I really like this small study I produced today-it could be the ethereal fragment from a half recalled dream, a didactic comment on Bin Laden's final resting place, a reconciliation of memories of my hometown or the illustrated cover from a proposed 1970's sci-fi novel, as yet unwritten-possibly by Heinlein.
It's ambiguous enough to say that it has no meaning other than the potential for every meaning, which is entirely what art should be I suppose- open to endless interpretation.
For shits and giggles I comped another cover, this time in the style of those pulp stalwarts-Pan books. Oh how I'd have loved to have been an artist in that lost Golden age before Photoshop and Getty images. Perhaps some budding Heinlein or Asimov out there feels thus inspired to write prose for the imagined jacket?
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