The Evolution of the Artist
An Letter from the Editor, Connor Wolfe
I grew up in the design departments of newspapers and small magazines. My mother was a graphic designer. It was the 80s; the hair was big, the eye shadow was blue, the shoulder pads were towering, and women entered corporate America.
It was women who made up the design department for the regional paper my mother worked at, but a rotation of apathetic white men were always “the boss.”
The days I could go to work with her were golden—I was never bored. I can still remember sitting at her drafting table—my feet swinging freely below the stool while sketching my favorite subjects—mostly cartoon characters like Wile E. Coyote, Roadrunner, Snoopy, and Woodstock.
When she was at the table, I watched her layout the individual pages of the daily paper by hand—using font books, border tape, clip art, and Indian ink. She kept a carousel of chisel-nib, double-ended markers of all colors and shades on her desk.
I remember goi…
