Clay Wilson by Tim Forcade, I try to make him laugh. He used to start each day answering a stack of correspondence with a variety of pens, rubber stamps and assorted collage materials, and then spend each day listening to talk radio while diligently drawing comics and commissions in his small home studio. Now he watches movies on TV while lying on the couch or in his hospital bed.
The last drawing he did was over two years ago. Once an active, exuberant, larger than life phenomenon, he is now a shadow of that former irrepressible self. Everything except his artwork. He usually sold it and shipped it off as soon as it was completed. Only a few of his last pieces remain.
That was a valued asset in those days of rebellion. I just find it fun. People can take it or leave it. Over the next forty years he created a copious stream of work that continually explored the extreme boundaries of human nature. His draftsmanship and literary skills increased in complexity and subtlety, as his fertile imagination guided his archetypal characters through lustful intrigues and convoluted plotlines set in a mythic place somewhere between the Wild West and the Barbary Coast.
Wilson felt an affinity for tall tales and yarns, a trait he claimed he inherited from his hillbilly ancestors. The variations of how much stuff you can cram into a comic strip or how far you can stretch the envelope in a form of music or a comic strip is pretty endless, you're limited only by your imagination. You get aesthetic debates and nuances of details and shit. But just draw the motherfucker and argue later. Some Good Samaritans discovered him lying in the rain gutter between two parked cars and called an ambulance, but never identified themselves.
At the hospital they diagnosed him with massive brain trauma and he spent a few weeks in a coma on life support. Some people said he was mugged, others thought he fell down and hid his head. He had his wallet and watch and only his head was injured, so a mugging seems less likely.
Some of his visitors saw signs of his sense of humor returning. I need the bread up front sister. See what you can do. His muscle memory put them on paper, but they stood in silent rows, holding their dicks in their hands. After a year of slow and difficult physical rehabilitation, the doctors finally said he could go home with Lorraine.
I try to treat all this with respect for him. I only want him to have a comfortable happy life as long as he can.
Clay Wilson and Lorraine Chamberlain were married on August 10, Sparks flew when they first met at the Blue Moon Tavern in Seattle in He liked that challenge. I would take care of him. He enjoyed telling stories, celebrating life, and holding forth and always had opinions as audacious as his sexual imagery.
The Zap guys and the underground people in particular were so different from your alternative cartoonists nowadays. They would never get on a Harley or get into a fistfight or anything like that. The drawing they see is a key that goes to the eyeball keyhole.
My work, for example, was seized and burned in December by the Royal Mounted Canadian Police This is Dynamite in Taboo 5 because its imagery was considered too obscene and violent for importation to Canada. It upsets me that some critics wish to censor and go so far as to destroy my artwork because of its subject matter.
People are shocked that I, as an artist, would choose to depict the themes that I do. I am not the characters I draw, I am the artist that draws the characters or, in other words, just because I depict evil does not mean that I am evil.
He was hell on wheels when he started doing shots with a beer back. You loved him or hated him, but if he decided you were his friend, he was loyal to the end. He was a creature of habit who could sometimes be totally unpredictable. Clay Wilson Special Needs Trust. She hired a part time caretaker so she can get out of the house to run errands, buy groceries, and meet appointments at Medicaid and Social Security offices.
When Lorraine arrives back home with the groceries, she greets him warmly. Do you still love me? True romantics until the cows come home.
If only life were that sweet and simple. He was still on an upward spiral when his life changed and his art ended — and his income with it. What would be nice is some medical insurance or a cottage someplace, you know. Clay Wilson jim mccrary.