of its own shadow: Hyde as Jekyll's shadow; Jack as Gull's; Wilde's panther-snacks as the shadow of society's own corseted sitting-room asexuality.
(1997, from Cerebus N. 217)

[14] Truth is a well-known pathological liar. It invariably turns out to be Fiction wearing a fancy frock. Self-proclaimed Fiction, on the other hand, is entirely honest. You can tell this, because it comes right out and says, "I'm a Liar," right there on the dust jacket. 
(1997, from Cerebus N. 219)

[15] it's stunning. You look at [Jack Kirby] westerns, Boys' Ranch, the romance stuff; that's the sort of thing which I've always tried to emulate. I've always liked to think that I could have as much breadth and versatility in my work as Kirby did—obviously in a different way because I'm a writer and he was an artist/writer. Yeah, I've always admired that in him. I think more people should. If you're going to take something from Kirby, don't take just his style; take his sense of adventure, take his willingness to explore other forms and take a few chances.
(2000, from Jack Kirby Collector #30)

[16] V for Vendetta is very smart, it perhaps doesn't have the sort of multi-layered, crystalline brilliance as something like Watchmen but I think it's got more passion. I think it's got more heart, more emotion in it. That said, there both works that I'm very proud of. Watchmen was at the time about as far as I could imagine taking the mainstream superhero comic. It seemed to take it to some place that was so completely off the map. (2000, Blather.net)

[17] When I started off, I was all technique, I was obsessed with technique, and I would approach every part of that technique meticulously, trying to think about it, how it might fit together, how it might be changed or modified, what effect you might be able to get by sort of twisting this a degree to the left, this a degree to the right.
These days I tend to find that I kind of improvise with a lot of confidence, and find that the material is often much better, much fresher.
(2002, The Craft, Engine Comics website)

[18] Synasthesia is a great literary tool. You'll be able to come up with perfect metaphors that are really striking and strange, because they maybe jump from one sense to another – try describing a smell in musical terms.
(2002, The Craft, Engine Comics website)

[19] Magic and language are practically the same thing, they would at least have been regarded as such in our distant past. I think it is wisest and safest to treat them as if they are the same thing. This stuff that you are dealing with – words, language, writing – this is dangerous, it is magical, treat it as if it was radioactive. Don't doubt that for a moment.
(2002, The Craft, Engine Comics website)

[20] I believe that to a certain extent we are creatures of our environment, I think that our environment reflects us and I think that we come to reflect our environment. Now, if you are living in a squalid tower block, if you are living in a shit heap, eventually you’ll probably come to the conclusion - at least subconsciously - that you are shit. If you are living in a rattrap, you’ll think you’re probably a rat, and you’ll probably modify your behaviour accordingly. Now, me, I live in a terraced house in Northampton which has got stars all over the ceiling, strange idols, stained glass: it looks pretty mad but it also… it looks a little bit like a temple. Now if you’re living in a temple you’ll perhaps get the idea after a while that you’re some sort of [laughter] of divinity, or high priest or something, which might be delusional, but it feels a lot better than thinking you’re a rat.
(2002, from Alan Moore: biografia, testi, fotografie)

[21] I also think that I can make for a pretty good case for Northampton being the absolute centre of the universe, but I think that probably anybody could about anywhere that happened to be dear to them if they were prepared to do the work… you know, wherever you are standing is the centre of the Universe [laughter]. If you are prepared to do the work you can probably come up with a very convincing case for that. Yes, I accept that Northampton is just another ordinary British town, no different from any other. At the same time, to me is a magical place that is very much historically, and in almost every other respect, the exact centre of England, if not the centre of the Universe.
(2002, from Alan Moore: biografia, testi, fotografie)

[22] Amongst my own work, The Killing Joke where Batman versus The Joker. Yeah, there's loads of emotion layered on there. It's quite clever. The plot works, on a material level. But it's not about anything, it's not about anything of human importance, it's about Batman and The Joker and you're never gonna meet anybody like Batman and The Joker. It's of no use to you as a human being. It's one of the works – there's some very good things about it, but it's lacking something, and it's lacking soul.
(2002, The Craft, Engine Comics website)

[23] When the artist has read your script, liked it and then done an art job that has gone beyond your script, then a kind of benign and lovely gauntlet's been thrown down, and it's a kind of impetus to make your next script really knock the artist out, and then they match that, and so on. It's a good way of amping up the creative energy on a project.
(2002, The Craft, Engine Comics website)

[24] I’d like people to actually think about, what does heroism mean? What is power? What are super-powers? Does Stephen Hawking have a super-power? I mean, he would seem to me upon the available evidence to be much smarter than, say, Superman or Brainiac 5. He completely outstrips every comicbook genius. And he’s even in a wheelchair, so he could join the X-Men or the Doom Patrol, or any of those kind of— differently-abled friendly super outfits.
(2003, from The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore)

[25] What I wanted to do with Supreme was to try and give some of that sense of wonder, some of that pure imaginative jolt that I’d experienced when I was first reading comics. I wanted to try and give that to the contemporary readership so they could get an idea of what it had felt like. The kind of buzz that those wonderfully inventive old stories and comics had provided.
(2003, from The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore)

[26] There is a treatment worked out for Big Numbers as a twelve-part television show. That might never get made, or at some point in the future, it might. I think that is the only way that Big Numbers is ever going to reach any kind of conclusion.
(2003, from The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore)

[27] You should always have some ultimate goal that is absolutely impossible to fulfill, otherwise you might find that you’ve fulfilled most of your goals and end up a bit directionless. So, yeah, I’ve still got plenty of goals, plenty of things that I haven’t done, that I probably never will get do, but the striving is three-quarters of the fun, literally.
(2003, from The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore)

[28] I think that if you can learn how to write a five-page story, and if you can learn how to write a lot of different fivepage stories until you’ve really got the hang of the five- or sixpage story, then whatever you’re asked to do in your later career, whether it’s a 24-page book or a 12-issue series or a 600-page graphic novel, you’ll have the basic craft and the basic notions of structure already in place. It’s the best way to learn.
(2003, from The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore)

[29] I don’t have a car. I’m a pedestrian and I’m probably dangerous at that. The thought of me in a lump of hurtling metal wouldn’t be any good for anyone. My mind wanders quite a lot. I can kind of walk for six blocks and have no memory for anything during those blocks. That’s fine if you are walking but if I was in a moving vehicle I think it would be dangerous. I’m quite happy with walking or public transport or perhaps someone would give me a lift. I’m very much out of step with the 20th Century in most ways. No Internet, no mobile phone, no car, no passport, no nothing really. I have a wonderful time of it. Can you imagine how many penis extension adverts I’ve missed? I don’t have to shave every morning or go to the barber so I’ve got all this extra time to spend in the endless delight of being me.
(2004, Suicidegirls.com)

[30] Connection is very useful; intelligence does not depend on the amount of neurons we have in our brains, it depends on the amount of connections they can make between them. So this suggests that having a multitude of information stored somewhere in your memory is not necessarily a great deal of use; you need to be able to connect this information into some sort of usable palette. I think my work tries to achieve that. It’s a reflection of the immense complexity of the times we’re living in. I think that complexity is one of the major issues of the 20th and 21st centuries. If you look at our environmental and political problems, what is underlying each is simply the increased complexity of our times. We have much more information, and therefore we are much more complex as individuals and as a society. And that complexity is mounting because our levels of information are mounting.
(2004, Salon.com)

[31] Quitting my day job and starting my life as a writer was a tremendous risk, it was a fool’s leap, a shot in the dark. But anything of any value in our lives whether that be a career, a work of art, a relationship, will always start with such a leap. And in order to be able to make it, you have to put aside the fear of failing and the desire of succeeding. You have to do these things completely purely without fear, without desire. Because things that we do without lust or result, are the purest actions that we shall ever take.
(2005, from The Mindscape of Alan Moore documentary)

[32] I’d never signed up to be a celebrity and I came to the realisation that it was nothing that I was very comfortable with. I realised celebrities are a kind of industry, there a kind of a crop.  Media moguls like Rupert Murdoch or people who run the big networks, they need a constant stream of celebrities to fill column space in their magazines, to fill time upon their TV shows and because celebrities tend to burn out quickly you have to constantly create new ones. And I really didn’t feel I wanted to be part of that process and so withdrew to the relative obscurity of Northampton.
(2005, from The Mindscape of Alan Moore documentary)

[33] My thoughts upon pornography tend to revolve around the fact that while few of us are zombies, detectives, cowboys or spacemen, there are an infinite number of books that are recounting the stories of those lifestyles. However, all of us have some sort of feelings or opinions about sex. And yet the only art form which in any way is able to discuss sex or depict sex is this grubby despised under-the-counter art form which has absolutely no standards. This was what Lost Girls was intended as a remedy for. That there is no reason why a horny piece of literature that is purely about sex could not be as beautiful, as meaningful and have as absorbing characters as any other piece of fiction.
(2005, from The Mindscape of Alan Moore documentary)

[34] The imagination is like a muscle, and I think that in a lot of people that muscle tends to atrophy, so that they don't really use their imagination, they're not really encouraged to use their imagination, everything is served up for them prepackaged. They never have to create anything for themselves.
Whereas from my earliest years, my favorite plaything was my imagination. And I really do think that that was what propelled me along the course that lead me to the point where I am today. I think that it's always been there in my life, that urge towards creation, towards fantasy, towards using the imagination.

(2005, from Alan Moore spells it out)

[35] In Hollywood you're going to have the producers and the backers putting in their ... well, I don't want to dignify them by calling them ideas, but ... having their input, shall we say.
(2007, Mtv.com)

[36] I have a theory, which has not let me down so far, that there is an inverse relationship between imagination and money. Because the more money and technology that is available to [create] a work, the less imagination there will be in it.
(2007, Mtv.com)

[37] Robert Crumb is someone I have got unreserved admiration for, although I don’t’ know if he is classed along with the glamour artists. I don’t know if he would be classed in quite the same category, but his stuff I can engage with: it seems human to me, whereas in a lot the more glamour-oriented artists there’s a coldness, a certain inhumanity, or at least in my perception. Not to take anything on their abilities, it’s just something about the atmosphere of the scripts or the presentation of the people in them. It kind of leaves me a bit cold.
(2008, from Scuola di Fumetto N. 60)

[38] [Cthulhu]'s got tentacles for a face, admittedly – but he has got arms and legs. A head, a torso. Whereas Azathoth is a kind of eternal nuclear explosion or something, just a seething nuclear chaos. Yog-Sottoth  is the cooling chaos. The thing that you glimpse at the centre of the dark. These are not human figures at all. So why is Cthulhu – if he is the boss monster – why is he humanoid? This is one of the questions we answer in the course of Neonomicon.
(2010, Theskinny.co.uk)

[39] What we really need is fresh ideas but I think that the current publishing set-up is actually adverse to new ideas because they’re unpredictable. You don’t know which way they’re going to go.
(2011, Honestpublishing.com)

[40] I’ve managed to support myself for a long time by writing. But that has been full-time writing for all of those years. Either I was good or I was lucky, or some combination of both. It’s worked out for me, but I know for a lot of other writers it’s been nowhere near as rewarding. These are writers who are every bit as good as I was but I guess it’s being in the wrong place at the wrong time, something like that.
(2011, Honestpublishing.com)

[41] [The Occupy movement] is a completely justified howl of moral outrage and it seems to be handled in a very intelligent, non-violent way, which is probably another reason why Frank Miller would be less than pleased with it. I’m sure if it had been a bunch of young, sociopathic vigilantes with Batman make-up on their faces, he’d be more in favour of it.
(2011, Honestpublishing.com)

[42] I would suggest beheading the bankers, but while it would be very satisfying and would cheer us up, it probably wouldn’t do anything practical to alter the situation. Behead the currency. Change the currency, why not? It would disempower all the people who had bought into that currency but it would pretty much empower the rest of us, the other ninety-nine percent.
(2011, Honestpublishing.com)

[43] Whatever you’re trying to do, don’t go to the most obvious place. If you’ve always dreamed of having a story in 2000 AD, probably best if you learn your chops somewhere a bit less well-known, a bit off the beaten track. Then you can hone your talents.
(2011, Honestpublishing.com)

[44] It’s a very lonely process writing a book without a collaborator when you’ve been used to having that back-and-forth, but there is something very pure about it as well and, again, you’ve got responsibility for everything.
(2011, Honestpublishing.com)

[45] It's not pathological. I accept that things change and that the future of reading might be in the form of a Kindle or an iPad, but somehow I tend to think that the book is perfectly adapted. It's like a shark; sharks haven't evolved in millions of years because they don't need to. They're really really good at being sharks I think the same is true of a book.
(2011, Newstatesman.com)

[46] I find myself in the possibly unique position of being a kind of snake-worshipping occultist that rationalists for some obscure reason feel comfortable about.
(2011, Bigissuescotland.com)

[47] [1969] was a period in which the underground meant several different things. And there was an overlap between the psychedelic pop underground and the actual underworld in the criminals who were very flattered to have celebrities amongst their retinue. And of course through the pop and hippie connection you've got a connection to occultism. Whether that be Robert Plant and Jimmy Page having their flirtation with Aleister Crowley and occultism or the various occult posturings that a number of pop performers made back then. So 1969 was in a Venn diagram of crime, pop music and occultism. There is a very nice overlap in 1969 that made it a useful period for the purposes of our developing occult plot line that we had commenced in the [League] 1910 volume.
(2011, Theguardian.com)

[48] It is an absolute pleasure to work with Kevin. He is one of the finest and most distinctive comic book artists this country has ever turned out. Also, he is the only one of my mainstream collaborators who is from a similar background to myself and who has ever taken my side in any of my bust-ups with the comic companies. This is why Kevin is the only person that I'm still working with.
(2011, Theguardian.com)

[49] In fact, looked at in that light, the concept of a hero does become quite a dangerous one. When you remember that Hitler was the hero of the German people, they elected him as their Chancellor because he was trying to embody a kind of heroic German myth. He was playing to all of those tendencies in his audience.
(2012, Unwinnable.com)

[50] The reason why Watchmen was such an extraordinary book during its time--was that it was constructed upon literary lines. It had a beginning, it had a middle, and it had an end. It wasn't constructed as an endless soap opera that would run until everybody ran out of interest in it. It was deliberately meant to show what comics could do if you applied some of those quite ordinary literary values to them.
(2012, Seraphemera.org)

[51] The attitude now is that it's just toys in the toy box, isn't it?  You get to play with your favorite toys from the DC or Marvel toy box.  Yeah, I don't want to do that anymore. Those toys were pried out of the fingers of dead men, and were pried from their families and their children. That's just wrong. 
Everybody in the industry knows it's wrong and for some reason, nobody says anything about it.
(2012, Seraphemera.org)

[52] These days I find I‘m tending more to view the historical process as less of a palimpsest and more of an accumulated shape or structure such as might result from the application of contemporary 3D printing technology.
(2012, from Paraphilia magazine)

[53] Magic, for me, is on one level simply the richest, most personally useful and most rewarding worldview that I have yet to come across, and that seems truer and more vital to me today than it did eighteen years ago. If you‘re looking for a worldview that is non-restrictive, intellectually satisfying, and conducive to happiness and balance if not actual ecstasy, then in my opinion magic is still your only man.
(2012, from Paraphilia magazine)

[54] Whether they are heroes, villains, males, females, inhuman monsters, or demigods; in order to make them credible, you have to put yourself into their mindset and into their life. It’s very much like method acting, and once you’ve done that, the dialogue is easy. So, in that sense they’re all favourites. I remember reading, or at least trying to read, a French review of Watchmen, back in the early days, which seemed to come to the conclusion, that I was some kind of composite of Dr Manhattan, and of Ozymandias.
(2012, from Leftlion N. 48)

[55] Competitive sports are one of the few things in culture that don’t seem to derive from Shamans. Most of the art and most of the actual consciousness in society - is almost certainly derived from Shamanic roots. With sport, I can only assume that it was when the hunters wanted to show off.
(2012, from Leftlion N. 48)

[56] If time is an illusion, then all movement and change are also illusions. So the only thing that gives us the illusion of movement and change and events and time is the fact that our consciousness is moving through this mass along the time axis.
(2013, Believermag.com)

[57] If gods and entities are conceptual creatures, which I believe they are self-evidently, then the concept of a god is a god.
(2013, Believermag.com)

[58] To me, [superheroes] represented a wellspring of the imagination. Superman had a dog in a cape! He had a city in a bottle! It was wonderful stuff for a seven-year-old boy to think about. But I suspect that a lot of superheroes now are basically about the unfair fight. You know: people wouldn’t bully me if I could turn into the Hulk.
(2013, The Stool Pigeon)

[59] I take magic mushrooms. The first time I combined them with a rudimentary magical ritual… well, that was the eye-opener. I suddenly realised that the combination made the magic work and made the drug much, much stronger and more profound. And since then I’ve only taken mushrooms in ritual circumstances. There just doesn’t seem to be any point in doing it otherwise.
(2013, The Stool Pigeon)

[60] Most of the elements in Fashion Beast have since become a lot more recognisable apart from the nuclear winter and we are probably working on that. The background of war and environmental collapse is probably a lot more like our world at the moment than 1985.
(2013, Northampton Herald & Post)

Apr 3, 2014

Warriors from the past

Art by Nick Neocleous.
Above, from Nick Neocleous’ cover to 1983’s Speakeasy N. 35: Marvelman, V For Vendetta, Madman, The Bojeffries, Laser Eraser, Pressutton, Zirk & Father Shandor, all from the pages of Warrior.

Apr 1, 2014

Can you do REAL magic?

An amusing video with Magus Moore performing... same REAL magic. Maybe...

Mar 25, 2014

Woodrow Phoenix and... Moore's wonderful wardrobe

Art by Woodrow Phoenix.
From the sold-out Alan Moore: Portrait of an Extraordinary Gentleman book, pp. 174-177

In the following you can read an imaginary tale - The wonderful wardrobe of Alan Moore -   featuring... "stylist" Alan Moore, written and illustrated by acclaimed British artist and writer WOODROW PHOENIX. In my humble opinion, the piece is - without any doubt - one of the gems contained in the tribute book.

Posted on this blog with the author's permission. 

The wonderful wardrobe of Alan Moore
© Woodrow Phoenix

When Alan arrived in Mainstream City, he seemed to be the same as everyone else. He blended right in with all the residents with their hats and overcoats, though you might have noticed the fancier stitching and the rather higher than average quality material of his overcoat if you paid attention to such things.

He soon found himself a place to live and a job, made friends and went to church just like everybody else, but there was something about him that made him stand out. Eventually people figured out what it was. It was the way he dressed. Even though he wore the same things as everyone else, he wore them differently. It was all in the details. Hand finishing. Linings in unusual fabrics. Bias cutting. Seams that were stitched rather than fused or glued.

According to Alan there was nothing especially noteworthy about any of this. He came from a tradition of hard work and attention to detail, he said, and that was all there was to it.
However, while he had begun by branching out, by subtly altering the details of traditional tailoring, he began feel the restrictions of this approach. He decided to go further. He went off in entirely new directions with radical styles and some rather challenging choices of colour and fabric. People noticed. People talked. He became the focus of quite a lot of attention and speculation about what he might make next.

It was remarked upon that he never seemed to wear the same piece of clothing twice. He said it was true: there were so many styles in the world, why confine yourself to the same items over and over?
Not long after that, Alan saw that his discarded clothes earmarked for recycling were vanishing from his rubbish bins only to turn up on the backs of other young men around town. They were obviously not quite as well fitting as when Alan wore them but they looked good enough to gain some attention of their own. Those who knew something about fashion recognised the source. They went to Alan to tell him about it and ask him to make clothes for them and finally he agreed.

He began to build quite a following for his unique tailoring style that took standard detailing and made it into something unexpected and new. There was quite a demand. He won prizes and appeared in magazine articles. Models competed to wear his styles in fashion spreads.

But then of course the knockoffs were thriving too. Alan could never hope to satisfy the hunger for his clothes by himself and it was unthinkable to hire assistants just to keep up with the orders. So the waiting list grew and sometimes people just couldn’t wait any longer. Gradually, a whole industry grew up with no other purpose, it seemed, than to watch what Alan made and then replicate it more cheaply. He didn’t take any of them seriously - they didn’t have the patience or the imagination to copy more than the surface details. But it was tiring, all the same. The feeling of being on a treadmill was stronger every day until he knew he had to do something before his desire to create vanished for good.

Then he announced to all his clients that from now on he would he putting all his resources into something new.  He called it... the potatosack.

It didn’t catch on right away. It was rough and scratchy, provided no pockets for credit cards or cellphones, came in only one colour and one size and was no good in the rain. It certainly didn’t keep the cold out, either. But nobody wanted to be the one who didn’t ‘get it’, so eventually everyone who was anyone was wearing the potatosack.
The fashion magazines wrote about it endlessly. It spread inexorably to the cheaper stores who also sold cutdown versions for children. And just when it looked like there could hardly be anyone left in the entire city who didn’t own a potatosack, Alan was interviewed on TV. He was wearing one of his old suits. Why wasn’t he in a potatosack?

—Because it’s a joke, he said.
—You’re all wearing sacks made for potatoes, he said.
—Look at you. They’re impractical, ugly and itchy. They’re not clothes. They’re rough pieces of burlap. They’re only fit for carrying potatoes. Why would anyone with any sense voluntarily wear one of those ridiculous things when they could be warm and dry and comfortable in actual garments?

Imagine it. Every line to the station’s switchboards was instantly jammed and there were crazy scenes in the studio as the entire audience rose up as one and rushed the stage, knocking lights, cameras, cameramen aside in their frenzy. At some point order was restored and that was when they realised that Alan had vanished. A vengeful crowd searched for him while potato sacks burned in the streets, but his apartment was empty, his bank accounts closed and his office bare.

Six months later, halfway around the world in Technical Town, several people began to notice an unusual kind of software in use at a few terminals around downtown cafés... but that’s another story.


The wonderful wardrobe of Alan Moore  
written and illustrated by Woodrow Phoenix

Mar 24, 2014

The Bojeffries Saga: Alan Moore masterpiece of 2014

Warrior N. 12, the first appearance of  The Bojeffries. Cover art by Steve Parkhouse.
"I’d say that The Bojeffries Saga is undoubtedly the funniest of Moore’s writing, elegantly and comedically matched by the fluid stylings of Steve Parkhouse. But more than that I reckon it’s one of his very best.
Funnier than the hilarious D.R. & Quinch? Definitely. Better than Watchmen? Oh yes. Better than V For Vendetta? Yep. Better than Miracleman? Without question. Better than From Hell? Hmm… depends on my mood, but right up there." [Richard Bruton, Forbidden Planet blog]

The volume has been recently reprinted, with new material included in, by Top Shelf and Knockabout.

Mar 21, 2014

Alan Moore & Steve Moore

Panels from V for Vendetta. Art by David Lloyd.
"Steve Moore sat in the armchair opposite his bed with ballpoint pen and notepad, spiral bound, neat sloping capitals, each line a blue queue leaning forward, barely masking their impatience, as the book-crammed room around him pales unnoticed into dusk there on the top of Shooters Hill." 

[...] Pay attention to his spectacles, refracted light turning the puzzled eyes beyond the lenses into abstract clots of pearl and white. Just change the point of view a little, move an inch or so to one side or the other and the optical illusion fails… There’s nobody there, was never anybody there except a fluctuation in the visual purple, a perceptual misunderstanding, trick of moonlight."
[excerpts from Alan Moore's Unearthing]

"[Unearthing is]... more of a human excavation than the excavation of a place, but because Steve Moore has lived his entire life in one house on top of Shooter's Hill and he currently sleeps no more than four paces from the spot where he was born, it does become a work of psychogeography as well." [Alan Moore, excerpt from The Quietus interview]

British writer Steve Moore - a key figure in UK comics scene and Alan Moore's mentor, collaborator and close friend - passed away few days ago. 

Mar 18, 2014

Karl Meersman and the Magus

Artwork © Karl Meersman.
Above, an amazing portrait of Alan Moore by Belgian artist Karl Meersman.

Source: The Ephemerist.

Mar 13, 2014

Alan Moore and Austin Osman Spare

Austin Osman Spare, Ascension of the Ego from Ecstasy to Ecstasy from The Book of Pleasure, 1913.
Excerpt from the foreword for Austin Osman Spare: The Occult Life of London's Legendary Artist written by Phil Baker, published in 2010 by Strange Attractor. The book has been reprinted by Random House in 2014.

In his relation to both art and occultism, Austin Osman Spare stands out as a strikingly individual and even unique figure in fields that are by their very nature brimming with strikingly individual figures.
While his line and sense of composition have at times drawn justifiable comparisons with Aubrey Beardsley or with Albrecht Dürer, if we seek a match with Spare the visionary or with Spare the man, surely the only candidate is his fellow impoverished South London angel-headed nut-job, William Blake. In both men’s lives we find the same wilful insistence on creating purely personal cosmologies or systems of belief, fluorescent mappings of the blazing inner territory that each of them clearly had access to. We find the same strangely iconic phantoms and grotesques; the same heroic readiness to embrace lives of poverty; the same tales of erotic drawings either burned or spirited away upon the artist’s death; the same sense of unearthly realms of consciousness both actually experienced and lucidly depicted. [Alan Moore]




Mar 9, 2014

Young Alan Moore by Darren Shan

Alan Moore (on the right) and his brother Mike, 1963 or 1964.
Picture from The extraordinary works of Alan Moore.

In the following you can read a fictional tale of young Alan Moore written by well-known Irish writer Darren Shan. The piece - one of my favorite contributions to the book - is full of references to Moore's works and characters. If you can't catch them all, you can read some useful notes here.

Posted on this blog with the author's permission. 

Young Alan Moore  in “Saga of The Vile Thing”

November 18th, 1963. In America, president John F Kennedy is four days away from a decisively deadly date with destiny. In Britain, a young band of mop-tops from Liverpool are about to release their second album (it will hit stores in Britain on the same day that a “rubber bullet” hits president Kennedy) and will soon go on to conquer pop charts across the globe. The world stands on the brink of great social, cultural and technological changes. By the end of the decade everything will have altered, faster than previously imagined possible. It is a time of upheaval and revision. We could throw our gauntlet down in any corner of this brave new world and find individuals of wondrous imagination and courage, heralds of the age of evolution. We could alight in Moscow, New York, Berlin, London. But the metropolises of the world have been exhaustively documented. Let us instead set our sights on a grey, cold town in middle England, and one of its younger, more anarchic inhabitants. The town is Northampton, scene of two apparently unconnected, but preternaturally linked, petty crimes. And our focal spirit is ten year old Alan Moore, perpetrator of the humbly heinous acts. Let us observe …
*
“Who the hell would steal Santa’s beard?” constable Constantine asked rhetorically.
    “I dunno,” the unfortunately named Curt Vile muttered. “The bleeder hit me over the back of me head while I wasn’t looking. Mugging a poor old guy like me in a Santa suit — he must be the spawn of Satan!”
    Curt was lying across the pavement, redolent in a baggy red costume. He had black boots, the crimson suit, a white fur rimmed hat. All he lacked was the beard to complete the perfect yuletide picture.
    “What you doing in that get-up anyway?” constable Constantine asked. “Christmas is miles off.”
    “Thought I’d get in early on the act this year,” Curt said. “Another couple of weeks and you won’t be able to move for street Santas. Figured I’d beat them to the punch and make a bit of cash before the rush starts.”
    “Begging, eh?” constable Constantine exclaimed, ever quick to pounce on the subtlest of clues. “You’re nicked, mate!”
Curt rubbed his bare chin and grimaced. “So much for the spirit of Christmas!”
*
Meanwhile, several streets away, Roscoe Moscow (as he was known to the local kids) was carrying out an emergency stock inventory. Roscoe sold and repaired bicycles from a small side-street shop. The shop had been burgled many times since opening day. He’d learnt a long time ago not to leave any money in the till, and to only keep tired old bikes in the shop (the good ones he kept in the spare rooms of his home). Thieves still pestered him, making off with equipment and the battered old bikes, or smashing up the contents of the shop for pure, bitter fun. But this was the strangest break-in yet.
    “I don’t get it,” Roscoe sighed, inventory completed. “Who’d go to all the trouble of breaking in just to take a single can of black spray paint?”
*
“Yo-ho-Huxley,” Alan Moore grunted, studying his reflection in a broken shard of mirror. He was wearing the long, shaggy Santa Claus beard, sprayed a delicious shade of midnight black. The paint can rested on the waste ground behind him. His fingers were smudged from the paint, but he’d been careful not to get it on his clothes — his mother would have his guts for garters if she found out about this!
    “Not bad,” Alan said, admiring his reflection. Even at that tender age there was something supernaturally piercing in his gaze. His grandmother said he had the eyes of an old man who’d seen much of the world, and worlds beyond. (“Aye,” his Dad had deadpanned. “And I bet the old fart was glad to get rid of ’em.”)
    “That’s decided then,” Alan said, removing the beard and laying it down next to the paint can. “I’ll grow me own as soon as I can.” The beard suited him. He should have been born with one. Thinking about it, he wondered if he had — maybe his grandmother had shaved it off. He smiled at the image of a baby with a beard. He imagined his mother’s reaction: “Ernest! Help! Me fanny’s coming away on the baby’s head!” Maybe he’d write a story about it … But no. He doubted his parents would see the funny side of that. Genitalia were unacceptable in his work at this moment in time. A few months ago he’d written a story about a lizard with both a penis and vagina (he’d called it “A hypersexual lizard”) — when his father stumbled across it, it had been like a replay of the wrath God visited upon Sodom and Gomorrah.
    Alan turned his back on the painted beard (“One day …”) and went exploring the warren of the Northampton back streets. Today was his tenth birthday, a special time in a boy’s life, the start of his ascent towards adulthood. Alan knew he had a lot of growing yet to do, but he had moved beyond the boundaries of basic childhood, and from today there could be no going back. He’d reached double fig-ures — he was into big numbers now.
    He should have been in school, but how could he waste a magical day like this on lessons? If he was to have children, and they were to ask him how he’d celebrated his tenth birthday, how was he to respond? “Oh, I went to school like normal and got caned for knowing more than the teachers.” No. Better to be able to say he’d marked the occasion with a statement of his individuality and freedom of spirit. Some would have called his avoidance of school truancy — but Alan regarded it as valid, liberating, soul-enhancing rebellion.
     Trudging around Northampton, careful not to be seen by anybody who might know him, keeping to the shadows, elusive, hidden. Many children would have felt lonely, bored, scared in his position. But not Alan. With his imagination for company, he was never alone. He sought amusement in it while he walked, the hours passing swiftly, far swifter than they ever did in school.
    He was a super-hero, Batman, fighting the Joker. No, better than that, he was his own super-hero, a character of his own invention. He was Jimmy Muscles … No, something even sturdier … Tommy Strong! Born in the tropics, possessor of incredible strength (not too sure how he came by his powers, but that wasn’t important), married to a beautiful, resourceful woman, guardian of mankind.
    In his head he fought a dozen battles, in the present, the future and the past. All zones were accessible to Tommy Strong. He could follow his enemies to the ends of the earth and through the torrid, twisted, tunnels of time itself.
    But even super heroes have to stop for lunch. Alan made a seat of a wooden crate next to a deserted factory and made quick work of his sandwich and apple. He was thirsty. A bottle of coke would have been perfect, but he lacked the funds, so he settled for some cool clear water from a rain barrel. A bunch of teddy boys passed as he was drinking from his cupped hands. They laughed at him and threatened to dunk him in the barrel. Alan said nothing while they passed – he’d been dunked before, so he didn’t doubt the seriousness of the threat – but once they were out of earshot he cursed them vilely, ending with a thumping snort of “Fashion beasts!”
    As he was leaving, in the opposite direction to the teddy boys, he noticed a watchman inside the factory, standing by one of the windows, bored out of his brain, idly watching the skyline. Alan studied the watchman for a while. The glass of the window was badly stained, and if Alan shifted slightly from foot to foot, the stains appeared to spread across the watchman’s face, altering his appearance. Alan wondered if anyone else was watching the watchman — glancing around at the grey neighbouring buildings, he didn’t think so.
    Eventually the watchman retreated, perhaps to view the town from a different window. Alan moved on, becoming Tommy Strong again. He fought space monsters, Nazis, and giant spiders. He had the idea for a creature half human and half spider — “Cobweb,” he called it. Cobweb was a man to begin with, but then Alan imagined it as a woman, alluring and sensual, destroying and devouring those she loved.
    In his mind, Cobweb proved too much of a threat for Tommy Strong — he was rendered helpless by his love for her. But not to fear — Alan simply invented a team of friends for Tommy, super heroes of all sorts, with a variety of powers. Jack Quickly, the Number One American, Greycoat — courageous, capable, loyal allies, one and all. But he needed a name for the team, something catchy. How about the Association of Extraordinary Gentlemen? Hmm … He liked it, but he sensed he could do better. He’d have to sleep on this one …
    After a series of taxing, life-threatening adventures, Alan wound up by the gates of his school, ten minutes before classes finished for the day. This way he could take the ordinary route home and not raise any suspicions if he was spotted by his neighbours.
    On the stroke of three o’clock, the pupils came streaming out, chattering, yelling, laughing, excited by their freedom. Alan kept to the shadows of the houses opposite the school gates, waiting for the crowd to pass, so he could follow just behind them. As he waited he spotted Hilary Jones, a girl from his class. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in school, but Alan had a warm spot for her. She had a lovely smile which gave him butterflies in his stomach every time he saw it. In his mind’s eye Hilary was no mere human girl — she was an angel, with a hidden glowing halo, sent to brighten up the lives of mere mortal men. He was not worthy of her, and would never be her boyfriend or husband, but perhaps he could write a poem in honour of her one day — or a ballad.
    When most of the children had passed – and all the teachers – Alan slipped out of hiding, fell in behind the stragglers, and made his way home, adopting the most innocent expression his mischievous little gargoylian face could manage.
*
Alan spent much of the afternoon ensconced in his bedroom, reading. On his bed lay a thick edition of Frankenstein: Or the Modern Prometheus (Alan had underlined the word “Prometheus” on the inside cover — he quite liked the sound of it), which Alan was enjoying immensely. There were also several Jack the Ripper tomes stacked in one corner of the room, which he dipped into at frequent intervals. Alan was intrigued by the Ripper, and thought he knew who the killer might have been, but he wasn’t prepared to make a claim just yet, not until he’d done a bit more research.
Most of the time, though, he read comics. Comics were his first and abiding love. He boasted a collection of ageing, tattered, dog-eared, but golden treasures. Batman, Superman, Captain Britain, Marvelman — fantastic stuff! He liked to draw his own comics – he’d have a go at a Tommy Strong story soon – but he feared his lack of artistic ability might work against him in the long run. Perhaps he’d just write stories when he grew up, and get other people to draw them. Not as much fun as drawing them himself, but better than not working in the medium at all.
    When he wasn’t reading, Alan was scribbling in either his ABC or Top Ten notebooks. Alan loved to make lists and play with words. In the Top Ten pad he’d compose lists of his favourite comics, songs, TV shows, movies, as well as his top ten diseases, scourges, implements of torture, and so on. In the ABC book, Alan would jot down all the letters of the alphabet, meditate a while to blank his mind, then gaze at the letters and write down whatever words occurred to him, starting at A and rapidly working his way through to Z. He had hundreds of ABC lists, compiled in several bulging paper folders which his mother – a printer – had been able to procure for him.
    Alan was nearing the end of his latest list – “R for rorschach, S for supreme, T for time travel, U for UFO, V for vendetta” – when his mother called him down for supper. He quickly complete the list – “W for watchmen, X for x-ray (again!), Y for young blood, Z for zzzzzzz” – then raced for the kitchen.
*
His mother had offered to throw a party for him, but Alan didn’t believe in making a big deal out of birthdays, even one as important as his tenth. So apart from a small cake and a slightly nicer dinner than normal, it was a typical meal. Alan had opened his presents that morning – books and comics for the most part, as well as some clothes – but his mother had held a few surprises back for him, which provided some excitement after dinner. The presents were nothing extra special – another book, a game of Snakes and Ladders, a small magician’s set of tricks (he’d received the same set the year before, and had mastered the tricks within a couple of days, but Alan was a diplomatic boy and said nothing of this minor faux pas).
    He played a few games of Snakes and Ladders with his parents, then spent some time playing with the cat on the kitchen floor. The cat’s name was Maxwell. An elderly, straggly mongrel, missing half an ear, nicked and scratched in many places — a real cat. Alan liked Maxwell — he felt they were kindred spirits. He told the cat of his day and how he’d celebrated his birthday, safe in the knowledge that the cat wouldn’t betray his confidence. He started to tell Maxwell a story about a modern day kidnapper-cum-ripper who abducted young ladies – “Lost Girls” became the title, once Alan had worked out where the story was heading – but then a neighbour arrived and Maxwell bolted — the cat wasn’t fond of company.
    Alan strolled through to the living room to see which of the neighbours had come a-calling. He discovered one of the Bojeffries clan, sitting chatting with his mother. The Bojeffries woman – there were so many of them, Alan never bothered to remember their names – had a baby with her, and was showing what looked like some kind of parchment to Alan’s mother.
    “A birth caul,” she said. “Covered her head like a wee cap. We thought Glory – that’s what we’s called her – we thought she was deformed to begin with, but it was only the caul.”
    Alan was interested in the birth caul – he hadn’t seen one before – but his mother shooed him away before he could examine it properly. She didn’t like him poking his nose into “women’s stuff”. Her son was a bit too curious for her liking. There were certain things which men – and boys, certainly! – had no business knowing about.
    Muttering blackly to himself, Alan went to sit beside the fire. (He had no interest in television, though a new programme, due to start five days later, sounded like it might be worth his while — according to the grapevine, it was all about a time-travelling doctor.) He stared into the flames for a while, then cocked his head sideways. His grandmother had told him you could hear people talking if you listened closely to the flames. She hadn’t said whether the speakers were spirits, or if the flames served as some sort of telephonic system for the living. Alan listened intently for a long time, but there was no voice in this fire, and eventually he abandoned his post and returned to his room, to read and scribble some more.
*
Later that night, tiring of his notebooks and well-thumbed comics, Alan turned his hand towards writing some stories of his own. He wasn’t sure how writers wrote comic stories – did they draw a rough version of each page and write in the dialogue, or did they just describe the contents of the page? – so he’d experimented with several methods. Tonight he wrote a Tommy Strong story as straightforward prose, figuring he could adapt it at a later stage if he liked the feel of it.
    Alan had a good feeling about Tommy Strong. He was on to a winner with this one. It might take him a while to truly capture the character, develop his world and bring him to light, but he was sure, when he did, that the Tommy Strong comic would sell like hot cakes — he’d make a small killing!
    After the Tommy Strong adventure, he tried to think of some new characters, to use in other stories. He jotted down a series of names, but none really grabbed him. He took a break about nine o’clock and returned to the kitchen. His throat was exceedingly dry and he needed something to quench the thirst. As he stood in the kitchen, gulping down water, he played around with the word “quench”. A nice word, possibly one he could adapt for a character …
    Back in his room, he wrote the word down, replaced the “e” with an “i” (for no good reason other than it pleased him), then tried to find another name to go with it — “Quinch” sounded to him like one half of a partnership. Perhaps a doctor. Dr so-and-so and Quinch. Not bad, except he couldn’t find the right name for the doctor, no matter how hard he tried. In the end he left it as “Dr and Quinch” and resolved to work on it again in the morning.
    Some more doodling, a bit more reading, then Alan was ready for bed. He undressed, checked his underpants for skizz marks (his grandmother’s phrase), visited the bathroom, said goodnight to his parents, then tucked himself in.
    “So,” he thought in the darkness, staring at the cloudy night sky through a crack in the curtains. “Ten years old. Not a bad day. A bit on the quiet side, but what can you expect in Northampton! I’m sure, when I’m bigger, I’ll live somewhere big and fabulous. That’ll be much more exciting. Who knows — for my fiftieth, maybe I’ll be celebrating my birthday on the moon!”
    As Alan lay in bed, slowly drifting into the realm of slumber, he ran a few more story lines through his head. He often thought of good ideas late at night, on the verge of sleep, and sometimes he wouldn’t nod off until one or two in the morning. But not tonight. Ideas weren’t coming to him easily, and he didn’t want to work too hard on his birthday. He could chase ideas the next day. “Tomorrow,” he muttered, making a comfortable space for his head in the exact middle of the pillow. “Lots of time for stories tomorrow … write all the stories I want … tomorrow … stories …”
    And with that, young Alan Moore twitched, scratched his chin, then surrendered to the forces of Lord Morpheus, to dream of beards … and wonders.

The End.

© Darren Shan

Mar 5, 2014

Brian Eno appreciation by Alan Moore

In the following, an excerpt from Indoor Thunder: Landscaping the future with Brian Eno, an appreciation of the British musician and innovator written by Alan Moore, originally published in Arthur magazine No. 17, July 2005. 
It can be read in full here.

"Brian Eno is one of our modern culture’s brightest lights, never more radiant than in that culture’s most obscure and interesting corners, someone we should all be grateful we’re alive at the same time as. He’s the ambient motor hum, the alpha wave harmonic barely audible behind civilization. We should all sit quietly and listen." [Alan Moore]

Mar 3, 2014

Words by Ashley Wood

Art by Ashley Wood.
From Alan Moore: Portrait of an Extraordinary Gentleman, pp. 140-141.

Below, you can admire Words, the poetic double page illustration\strip conceived - for the now sold-out volume - by acclaimed artist Ashley Wood.
Posted on this blog with Wood's permission.
Words by Ashley Wood.