Mike Weiringo, a comicbook artist who maintained a blog that published his thoughts and sketches as he produced current work for Marvel Comics died of a heart attack yesterday. He was 44 years old.
What struck me about him was a sense of loneliness that came through his blogs. So you can bet that I was hugely empathetic for him. I felt like with enough contact, we could have become friends. He wasn't married (don't know if he ever was) and so that was another similarity between us. He wondered if his own art style was competitive in today's market, but his distinct style set his above the common artist. His work was expressive and simple and there was never a doubt you were looking at a Weiringo when you saw something he drew.
So I'm bummed out. I can't even bring myself to link to any of his sites or reference his art because I don't want to see more evidence that he's gone forever. All I can do is imagine him alone in his house, laboring over the work he loved, but wanting for someone significant to come into his life and love him. Just as I do. It's so profoundly sad. I don't understand. I hate death.