When I was a kid, we had this bound, boxed, 30 volume collection of Donald Duck and Scrooge McDuck comics, “The Carl Barks Library,” that I used to read cover to cover to cover to cover, from the first to the sixtieth cover and over again. Something about them always seemed fresh and engaging, some issues more than others, and I still recall some of my favorite panels with ease.
We also had “The Big Book Of…” series. Big Books of Weirdos, Freaks, Urban Legends, Conspiracies, Losers, etc, etc. Anthologies of assorted comic artists’ contributions–warped, dark, cynical, gorey, to various degrees.I read those a lot, too. I may have been too young. They weren’t amusing in the way that Donald Duck was, but they certainly drew me in. They definately stuck. My favorite artist in those must have been Rick Geary, but there were a few that really struck me, even if I didn’t like them.
Anyway, my point is that I was just thinking about things inside of my head and how they got there. Those are two of them, but by no means the biggest or the most important. I just happened to be drawing Donald Duck today.