1. Making friends

by hand

When I was thirteen, I had one friend. Bruce.

Bruce was similarly afflicted, but other than video games and our mutual social impediment, we had nothing in common. He was silly and I had little respect for him.

I preferred to make my own friends. I preferred solitary practice, making drawings and sculptures in my room. I preferred to spend hours alone teaching myself stop motion animation.

There were many failures. The learning was steep and slow. It required great patience and focus. Attributes of character I was continually told I did not possess.

The desk in my room was a makeshift, miniature film set. Every day, the scene similar to the last day. An ostensibly static diorama belying the scale of work I had poured in to it. Everyday after school. Every weekend. For months. For a few minutes of test footage.

My father, who rarely entered my room, did not understand. ‘You need to stop playing with dolls in your room and go out and make some fucking friends.’ It was the final gut punch to my already fragile self esteem.

I packed up the models in shoe boxes and took them to keep with my art teachers at school. I laid the little coffins on the art room floor. Bruce was uncharacteristically curious. ‘Did you make these?’ he said. ‘These are amazing!’

But like I said, Bruce was silly and I had little respect for him.

Thanks for reading. This is the first part of Laccolith a graphic memoir work in progress.