Tim and Jeremy are both waiters at a restaurant in downtown New York City. During slow times at work, to stave off boredom when it is slow, the two young men draw pictures. These pictures are made using ink and what is called the "Triple Dupe Pad," a book of paper used to place orders in the kitchen. The drawings usually take about a week to make, all the while also being used by fellow employees to take orders; this sometimes leads to other collaborators or in a couple cases, to the loss of the work. The drawings are then scanned and colored in Photoshop where they come to life in stunning technicolor! The subject matter varies from piece to piece, as they are made over a long course of time and under various moods and states of mind. They all retain a playfulness that serves as a coping mechanism after spending a night catering to the endless needs of hungry patrons.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

#32 "Marathon Man" March 22, 2011

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This would never happen at today's Cafe Loup. I mean, there is no way I would take this one home today. Not that it's bad or anything, it just looks totally unfinished to me now. Somehow, I thought this one was done enough to take home  back then, why, I have no idea. There is so much potential for more incredible things to be happening! Why did I think it was done? One reason, I guess is that it had been sitting around the Loup for quite a while and I think we were both completely uninspired by it. I drew the marathon man on the day of the New York City Marathon in 2010, and didn't bring it home until January 31, the day I scanned this one. From there it seemed to slog along, with some heavy white-out action. The marathon man is hitting the proverbial wall. Mile 16. How did this happen? Did he not train enough? Of course he did. 15 miles a day for the past year, plus a couple double marathons last year. He's in the best shape of his life; so why is this happening? The snowman was the first thing to worry him. He had been seeing the snowman hidden in the crowd since mile 4. Now he is showing himself coming from the clouds in plain view. The crowd is sparse, but indifferent; even the sports caster keeps his mouth shut and prefers dead air time over any observations about the situation. The struggle continues, the wall impenetrable. Stranded in time, he sweats and grimaces, foot bent in an uncomfortable position; fists clenched in extreme determination. He knows now that he can't win, the Kenyans are already on mile 17, while he maintains his spot, unmoving at mile 16. This is how Tim and I must have felt about this one. We can't move forward any more, so let's just call it quits and move on to the next one. Which is exactly what we did, apparently. 

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