When I was in high school, I drew.

A lot.

I was most interested in capturing subjects photo-realistically, especially women, and especially '80s rockstars like Madonna, Debbie Harry and Cyndi Lauper, or movie stars, like Marilyn Monroe, Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich.

My art teacher went ape on us one day, imploring us to stop being safe. It inspired me, and I spent the day drawing a heavily geometric, intricate, black-and-white piece that had hidden shapes and meanings. I felt it was super edgy, but of course it would probably look like a typical nerd's notebook doodle today. I continued down the path, incorporating expressive imagery that included nudity (female) and lots and lots of genderfuck, though I think I was using it to blow off homosexual steam rather than exploring my gender leanings, per se.

I had a drawing entitled Boob Hunt that was displayed in our school library. It had a bunch of women's breasts hidden in it.

I got better, better enough to aspire to become an artist of some sort, but that fell by the wayside when my other artistic pursuit, writing, dominated.

Every once in a great while, I look at some of my 1,000s of meticulously preserved sketches and full drawings (some black-and-white, done with free Sharpies from my dad's insurance gig), many wildly colorful, making use of all kinds of markers, including cheap fluorescent Hi-Liters that have not held up well.

It's a strange thing to do, to look back, because while I can still draw, the flow is broken and I'm less adept and less engaged. Plus, when I look at my old work, it is immediately clear to me what I was thinking, why I was drawing each piece, what the inspirations were. When I look at them, I feel like Marilu Henner and those other few people who can remember every day they've ever lived, except for me, I need prompting.

Many of my female figures were Madonna or Madonna-inspired:

These are not totally representative (I got very erotic in the '90s), but are a few I scanned for IG.