January 22, 2026 • 57 mins
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Welcome to season three of Language of the Soul Podcast. This season will explore the book that started at all: Language of the Soul: How Story Became the Means by which We Transform. This episode is devoted to the book’s introduction, in which author Dominick Domingo recounts the vivid childhood that made him who he is. More importantly, the worldview and sensibility it forged informs the premise of the book that became this podcast! From lying in the grass at Olive Park’s Creative Arts center in the 1970s listening to folk music, through landing a job at Disney during its famed ‘Animation Renaissance,’ to his time as an independent live action filmmaker and author, each formative step in his journey fueled a passion for not only the traditions behind Western storytelling structure, but its power to transform the individual and by extension, evolve society at large!
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To learn more and order Dominick's book Language of the Soul visit www.dominickdomingo.com/theseeker
Now more than ever, it’s tempting to throw our hands in the air and surrender to futility in the face of global strife. Storytellers know we must renew hope daily. We are being called upon to embrace our interconnectivity, transform paradigms, and trust the ripple effect will play its part. In the words of Lion King producer Don Hahn (Episode 8), “Telling stories is one of the most important professions out there right now.” We here at Language of the Soul Podcast could not agree more.
This podcast is a labor of love. You can help us spread the word about the power of story to transform. Your donation, however big or small, will help us build our platform and thereby get the word out. Together, we can change the world…one heart at a time!
Disclaimer:
The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed on this podcast are solely those of the hosts and guests and do not reflect the official policy or position of any counseling practice, employer, educational institution, or professional affiliation. The podcast is intended for discussion and general educational purposes only.
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Episode Transcript
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SPEAKER_00 (00:45):
Language of the Soul.
How story became the means bywhich we transform.
Introduction.
Everybody's got a story.
I can't count the times I'veheard the sentiment.
From magazine shows highlightingthe everyman on the street to
reality show interstitialsextolling contestants' virtues.
(01:06):
From the mouth of my own mother,who will shoot the breeze for an
hour if you let her, with everylone fisherman in a folding lawn
chair along New Jersey's PassaicRiver.
The great documentary is said tohave an emotional hook at its
core.
A universal story that speaks tothe human condition.
Even those feel-good humaninterest stories on the news
(01:29):
meant to balance the horrors ofthe preceding news hour,
uplifting images of firemenrescuing kittens from the boughs
of trees, all key into ourinnate human wiring for story,
our intrinsic appetite formetaphor.
As a filmmaker passionate aboutthe power of cinema to
transform, engaging not justintellect or emotion but all the
(01:51):
senses, I've traditionallygravitated toward narrative over
documentary.
However, I quickly learned whenseeking funding for my
independent films that mostgrants go to documentary.
As a two-time finalist for theRoy Dean Film Grant, I sat in on
countless pitching and coachingsessions on selling a passion
project in documentary format.
What I learned is this (02:13):
any agenda, however well shrouded in
the guise of unbiased reporting,is secondary to our human
compulsion to identify, to bondthrough our shared humanity.
This is the very definition ofstory.
The word story is thrown aroundincessantly in contemporary pop
(02:35):
culture, especially in socialmedia circles.
The word has become synonymouswith brand building and content
creation.
Along with terms likecreativity, the law of
attraction, and manifestation,the word story has arguably lost
its nuance, if not its potency.
These days, a great deal of lipservice is given to telling
(02:57):
one's story.
One is shamed for not findinghis or her authentic voice and
contributing it to thecollective.
This is hardly an exaggeration.
The fact that traditionallyimpractical institutions like
art or story have taken thefront seat as cultural values
represents enormous evolution.
The shift from a preoccupationwith base survival needs to
(03:21):
higher concerns.
The problem is nine times out often, the virtues of story are
being hijacked from their innaterole in culture.
In the same way, self-help gurusand life coaches use law of
attraction principles to promisethe manifestation of a yacht
over that of contentment,harmony, well-being, or inner
peace.
(03:41):
The mechanics of story are beingregularly appropriated.
Rather than extolling theirpower to lend aesthetic richness
to life, to shift paradigms orusher mankind toward human
potential, talking heads usurpthem as propaganda tools.
In lieu of opening hearts andminds, advertisers dangle the
(04:02):
carrot of story as a means toopen pocketbooks.
If not the Almighty Dollar, thedesired outcome seems to be
political persuasion, otherwiseknown as power mongering.
In a tribal context, thebiochemical mechanics of
storytelling served propagationas bonding and affinity.
(04:23):
In contemporary pop culture,rather than being founded in
inspiration and contributing tothe transformation of the
collective, they're more apt tofeed consumerism into little
more.
I may be in the minority, but Idistinguish between story as
transformation and story ascommerce or propaganda.
(04:44):
The power of story to providecatharsis for the individual and
the tribe at large has beenwired into us from day one.
Far from masquerading as a workof art or a literary
masterpiece, this book seeks topreserve the innate power of
storytelling in its purest form.
To explain my zeal, let me startat the beginning.
(05:07):
I was a weird kid, let's behonest.
At the age of six, I stood withmy grandmother on the brink of a
cliff overlooking the OwensRiver Valley.
The vast barren desert stretchedout before us, dissolving into
infinity at some indiscernibledistance.
My mind had been grappling withthe concept of eternity.
(05:29):
Living forever, like the Biblepromised, seemed daunting to me.
More than that, the prospectthreatened to be boring at best.
Whatever would I do to bide thetime?
I'd finally gotten up the gutsto ask the existential question
that had been bouncing aroundinside my tiny six-year-old
skull.
Grandma, what would there be ifwe were not here?
(05:53):
In retrospect, I'm not even surewhat it meant.
Did the we refer to her and I,humanity, or consciousness
itself?
On some level, I must haveinnately grasped that the
universe only exists, arguably,through the lens of an observer
with sense organs and a brain tointerpret the stimuli they took
(06:13):
in.
But Graham was not big on headyconversation.
Her hand squeezed tighter aroundmine, and her reply was
guileless.
Just try not to think about it,sweetie.
Try not to think about it.
It said so much about mygrandmother and her generation,
I later understood.
(06:34):
No one who lived through theSpanish flu, the Dust Bowl, and
the Great Depression could bebothered with the big questions.
Around the time I startedkindergarten, I found myself
already pressured by the adultsaround me.
When asked what I wanted to bewhen I grew up, my stock answer
was Winnie the Pooh.
My identification with the pudgybear would only later reveal
(06:57):
itself.
In young adulthood, ondiscovering a book titled The
Tao of Pooh, I would understandthat Pooh's Zen disposition was
what made us kindred spirits.
Or more accurately, that bydeclaring my unconventional
career goal, I'd been aspiringto all that Pooh embodied.
I'd lie in the grass atBurbank's Creative Arts Center,
(07:18):
the hippie haven where my EarthMama made clay pinch pots
interlaced with macrame, and hermentor Claude sculpted nothing
but dragons and fortune cookies,and contemplate.
Sprawled on the lawn, watchingtiny molecules drift from the
nothingness of space to settleon spongy grass, I knew I was
not alone in ponderingexistence.
(07:41):
Claude surely had similarthoughts bouncing around his
imaginative skull.
I half suspected his dragons hadbeen inspired by a song that was
getting a lot of airplay onmainstream radio at the time,
Puff the Magic Dragon.
More likely, Claude had beendoing a little puffing of his
own.
The man's beard was bushier thanany I'd yet seen in my six
(08:02):
years, and he sported earringsin both ears.
Claude was friendly with Ted,the Parks and Wreck gymnastics
coach, who went home to Jesse,the male ballet instructor.
The nature of their relationshipwas never explained.
My Zen disposition extended tohome life.
Whether watching growing rockstake shape in a fishbowl, too
(08:24):
slow for my taste, frankly, orgazing into murky waters
watching sea monkeys materializefrom crystals, I found myself
reflecting on the abstract.
Were those sea monkeys sentient?
Aware of their own being?
Oh, it was a given that they toohad fallen victim to false
advertising, little more thancrescent-shaped specks the size
(08:46):
of small fingernail clippings.
They swam lazy circles in thedim beacon of my flashlight with
its dying batteries, while theones depicted on the packaging
drove tiny cars and shopped,donning ti eras.
Despite their fingernail-likeappearance, I keyed into their
awareness, awakened the momentthey transformed from crystal to
(09:07):
fingernail.
That as yet mysteriouselectrical charge that made life
of biological soup eons ago.
Yep, I thought more deeply thanany six-year-old rightly should.
And yet, doing so was not aburden.
It was an effortless inclinationthat made life rich.
My relationship with the NoahSphere was seamless.
(09:29):
I was a fish breathing invisiblewater, unaware of its existence.
No different than those seamonkeys or the lazy, fraudulent
growing rocks.
Flash forward 30 years or so.
Midway through my stint inanimation, I realized everything
I've ever drawn, painted, orwritten, all of my personal
(09:49):
works, were meant to illuminatewhat I saw that others did not.
Like Horton in Dr.
Seuss's Horton Here's a Who, Isaw entire worlds on tiny clover
blossoms, when no one else in myworld seemed to.
While working at Disney, I'dcontinued creating personal work
and writing every chance I got.
(10:11):
In an unexamined way, mycreations shed light on the
metaphysical level of life, thesubtext in every moment.
Sometimes in my writing, what Iilluminated was psychological
subtext, the subconsciousneuroses or petty defense
mechanisms that led to tragedy.
Or other times the collectiveintelligence we call fate,
(10:34):
moving molecules and mountainsdespite a character's free will.
Still other times it was thehistorical baggage or
preconceived notions a characterunknowingly brought into an
interaction that becameself-fulfilling prophecy, or the
energetic vibrationalundercurrent of a moment when
suspended.
All the stories I had told, withword or image, centered on
(10:59):
waking people up, inspiringthem, or conversely, jolting
them into looking at, well,anything but the surface of
things.
In 2021, getting awoke is themantra of the day, if only folks
were more practiced at it.
I've preached seeing through thematrix of social conditioning,
or the spell dream illusion, asDeepak Chopra and Native
(11:22):
Americans might call it, withevery breath.
In my twenties, hubs compelledme to view those who lived
unexamined lives assleepwalkers.
Growing up in a milieu ofalcoholism and dysfunction,
denial was par for the course,and I resented it.
The blinders I saw all around mewere distasteful.
(11:44):
In my heart I knew that even thesleepwalkers had lucid moments
in which the spiritual journeyrevealed itself.
I knew that when they ignoredits call, it only knocked harder
to get their attention.
I knew that pride and egocompelled many to put off
spiritual work until theirdeathbed, when redemption was
inevitably put on the fasttrack.
(12:04):
Most people seemed to get goodwith God just before Final
Curtain.
My tolerance for dysfunction wasdysfunctionally low.
The byproduct was that Ichampioned, and myself and
others, the respect for life inoneself that drove him to strive
for potential.
(12:25):
If there was a spiritualjourney, I saw it as the
challenge to take theopportunities for growth laid in
one's path.
And yet, no matter how admirablemy glittering generalities, my
view of life was based in spitefor all that had threatened me
as a child, made me feel unsafe.
(12:45):
At over half a century, I nolonger see things in such stark
terms.
Somewhere in my 30s, I began tounderstand that we were all
growing and learning the samespiritual and emotional lessons
as one another due to our sharedhumanity, despite any appearance
to the contrary.
It was simply hard to recognize.
We were all on unique schedules,the transformative lessons in a
(13:09):
different order.
Some people were lucid about thejourney, possessing the
meta-self that compels one toexamine and share any wisdom
acquired along the way.
Others were tighter lipped, outof admirable humility.
But we were all, I decided,growing and transforming as long
as we remained above ground.
(13:30):
The journey simply lookeddifferent on different folks.
Regardless of my evolving viewson the spiritual journey, one
thing became clear.
I had a vested interest ingetting people woke, long before
it was the trendy thing to do.
In the same way I delighted whenthose sea monkeys unfroze their
spiny microscopic selves from acrystalline state and began
(13:52):
swimming lazy circles.
I thrilled to the fantasy othersand the world had the capacity
to become the best versions ofthemselves.
My epiphany about the nature ofmy work was a defining moment,
no doubt.
I'd taken my first oil paintingclass at the age of seven, at
the same creative art centerwhere Claude sculpted his
dragons.
I was given a typewriter forChristmas at the age of nine and
(14:15):
told it should last me throughcollege.
The stern warning was relayed bymy parents from no one other
than Santa Claus, of course.
As it turned out, Santa had beendoing a little fantasizing of
his own.
The typewriter would be lucky tolast through the following
summer, let alone college.
I quickly lost the E key when itpopped off and plunged into the
(14:35):
vortex where stray socks areheld.
Given that E is a popular voweldifficult to avoid, I continued
pecking away at the sharp prongexposed in the key's absence
until I developed a stubborn butuseful callus.
There were so many things towrite about.
All accompanied by highlyrendered illustrations, of
(14:57):
course.
And a question and answersegment that Mr.
Wilkins made sure to assign tothe class.
Needless to say, my intellectualcuriosity and burging creativity
did not win me friends.
Suffice it to say, my writingand image making evolved hand in
hand.
And in the spirit of Renaissancemen everywhere, or jacks of all
(15:18):
trades as the case may be, I wasvoted president of the vocal
music program at my high school.
We competed regionally in theSouthern California Show Choir
Circuit, and I was awarded ascholarship to study with
renowned vocal coach Seth Riggs.
Having my hands in so manycookie jars was likely some
naive version of consideringmyself an artist with various
(15:38):
modes of expression, in quotes.
The upside to having been raisedwith so much chaos and
dysfunction was the immeasurablecreativity that it birthed.
To my parents' credit, theyencouraged it.
Neighborhood kids would comefrom blocks around to play with
clay or make plaster molds andcast Halloween masks in liquid
latex.
It was not only okay to spillglue on our dining room table,
(16:00):
it was encouraged.
My mother owned a costume shopfor much of my adolescence,
which meant our living room wasalways crowded with sculpted
foam rubber walk-around costumesfor the ice capades or the
entire cast of the latestcommunity theater production she
was costuming.
It was the sheer looming ofgraduation and impending
adulthood that led me to set mysights on Art Center College of
(16:23):
Design.
Though it's the nature ofteenagers to think, on average,
no more than 30 minutes ahead,somehow the pressure got in.
That same pressure I'd rebelledagainst by declaring I wanted to
be nothing less than Winnie thePooh when I grew up.
As luck would have it, ArtCenter would turn out to be one
of the top design schools in theworld.
I characterize it as a stroke ofluck for one reason.
(16:46):
I did not investigate a singleother art school.
A friend had been given ascholarship to the college's
Saturday High program andinvited me along.
A fire was lit for both of us,and not just because we got to
draw naked bodies all summer.
We felt we'd glimpsed apotential future that did not
involve flipping burgers andpaper hats.
(17:06):
We were both inspired to meetwith the financial aid
counselors and an admissionscounselor.
Bringing my parents to campusfor those meetings somehow made
the prospect of attending thecollege real, within reach.
As did my acceptance sometimelater, a small miracle in
itself.
After Saturday high, whilemotoring through my general
(17:27):
education, I'd taken the odddrawing 101 course in junior
college.
The portfolio I submitted hadbeen comprised of
cobbled-together figure drawingsand a few bad illustrations
inspired by Ray Bradbury's TheIllustrated Man.
Midway through my illustrationprogram, I interned a Disney
feature animation.
It was summer of 1990, whichmeant Rescuers Down Under was in
(17:50):
production and The LittleMermaid was the last animated
film released.
Beauty and the Beast was inearly development.
The internship was general.
We interns learned thefundamentals of traditional
animation as well as all aspectsof the production pipeline.
Despite its wide scope, theinternship preened us for the
entry-level position ofin-betweener.
(18:12):
As the production positiontasked with helping animators
generate the needed 24 framesper second to flesh out their
key poses, the in-betweeningposition was the track to
becoming a character animator.
I scored well during theinternship and was offered a
job.
Though some considered me crazy,I chose to go back to Art Center
to finish up my degree program.
(18:33):
Conventional wisdom held that adegree was little more than a
piece of paper with littlecurrency in the field of
entertainment.
But my completion issuesdemanded I go back and finish
what I'd started.
When I finally graduated,despite what I'd been naively
promised by the internshipdirectors, the job was not
simply waiting for me.
On the contrary, it took somehustling to get back into
(18:54):
Disney.
Repeated phone calls to myanimation mentor and my
in-betweening mentor and theinternship directors themselves.
I'd scored well during myinternship, which reflected well
on the program, and the artistdevelopment department that ran
it.
This meant they had a vestedinterest in championing me
during review board sessions,the weekly lunchtime gathering
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during which portfolios werereviewed by the key players on
whatever film was currently inproduction.
Together they weeded through thework of the 20 or so applicants
that made the cut, having beenwhittled away by artist
development from the hundreds ofportfolios that Disney receives
weekly from the world over.
After one of these sessions, Iwas given a background painting
test with a week to complete it.
(19:36):
It entailed executing a mastercopy of a production background
from the film Bambi, matchinghue, value, saturation, and
technique as one would onproduction while maintaining
on-screen continuity.
The stars aligned.
There just happened to be abudget for a trainee on an
upcoming production.
The background supervisor andart director with the power to
(19:58):
hire me just happened to be inthe room that day.
They could just as easily havestepped out for lunch.
Flash forward.
I had$5 in my pocket the day Ireceived the call to come in and
start work as a backgroundpainter on a tiny film to become
known as Lion King.
I worked at Disney featureanimation for 11 years on Lion
King, Pocahontas, Hunchback ofNotre Dame, Tarzan, Little Match
(20:21):
Girl, and One by One.
The normal production cycle ofan animated feature, minus
development, pre-production, andpost-production, was 18 months.
But in the case of Lion King, Iwas brought on 18 months early,
during pre-production, to train.
I kept my nose to the grindstoneduring training.
I knew no different.
I just burned the candle at bothends for three years in During
(20:43):
Art Center's program, one of themost rigorous and demanding in
the nation among privateschools.
I'd been the only one in myclass to continue working and
paying rent throughoutgraduation, out of necessity,
and still managed to be one oftwo to graduate with
distinction.
The thing is, it didn't feellike work or drudgery.
It felt energizing.
(21:05):
The work was inspired, andthough I didn't know it at the
time, the universe conspiredwith me in the pursuit of my
personal legend, as Paul Coelhowould call it in The Alchemist.
I had learned his terminologymuch later in life, along with a
recognition of all the forcesthat had worked in my favor.
About eight years into my11-year stint at the mouse,
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Tarzan was greenlit.
Just as I had on Lion King, Ihopped on Tarzan in
pre-production, eight monthsbefore full production began to
help develop the look of it.
I was one of two artists to helpdevelop the alpha release of the
groundbreaking deep canvastechnology that gave the film
its immersive look.
On Lion King, I'd been blessedwith a mentor who walked on
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water in my eyes.
I respected him as an artist, agentleman, a leader, and a human
being.
My effusiveness has not wanedover the years.
I count it a blessing to havehit the ground running in this
way.
It was the same gentleman whorequested me for his team years
later when Tarzan was green-litfor production.
There were many highlights overmy 11 years at Disney feature
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animation.
Among them rank moments likewhen Eldon John first sat down
to the piano to pitch the songshe'd crafted for Lion King.
It was the first time thedirectors were hearing them,
along with the small crew thathad assembled.
Needless to say, the film becameone of the top grossing films of
all time and a globalphenomenon.
Eventually, the songs werepublished as sheet music.
(22:32):
I'll never forget returning tomy high school for a spring
concert, the very high schoolwhere I'd been vocal music
president.
A true full circle momentoccurred on hearing a medley of
Lion King songs being performedby the very show choir that I'd
led to victory in thecompetition circuit years
before.
During my 11 years at Disneyfeature animation, there were
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too many highlights, too manyfond memories to count.
There was the thrill of seeingthat huge orange disc of a sun
rise over the savannah for thefirst time in a real theater
once Lion King was released.
There was the time I brought myparents to the Pocahontas
premiere in Central Park becausemy mom had never visited New
York.
The night before the screening,I brought my cousin Veronica
(23:16):
from Jersey to the dinner inRadio City Music Hall's Rainbow
Room.
When our meal came, my cousinswiftly seated herself next to
Roy and Patty Disney, notknowing any better.
The couple have both sincepassed, but the picture of them
with my cousin hangs on herrefrigerator to this day in the
Jersey countryside.
During production on Tarzan, Ispent several months working out
(23:38):
of our Paris studio, lodged inan opulent apartment Disney kept
for such purposes on the fringeof Place des Vosges.
Most prescient to the spirit ofthis book, I was surrounded by
artistic geniuses and masterstorytellers all day, every day.
I sat in on every story meetingin which Lion King sequences
were pitched to JeffreyKatzenberg, and then later, of
(24:00):
course, when sequences werepitched by story artists to
Michael Eisner.
I was privy to every note thetwo powers that be disseminated,
and the discussions that ensuedamong directors and story
artists after their departure.
I listened to the likes ofStephen Schwartz, Alan Mencken,
and Howard Ashman finessinglyrics to support the
ever-evolving stories beingbounced back and forth between
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writers and storyboard artists.
This experience formed thefoundation of my current
understanding of story, theWestern storytelling convention
that informs screenwriting forcinema.
Listening to the rationale ofcreative executives, directors,
and the board artists themselvesprovided a myriad of
perspectives.
And seeing how all the discourseplayed out with regard to
(24:44):
critical reception and boxoffice proceeds taught me about
the element of randomness.
This book will address theintersection between art and
commerce.
The two are not mutuallyexclusive.
Lion King represents the rareintersection in which literary
value and artistic integrity arethe very reason for the
universality that translatesinto box office gold.
(25:07):
Just as important as what Ilearned about Western
storytelling structure was thevisual storytelling that was my
contribution to these films.
The technique, the craft, andthe conceptual basis of art
direction, I was honing, wasbeing folded into the mix of
what made me an artist.
Unexamined, I was beginning tosee both word and image as the
(25:30):
means by which we stir the soul.
I left Disney over 20 years ago.
Traditionally animated or 2Dfilms were going by the wayside.
Though many of the decisions onthe part of corporate Disney
have been proven short-sighted,at the time, executives
attributed the success ofcertain CG films to the medium
and not the message.
(25:51):
To the fact that they weredigital and not traditional.
The truth is, the film'scritical and box office success
had nothing to do with themedium in which a particular
story was being told.
Only with the story itself.
In any case, suffice it to saythat the axe fell.
Hundreds of artists were laidoff in a single day in LA.
(26:13):
The Florida studio was shut downentirely, and eventually the
Paris studio.
In advance of the decimation,many artists were given the
option of making the transitionto digital technology by taking
classes at my alma mater artcenter.
Instead, however, many chose tojump ship.
The mentor whom I mentionedearlier that trained me for Lion
(26:34):
King chose to pursue the gallerypainting he'd dabbled in but
never had the time to fullyrealize.
He now shows in Tahiti and hishome of Hawaii.
I chose to accept a mutualseparation agreement in order to
benefit from a nice severancepackage and begin telling my own
stories.
Long story short, during ayear-long sabbatical written
(26:55):
into my final contract, I'dwritten a screenplay about a
broken heart I'd recentlyendured.
Writing it had been cathartic tosay the least.
Long before learningscreenwriting by Osmosis at
Disney, I'd taken plenty ofcreative writing classes in my
general education.
Writing was still in my blood.
Even so, I was green as ascreenwriter when I tackled that
(27:17):
first extremely personal featurescript.
Whatever I lacked in craft wasmade up for by the truth my
feature screenplay spoke.
When I hosted a reading of themanuscript with Dr.
Quinn Medicine Woman's ChadAllen and other professional
actors, the consensus was thestory that had poured out of me
was more raw and poignant thanmost scripts they were normally
(27:38):
handed.
But the sabbatical came to anend and I returned to Disney for
the final year-long option of mycontract.
For the duration of it, I foundmyself champing at the bit to
make the film I'd written.
I'd watched two fellow Disneyartists make the plunge into
independent live-actionfilmmaking as au tours, so I had
a model for the risk I was aboutto take.
(27:59):
During that final year, thewriting on the wall foreshadowed
the falling of the axe.
The universe was telling mesomething.
I made the decision to take theplunge.
I'd begun teaching two yearsearlier at my alma mater art
center at the outset of myyear-long sabbatical.
I'd purchased a home so I had amortgage to pay.
Since my sabbatical was unpaid,I figured I'd need some bread
(28:22):
and butter money during my yearoff in order to keep a roof over
my head.
I'd also reached a point where Iwanted to pass the baton and
give back.
At that point, I was nine or soyears into my 11 years at
Disney, but it had taken me thatlong to feel I had something to
offer as an educator.
I'd continue to learn and growand perfect my craft on the job.
(28:43):
I'm not sure I'd ever feel I'dbecome the best background
painter or visual developmentartist I could be.
Still, with 16 nieces andnephews but no children of my
own, teaching would be my way ofbeing bigger than myself.
When I left Disney, I kept theteaching gig but not the house.
I put it on the market in orderto take the coming risk with a
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lower overhead.
I immediately attended New YorkFilm Academy, ironically here in
LA, to learn the craft offilmmaking.
After completion, I did whatevery last book on independent
filmmaking says not to do.
I spent my own money to financemy first short film.
The investment was well thoughtout.
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This would be my real filmschool.
Learning craft practically, inthe trenches, meant it would
really stick.
The short film was to be alearning experience, beyond
being a story I was passionateabout putting into the world for
art's sake alone.
Further, being shot on 35mm withhigh production values, it would
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serve as my calling card, thereel that would lead to the
making of the feature film I'dwritten.
The story was about the anatomyof heartbreak, a subject I felt
was too rarely spoken of.
The feature was titled GivingIn, and it still tugged at me.
Financing the short film thatwas to be my calling card was
not completely delusional.
(30:05):
The student film that had beenmy thesis project at New York
Film Academy had made it intoseveral festivals.
I dipped my toe in the waterand, for good or bad, had been
encouraged.
The self-financed film destinedto be my calling card was titled
The Passerby.
It did well in the festivalcircuit, winning several awards.
It forged many fond memories andlasting relationships.
(30:28):
I remain good friends with manyof its actors and crew members
to this day.
But it did not immediately leadto the financing of giving in my
feature.
In the waiting, I was talkedinto writing and co directing a
feature that garnereddistribution with Lionsgate.
A subsequent shortfall.
Dear to my heart, Outpost, alsowon awards in Garner
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distribution with TLA, thelargest distributor of LGBTQ
short film collections at thetime.
During my live-action filmmakingdays, I continued freelancing an
animation and teaching severalclasses in the entertainment
track I'd founded at my almamater art center.
The modicum of security allowedme to take creative risks.
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One day, I woke up to realizethe original screenplay credits
I'd garnered on SAG IMDB filmswith distribution constituted a
writing resume.
This, of course, keyed into mylifelong love of writing, the
one that had never left me sincefirst popping a key off that
manual typewriter at the age ofnine.
Having been raised in LA, I knewjust how many aspiring writers
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would have killed or died for myaccolades.
I'd stumbled into screenwritingcredits simply in order to tell
my stories.
I'd hosted no burning desire tobe a screenwriter.
It's just that I saw the two,writing and directing as
inseparable.
At that point I had no desire todirect the stories of others,
nor did I really have any desireto hand off my own unique
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stories to other directors.
They'd hardly know what to dowith them.
I suppose my singular vision iswhat makes an auteur, a
writer-director, or a walkingcliche as the case may be.
All I had to do was look aroundat all those aspiring
screenwriters pecking away ontheir laptops at Starbucks.
With their two-year make it orbreak it plan or their five-year
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plan to realize the value of theresume I'd stumbled into, I
immediately put my writing onthe front burner.
Truth be told, doing so was alsofueled by the fact that I
couldn't rub two nickelstogether to get a film made.
There's a conventional wisdomthat one must have a rich uncle
to get an independent film madein Hollywood.
I found it to be true.
(32:38):
I had precisely one rich uncle,but any money he could have
brought to the table would havebeen dirty money.
Mafia money.
Instead of going the organizedcrime route, I'd been
resourceful and industriouspursuing financing.
Though I'd underwritten my firstshort film myself, the second
one, Outpost, involvedinvestors.
(32:58):
Involving them turned out to bemore of a headache than it was
worth.
My films had all entailedambitious shoots.
The first broke a martial lawfor green filmmakers with its
inclusion of horses, a baby, andno less than 60 extras.
Frankly, I was tired.
Writing was a solitary pursuit Icould do at coffee shops, to the
smell of brewing Sumatra andchocolatey desserts, with no
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hundred-man crew to worry over.
Writing literary fiction for thepublishing world sounded like a
soothing bomb.
And so it was I cracked mylaptop and began haunting coffee
shops.
I had recently discovered DavidSideris.
This revelation happened tocoincide with a milestone in
aging, the awareness ofmortality that drives one to
(33:42):
leave a mark.
Like Sederis, I'd spent time inParis and endured my own
comically tragic languagefoibles.
This fact, combined with myimpending midlife crisis, nudged
me to embark on writingnarrative nonfiction essays from
my own life.
I began performing them inspoken word events around Los
Angeles, even founding one of myown.
(34:05):
A few of the crowd pleasers gotlaughs, encouraging me.
Oh, I was no stand-up comedian,let's be clear.
I don't have the constitutionfor that.
If I ever fell flat or heardcrickets from a back alley, I
could always fall back on thepremise that I was reciting
literature.
Several of the essays werepublished in their own right and
included in anthologies.
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In keeping with a recurringtheme, this encouraged me for
good or bad.
I continued teaching at ArtCenter, which allowed me to
continue indulging the craft ofwriting every chance I got.
In 2012, I wrote my first novelin a matter of months.
Oh, it had been germinating fora while.
A lifetime to be precise.
(34:49):
I had carried a long-standingdesire to write a
through-the-rabbit hole fairytale based on the hero's
journey.
I'd always loved stories likeThe Reluctant Dragon, Bridge to
Terabithia, Phantom Tollbooth,and Indian in the Cupboard, in
which the protagonist, usually aloner, encounters a mythological
creature in an unexpected placeand follows it to an alternate
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realm through some kind ofportal.
I grew up on C.S.
Lewis and J.R.R.
Tolkien, among others, and foundmyself returning to the worlds
they created time and again asan escape.
During my general education,when my first niece was in
Pigtails, I'd begun such a fairytale for her, but it never saw
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completion.
Twenty-five years later, whenTwilight Times Books picked up
my novel, The Nameless Prince, Idedicated it to that same niece,
who now had a growing family ofher own.
The publisher marketed the bookas urban fantasy, a subgenre I
didn't previously know existed.
I launched the book at Roman'sbookstore in my college town of
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Pasadena, the very bookstore I'dfrequented since attending Art
Center in the 80s.
I'd always admired their artfuland literary lists, so seeing my
book displayed on NCAPs next toheroes like Shell Silverstein
and Roll Dahl was a dream cometrue.
I commented to a cashier thatthey'd surely ordered the book
for my upcoming launch at thestore.
(36:15):
He denied it, assuring me they'dordered it after simply seeing
it in the catalog and beingintrigued.
After the launch, I learned theropes of book promotion.
Readings, signings, guest blogspots, podcasts, and talk radio
interviews.
The sequel, The Royal Trinity,launched in 2016.
Both have maintained stellarratings and reviews, but have
(36:38):
yet to make me the next J.K.
Rowlings.
Suffice it to say, I have noLearjet on my landing pad.
For that matter, I have nolanding pad.
I've continued to win notableawards like the Writer's Digest
competition and Kraft Literary.
I've continued to findpublication in anthologies and
collections.
However big or small thecirculation, it's satisfying to
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share my stories with the worldand create a legacy.
The most rewarding moments,those in which I feel the
completion of a circuit, occurwhen I know the work has landed
with someone.
It's usually a complete strangerin the way of the shoemaker's
children.
During personal testimonials,the particular way in which my
work has spoken to a strangermakes all the risk-taking and
(37:23):
investment worthwhile.
One would think working on thetop grossing animated films of
all time would have held somewater with my 16 nieces and
nephews.
If my occupation had anycurrency at all, it was kept
secret from me under the guiseof playing it cool.
Other than giving myself themoniker Uncle Disney, the guy
who could use his silver past toget up to five people into
(37:46):
Disneyland at any given time, Imay as well have been a concrete
salesman or a CPA.
At one point, I so overdosed onall things Disney that I found
myself driving to Anaheim to getmy relatives in Disneyland's
gates, then turning around anddriving home.
One can only take so much of thehappiest place on earth.
(38:07):
It's usually an Uber driver, agrown man, who tells me Lion
King was his favorite movie as akid.
When I let slip, I worked for alittle company called Walt
Disney.
I feel blessed to have been partof a moment in time when the
stars aligned.
The window of time I spent withDisney feature has become known
as the Renaissance of 2Danimation, and it was a wave we
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all rode as far as it would takeus.
I still have lunch on occasionwith Roger, one of the two
directors of Lion King.
We regularly reminisce about ashared moment in time, a magical
one in which the stars aligned,allowing an unlikely family to
put stories out into thenoosphere that changed the face
of culture.
(38:50):
Since the Renaissance ended,along with indulging my writing,
I've continued to teach and keepat least one foot in animation.
The visual development work Iwas able to do at Disney by
jumping onto films in the earlystages meant I had visual
development experience onleaving.
The bulk of the work I do now isas a visual development
generalist.
(39:10):
I have worked in that capacityor as a concept artist in both
2D animation and 3D or CG andtelevision animation and feature
both as well as in gaming.
Over the years I haveillustrated middle grade books
and books for young readers forall the majors Putnam, Random
House, Harcourt, Penguin,Hyperion, etc.
(39:30):
I've worked as both a freelancerand an in-house independent
contractor.
What this means is I have hadthe opportunity to glimpse many
different cultures at manydifferent studios, different
production pipelines andmethodologies, different
protocols and practices.
Though many traditions andconventions remain universal and
consistent across the board, thespirit of the work and the
(39:53):
intention behind it can differvastly, as can the business
model.
The intersection between art andcommerce is a tricky one.
I've never been so blessed as Iwas at Disney when it comes to
respect for artistry.
Most crucial to the spirit ofthis book, the conversation
around word and image, thelanguage of the soul.
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The breadth of my experience andthe privilege to have crossed so
many genres and formats in mycareer, so many mediums, means
that I have become intimatelyacquainted with the trappings of
each.
All storytelling formats havedifferent, quote, rules.
It's said that film is a feelingmedium, one in which one must
show it, don't say it.
(40:35):
There's nothing worse than usinga character as a mouthpiece for
needed exposition, and we allknow it when we see it.
One must demonstrate acharacter's essence through his
or her actions, rather thanspoon feeding it in dialogue.
More importantly, showingthrough action rather than
narration is what, among otherthings, keeps butts in the
(40:55):
seats.
It's said that literature reliesmore heavily on inner dialogue,
and theater ventures into verycerebral territory that would be
a snooze fest in cinema.
When it comes to art directionand design, the look of a film
is largely story-driven in bothanimated and live-action film.
See Chapter 4, Image and Story,worth a thousand words.
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But in gaming, story be damned,it's all gameplay.
Design is not driven by thevisual reinforcement of thematic
content or even a linear storyarc that can be supported with
color palette.
It's driven by what's cool,what's trendy, and what best
suits gameplay.
For example, when a playerreaches a given level in a game,
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Silent Hill comes to mind forwhich I designed many characters
around the release of the movie.
A sound cue might alert theplayer that the big boss of that
level is in the vicinity.
That sound cue might motivate adesign decision like an axe that
can be dragged across the floorof the burned-out abandoned
hospital.
I joke that having been spoiledby artistic genius at Disney, I
(42:00):
often want to tear my hair outin other cultures.
In gaming, the most thought-outbit of art direction I received
on Silent Hill was put a hook onit, dude.
Man, that would be sweet.
Regardless, I feel blessed tohave been able to explore
different modes of expression,different mediums, and the
unique way each touches heartsand minds.
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The final chapter of this book,Finding Your Voice, speaks to
the ongoing journey ofdiscovering one's personal flair
and empowering the work with it.
The lifelong artistic journeytends to feature universal
milestones like discovering whyone has chosen a given craft in
the first place.
My relationship with my personalwork has evolved concurrently
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with my life journey, if notwith the technique I perfected
in my professional career.
My own authentic voice, the onethat most closely reflects what
I uniquely have to say in theworld, has infused itself in my
writing.
My voice as a writer is far moremature than any voice I might
apply in the fine art world.
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Not to mention it's been marriedwith a sense of purpose.
The production art I produced inanimation, an illustrator by
trade and a visual developmentartist slash background painter
in the animation industry,provided a skill set and a
living I would not trade for theworld.
But the understanding of story Ilearned in animation is what
I've carried forward.
(43:24):
And what I cherish most.
My love of story, my passion forthe role it plays in culture and
the power it possesses totransform individuals and change
the world at large is whatdrives me now.
The thread has remainedunbroken.
From the moment I watched thosesea monkeys break out of their
crystalline state to swim lazycircles in the dim beam of my
(43:47):
flashlight.
Through the moment in mytwenties I realized what all my
creations had sought toaccomplish throughout life, to
the unapologetic now or neverfire that fuels me since a
recent brush with death.
Threading it all together is adeep desire to illuminate, to
inspire.
I continued teaching atArtCenter for 20 years after
(44:08):
leaving Disney.
The electives I initiallypitched, the first entertainment
offerings in the illustrationdepartment, became the basis of
ArtCenter's entertainment track.
The program has since divergedinto today's entertainment arts
and entertainment design tracks,and effectively spun out of
control.
The good news is entertainmentis not going anywhere anytime
(44:30):
soon, nor is the fundamentalhuman drive to tell stories and
partake in them.
My classroom experience,witnessing the various
relationships my students enjoywith the creative process and
the lifelong artist's journey atlarge, has taught me more than
anything I could have read in abook.
That experience, along with myown journey, forms the basis of
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the perspectives offered in thisbook.
When I first began teaching, Iwas hesitant to impart anything
definitive.
Or to own it anyway.
It was much more comfortable forme to share conventional
wisdoms, schools of thought, orexisting principles that could
not be characterized as myopinion.
This convenient escape hatch wasbased on an understanding that
(45:15):
art and beauty have remainedelusive and ineffable.
I was not going to be the firstto define the concepts or claim
that there was a right or wrongway to approach them.
I regularly qualified my contentby reminding students to be
judicious and synthesize allperspectives to which art school
exposed them.
I was simply there to offerexisting schools of thought,
(45:36):
perhaps in juxtapositions thatmight inspire them to draw new
conclusions of their own.
I was there to expose them totools they might not have
otherwise considered in theirown work, tried and true
conventions plucked directlyfrom centuries of perspective or
light logic, from GestaltStudies or Chevrolet's Laws of
Color Theory.
I was there to orchestrateconversations between peers and
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start dialogues.
To me, asking the questions anddialoguing about them was as
important as answering themdefinitively.
Adding to my distortedreticence, of which I have since
cured myself, life is short, Iwas a big fan of the Socratic
method.
I knew that anything definitiveone could say, starting with the
sky is blue, could ultimately bedisproven if enough questions
(46:22):
were asked.
Flux, perspective, and semanticswould always win out over the
realm of black and white,quantifiable quote, knowledge.
Needless to say, I'd paintedmyself quite literally into a
corner.
The hard truth was, no matterhow many times I reminded
students of the above, the sheerpassion with which I delivered
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material said otherwise.
Being Italian, I could discuss ahangnail with the same zeal as
the second coming of Christ.
And so it was that I eventuallylet it all go and stopped
monitoring, editing myself.
With the exception of onegrandiose speech at the top of
the term about perspective,semantics, and flux.
(47:05):
The speech inevitably ends withthe plea that students never,
for a minute, imagine I consideranything that comes out of my
mouth the ultimate truth, nomatter how convicting my
delivery.
In conclusion, myItalian-American father was
raised Catholic, and my waspiermother comes from a long line of
Mormons, some practicing andsome not.
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Needless to say, no religion orbelief system was forced on us.
Still, in the third grade, I wasthe first of their four children
to attend church on aninvitation.
It was Methodist, and I ended upgoing regularly and becoming
involved in the youth groupthroughout grade school and
junior high.
But for much of my adult life,in addition to every
(47:48):
denomination of Protestantismand Catholicism, in small doses,
I've explored many ideologies.
To say I was a spiritual seekerwould be an overstatement, not
to mention a cliche, as therewas nothing deliberate about it,
nor was there a void to bedesperately filled.
I was simply curious and open.
(48:09):
I tend to resonate more withEastern philosophy and its
religious offshoots thanWestern, it turns out.
For that reason, I've practicedyoga, chanting, and meditation
for much of my adult life.
I've attended synagogue withJewish friends and even Kabbala
or Jewish mysticism.
In my twenties, I dated a guywho is now a Reiki master.
(48:30):
He was studying Chinese medicineat the time, which meant I
became the guinea pig for everyhot oil third eye massage in his
curriculum.
Not a bad gig.
When it came time foracupuncture, however, I put the
brakes on.
You get good at those needles, Iheard myself say.
Then you can stick them in me.
Somewhere in there I attendedwhat was called Chinese Church
(48:52):
by the friend from Disney who'dinvited me.
I don't remember much more thanthat, and the fact that it was
on the upper level of a stripmall in a busy corner.
It's important to know I hadbeen practicing yoga for years
by this time.
Details are fuzzy, but I recalla series of stretches with a bit
of chanting thrown in for goodmeasure.
The guru told us repeatedly wewere simply preparing the body
(49:16):
for meditation.
We were also told that doing sowas a long process, one that
takes years.
I came away with the distinctimpression that, according to
the guru running the service,one's body temple is not ready
for meditation until it has onefoot in the grave.
Though I respect tradition andunderstand the sentiment to a
degree, I have never liked theidea that nirvana,
(49:39):
enlightenment, or evenself-actualization is
unattainable.
The damning characterization theguru leveled on us reminded me
of the approach of a vocal coachwho came regularly to our high
school.
In the same vocal music programI presided over, which grew
eventually to become the oneafter which Ryan Murphy modeled
Glee, the coach would drill weakcaptive high schoolers with a
strange mantra (50:01):
posture, breath support.
Posture breath support.
The diaphragmatic breathingtechnique that was her religion
required that a great deal ofattention be paid to posture,
and the hideous sneer sheassured us was essential for
resonance.
With such a fixation on physicalcomportment, few ever graduated
(50:23):
beyond proper breath support.
Performing a song with anyexpression whatsoever was out of
the question, for sheer terrorof falling short of perfect
posture, breath, and support.
When I redeemed theaforementioned scholarship with
Seth Briggs Studio, I wasencouraged by Dale, the young
protege who was assigned tomentor me.
(50:43):
It was a positive experience Iwouldn't trade for the world.
But years later, when I soughtvocal training on my own dime, I
had a different experience.
Granted, it had been a while,read years, since I'd sung
regularly outside of my shower,I was out of shape.
The well-recommeded vocal coachon our first lesson had me
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execute 45 minutes worth ofvocal exercises.
None of the scales wereunfamiliar, but the intervals he
chose were the more challengingones I knew.
Only after 45 minutes of vocalgymnastics did he prompt me to
perform the song I'd comeprepared to sing, complete with
recorded accompaniment.
Of course, my vocal foldsflipped.
(51:26):
They were not only fatigued butspasming due to the abuse.
The song I'd sung dozens oftimes at home went quickly
south.
I sounded like alfalfa from thelittle rascals, after swallowing
a bullfrog who'd ingested a pipewhistle.
I was in my 30s at the time, nospring chicken.
Even on the ride home, it wasclear as day to me.
(51:48):
The man's approach wasstrategic.
The taxing exercises withoutwarm-up came before the lame
performance for a reason.
This is the kind of instructorwho makes you feel broken.
That way you need him and youcome back for much-needed
lessons.
I've seen it a million timessince, even among guest speakers
(52:08):
I've invited to my art centerclassroom.
My young students are sharp.
I can sense their resistancewhen patronized, pandered to, or
manipulated.
I vowed never to be that kind ofinstructor, one who relies on
another's brokenness, lack, orinsecurity to increase the value
of my content.
The good news is it's thefurthest thing from my nature.
(52:31):
And now the caveat.
The book you hold in your handmay introduce you to potential
pitfalls you may not havethought of.
The goal is never for the powerof suggestion to introduce
insecurity into your journey.
Medical student disorder, a formof hypochondria, is the
phenomenon in which med studentsfall ill with each disease or
(52:52):
condition they study.
An education in the arts surelyhas its own equivalent, but I
want no part of it.
During my own schooling, I washyper-vigilant about deflecting
external voices of doubt orinsecurity to a fault.
When we students were assignedletters to a young poet and told
it was the artist's handbook, Ienjoyed it.
(53:13):
But I was suspect of more thanone romantic notion it
proffered.
At the tender age of 19, I hadno desire to sign up for a
lifetime of suffering for myart, harboring angst, or even
indulging the solitude the bookdeemed the only true source of
inspiration.
I have since come to understandthe tenets with greater
(53:34):
perspective and less resistance.
But at the time, the defiancethat springs eternal in youth
compelled me to categoricallyreject, hook, line, and sinker,
what I did not wish to hear.
The ideas at which I trulybristled did not come from that
little handbook, so much ascertain instructors I was sure
were projecting their ownexperience as gospel truth.
(53:55):
In one case, a fairly miserabledrawing instructor warned us in
no uncertain terms that we were,in essence, paying top dollar,
our tenor is one of the mostexpensive private schools in the
country, to sign up for a lifeof depression.
Inspiration, he explained, onlystrikes after an inevitable
cycle of depression.
(54:16):
At 19, I did not want to hearthis.
Yet again, a few decades of lifeexperience has given me the
perspective to accept the truthin the statement.
With one small revision, Ireplaced the man's projected
characterization depression withthe word germination.
Any pitfalls, challenges, ordownsides to the artist's
(54:38):
journey mentioned in this bookare conditional.
Many things in life areuniversal, despite how unique we
all wish to fancy ourselves.
But varying conditions andcircumstances assure that shared
milestones and rites of passageplay out in unique ways.
If a suggestion is made in thisbook that does not resonate,
just let it roll off andcontinue on.
(55:00):
If a particular challenge ismentioned with which you do not
identify, count your blessings,dig in your heels, and
strengthen your resolve toremain vigilant.
This book is meant to beinspiring above all else.
In 20 years of teaching, I havelearned more from my students
about the creative process,various relationships with it,
(55:20):
and the artist's journey atlarge than I ever could have in
a book.
My own journey has proven agreat source of learning, and I
will freely share anecdotes fromit, but I will limit myself to
those I find universal whencompared with other testimonials
and the data I've gatheredinterviewing and polling
artists.
My greatest wish is to plant aseed, to light a fire, wherever
(55:43):
you may find yourself on theartist's journey.
It is, after all, synonymouswith the life journey, the
spiritual journey we all share.
Those of us called to pursue acraft have been given a unique
gift, the opportunity to honeour craft as a way of getting
good at life.
The artist's journey and thespiritual journey go hand in
(56:06):
hand.
Whatever your creative gifts, myhope is that you will value them
above all else by coming intoalignment with the immense power
of storytelling and art.
That you will accept the call torealize your capacity and
contribute to our collectiveevolution.
That you will accept it as abirthright, a gift, and a
(56:27):
responsibility.
Language of the Soul.
How story became the means bywhich we transform.
Introduction.
Everybody's got a story.
I can't count the times I'veheard the sentiment.
From magazine shows highlightingthe everyman on the street to
reality show interstitialsextolling contestants' virtues.
(01:06):
From the mouth of my own mother,who will shoot the breeze for an
hour if you let her, with everylone fisherman in a folding lawn
chair along New Jersey's PassaicRiver.
The great documentary is said tohave an emotional hook at its
core.
A universal story that speaks tothe human condition.
Even those feel-good humaninterest stories on the news
(01:29):
meant to balance the horrors ofthe preceding news hour,
uplifting images of firemenrescuing kittens from the boughs
of trees, all key into ourinnate human wiring for story,
our intrinsic appetite formetaphor.
As a filmmaker passionate aboutthe power of cinema to
transform, engaging not justintellect or emotion but all the
(01:51):
senses, I've traditionallygravitated toward narrative over
documentary.
However, I quickly learned whenseeking funding for my
independent films that mostgrants go to documentary.
As a two-time finalist for theRoy Dean Film Grant, I sat in on
countless pitching and coachingsessions on selling a passion
project in documentary format.
What I learned is this (02:13):
any agenda, however well shrouded in
the guise of unbiased reporting,is secondary to our human
compulsion to identify, to bondthrough our shared humanity.
This is the very definition ofstory.
The word story is thrown aroundincessantly in contemporary pop
(02:35):
culture, especially in socialmedia circles.
The word has become synonymouswith brand building and content
creation.
Along with terms likecreativity, the law of
attraction, and manifestation,the word story has arguably lost
its nuance, if not its potency.
These days, a great deal of lipservice is given to telling
(02:57):
one's story.
One is shamed for not findinghis or her authentic voice and
contributing it to thecollective.
This is hardly an exaggeration.
The fact that traditionallyimpractical institutions like
art or story have taken thefront seat as cultural values
represents enormous evolution.
The shift from a preoccupationwith base survival needs to
(03:21):
higher concerns.
The problem is nine times out often, the virtues of story are
being hijacked from their innaterole in culture.
In the same way, self-help gurusand life coaches use law of
attraction principles to promisethe manifestation of a yacht
over that of contentment,harmony, well-being, or inner
peace.
(03:41):
The mechanics of story are beingregularly appropriated.
Rather than extolling theirpower to lend aesthetic richness
to life, to shift paradigms orusher mankind toward human
potential, talking heads usurpthem as propaganda tools.
In lieu of opening hearts andminds, advertisers dangle the
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carrot of story as a means toopen pocketbooks.
If not the Almighty Dollar, thedesired outcome seems to be
political persuasion, otherwiseknown as power mongering.
In a tribal context, thebiochemical mechanics of
storytelling served propagationas bonding and affinity.
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In contemporary pop culture,rather than being founded in
inspiration and contributing tothe transformation of the
collective, they're more apt tofeed consumerism into little
more.
I may be in the minority, but Idistinguish between story as
transformation and story ascommerce or propaganda.
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The power of story to providecatharsis for the individual and
the tribe at large has beenwired into us from day one.
Far from masquerading as a workof art or a literary
masterpiece, this book seeks topreserve the innate power of
storytelling in its purest form.
To explain my zeal, let me startat the beginning.
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I was a weird kid, let's behonest.
At the age of six, I stood withmy grandmother on the brink of a
cliff overlooking the OwensRiver Valley.
The vast barren desert stretchedout before us, dissolving into
infinity at some indiscernibledistance.
My mind had been grappling withthe concept of eternity.
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Living forever, like the Biblepromised, seemed daunting to me.
More than that, the prospectthreatened to be boring at best.
Whatever would I do to bide thetime?
I'd finally gotten up the gutsto ask the existential question
that had been bouncing aroundinside my tiny six-year-old
skull.
Grandma, what would there be ifwe were not here?
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In retrospect, I'm not even surewhat it meant.
Did the we refer to her and I,humanity, or consciousness
itself?
On some level, I must haveinnately grasped that the
universe only exists, arguably,through the lens of an observer
with sense organs and a brain tointerpret the stimuli they took
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in.
But Graham was not big on headyconversation.
Her hand squeezed tighter aroundmine, and her reply was
guileless.
Just try not to think about it,sweetie.
Try not to think about it.
It said so much about mygrandmother and her generation,
I later understood.
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No one who lived through theSpanish flu, the Dust Bowl, and
the Great Depression could bebothered with the big questions.
Around the time I startedkindergarten, I found myself
already pressured by the adultsaround me.
When asked what I wanted to bewhen I grew up, my stock answer
was Winnie the Pooh.
My identification with the pudgybear would only later reveal
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itself.
In young adulthood, ondiscovering a book titled The
Tao of Pooh, I would understandthat Pooh's Zen disposition was
what made us kindred spirits.
Or more accurately, that bydeclaring my unconventional
career goal, I'd been aspiringto all that Pooh embodied.
I'd lie in the grass atBurbank's Creative Arts Center,
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the hippie haven where my EarthMama made clay pinch pots
interlaced with macrame, and hermentor Claude sculpted nothing
but dragons and fortune cookies,and contemplate.
Sprawled on the lawn, watchingtiny molecules drift from the
nothingness of space to settleon spongy grass, I knew I was
not alone in ponderingexistence.
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Claude surely had similarthoughts bouncing around his
imaginative skull.
I half suspected his dragons hadbeen inspired by a song that was
getting a lot of airplay onmainstream radio at the time,
Puff the Magic Dragon.
More likely, Claude had beendoing a little puffing of his
own.
The man's beard was bushier thanany I'd yet seen in my six
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years, and he sported earringsin both ears.
Claude was friendly with Ted,the Parks and Wreck gymnastics
coach, who went home to Jesse,the male ballet instructor.
The nature of their relationshipwas never explained.
My Zen disposition extended tohome life.
Whether watching growing rockstake shape in a fishbowl, too
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slow for my taste, frankly, orgazing into murky waters
watching sea monkeys materializefrom crystals, I found myself
reflecting on the abstract.
Were those sea monkeys sentient?
Aware of their own being?
Oh, it was a given that they toohad fallen victim to false
advertising, little more thancrescent-shaped specks the size
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of small fingernail clippings.
They swam lazy circles in thedim beacon of my flashlight with
its dying batteries, while theones depicted on the packaging
drove tiny cars and shopped,donning ti eras.
Despite their fingernail-likeappearance, I keyed into their
awareness, awakened the momentthey transformed from crystal to
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fingernail.
That as yet mysteriouselectrical charge that made life
of biological soup eons ago.
Yep, I thought more deeply thanany six-year-old rightly should.
And yet, doing so was not aburden.
It was an effortless inclinationthat made life rich.
My relationship with the NoahSphere was seamless.
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I was a fish breathing invisiblewater, unaware of its existence.
No different than those seamonkeys or the lazy, fraudulent
growing rocks.
Flash forward 30 years or so.
Midway through my stint inanimation, I realized everything
I've ever drawn, painted, orwritten, all of my personal
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works, were meant to illuminatewhat I saw that others did not.
Like Horton in Dr.
Seuss's Horton Here's a Who, Isaw entire worlds on tiny clover
blossoms, when no one else in myworld seemed to.
While working at Disney, I'dcontinued creating personal work
and writing every chance I got.
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In an unexamined way, mycreations shed light on the
metaphysical level of life, thesubtext in every moment.
Sometimes in my writing, what Iilluminated was psychological
subtext, the subconsciousneuroses or petty defense
mechanisms that led to tragedy.
Or other times the collectiveintelligence we call fate,
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moving molecules and mountainsdespite a character's free will.
Still other times it was thehistorical baggage or
preconceived notions a characterunknowingly brought into an
interaction that becameself-fulfilling prophecy, or the
energetic vibrationalundercurrent of a moment when
suspended.
All the stories I had told, withword or image, centered on
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waking people up, inspiringthem, or conversely, jolting
them into looking at, well,anything but the surface of
things.
In 2021, getting awoke is themantra of the day, if only folks
were more practiced at it.
I've preached seeing through thematrix of social conditioning,
or the spell dream illusion, asDeepak Chopra and Native
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Americans might call it, withevery breath.
In my twenties, hubs compelledme to view those who lived
unexamined lives assleepwalkers.
Growing up in a milieu ofalcoholism and dysfunction,
denial was par for the course,and I resented it.
The blinders I saw all around mewere distasteful.
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In my heart I knew that even thesleepwalkers had lucid moments
in which the spiritual journeyrevealed itself.
I knew that when they ignoredits call, it only knocked harder
to get their attention.
I knew that pride and egocompelled many to put off
spiritual work until theirdeathbed, when redemption was
inevitably put on the fasttrack.
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Most people seemed to get goodwith God just before Final
Curtain.
My tolerance for dysfunction wasdysfunctionally low.
The byproduct was that Ichampioned, and myself and
others, the respect for life inoneself that drove him to strive
for potential.
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If there was a spiritualjourney, I saw it as the
challenge to take theopportunities for growth laid in
one's path.
And yet, no matter how admirablemy glittering generalities, my
view of life was based in spitefor all that had threatened me
as a child, made me feel unsafe.
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At over half a century, I nolonger see things in such stark
terms.
Somewhere in my 30s, I began tounderstand that we were all
growing and learning the samespiritual and emotional lessons
as one another due to our sharedhumanity, despite any appearance
to the contrary.
It was simply hard to recognize.
We were all on unique schedules,the transformative lessons in a
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different order.
Some people were lucid about thejourney, possessing the
meta-self that compels one toexamine and share any wisdom
acquired along the way.
Others were tighter lipped, outof admirable humility.
But we were all, I decided,growing and transforming as long
as we remained above ground.
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The journey simply lookeddifferent on different folks.
Regardless of my evolving viewson the spiritual journey, one
thing became clear.
I had a vested interest ingetting people woke, long before
it was the trendy thing to do.
In the same way I delighted whenthose sea monkeys unfroze their
spiny microscopic selves from acrystalline state and began
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swimming lazy circles.
I thrilled to the fantasy othersand the world had the capacity
to become the best versions ofthemselves.
My epiphany about the nature ofmy work was a defining moment,
no doubt.
I'd taken my first oil paintingclass at the age of seven, at
the same creative art centerwhere Claude sculpted his
dragons.
I was given a typewriter forChristmas at the age of nine and
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told it should last me throughcollege.
The stern warning was relayed bymy parents from no one other
than Santa Claus, of course.
As it turned out, Santa had beendoing a little fantasizing of
his own.
The typewriter would be lucky tolast through the following
summer, let alone college.
I quickly lost the E key when itpopped off and plunged into the
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vortex where stray socks areheld.
Given that E is a popular voweldifficult to avoid, I continued
pecking away at the sharp prongexposed in the key's absence
until I developed a stubborn butuseful callus.
There were so many things towrite about.
All accompanied by highlyrendered illustrations, of
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course.
And a question and answersegment that Mr.
Wilkins made sure to assign tothe class.
Needless to say, my intellectualcuriosity and burging creativity
did not win me friends.
Suffice it to say, my writingand image making evolved hand in
hand.
And in the spirit of Renaissancemen everywhere, or jacks of all
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trades as the case may be, I wasvoted president of the vocal
music program at my high school.
We competed regionally in theSouthern California Show Choir
Circuit, and I was awarded ascholarship to study with
renowned vocal coach Seth Riggs.
Having my hands in so manycookie jars was likely some
naive version of consideringmyself an artist with various
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modes of expression, in quotes.
The upside to having been raisedwith so much chaos and
dysfunction was the immeasurablecreativity that it birthed.
To my parents' credit, theyencouraged it.
Neighborhood kids would comefrom blocks around to play with
clay or make plaster molds andcast Halloween masks in liquid
latex.
It was not only okay to spillglue on our dining room table,
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it was encouraged.
My mother owned a costume shopfor much of my adolescence,
which meant our living room wasalways crowded with sculpted
foam rubber walk-around costumesfor the ice capades or the
entire cast of the latestcommunity theater production she
was costuming.
It was the sheer looming ofgraduation and impending
adulthood that led me to set mysights on Art Center College of
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Design.
Though it's the nature ofteenagers to think, on average,
no more than 30 minutes ahead,somehow the pressure got in.
That same pressure I'd rebelledagainst by declaring I wanted to
be nothing less than Winnie thePooh when I grew up.
As luck would have it, ArtCenter would turn out to be one
of the top design schools in theworld.
I characterize it as a stroke ofluck for one reason.
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I did not investigate a singleother art school.
A friend had been given ascholarship to the college's
Saturday High program andinvited me along.
A fire was lit for both of us,and not just because we got to
draw naked bodies all summer.
We felt we'd glimpsed apotential future that did not
involve flipping burgers andpaper hats.
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We were both inspired to meetwith the financial aid
counselors and an admissionscounselor.
Bringing my parents to campusfor those meetings somehow made
the prospect of attending thecollege real, within reach.
As did my acceptance sometimelater, a small miracle in
itself.
After Saturday high, whilemotoring through my general
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education, I'd taken the odddrawing 101 course in junior
college.
The portfolio I submitted hadbeen comprised of
cobbled-together figure drawingsand a few bad illustrations
inspired by Ray Bradbury's TheIllustrated Man.
Midway through my illustrationprogram, I interned a Disney
feature animation.
It was summer of 1990, whichmeant Rescuers Down Under was in
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production and The LittleMermaid was the last animated
film released.
Beauty and the Beast was inearly development.
The internship was general.
We interns learned thefundamentals of traditional
animation as well as all aspectsof the production pipeline.
Despite its wide scope, theinternship preened us for the
entry-level position ofin-betweener.
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As the production positiontasked with helping animators
generate the needed 24 framesper second to flesh out their
key poses, the in-betweeningposition was the track to
becoming a character animator.
I scored well during theinternship and was offered a
job.
Though some considered me crazy,I chose to go back to Art Center
to finish up my degree program.
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Conventional wisdom held that adegree was little more than a
piece of paper with littlecurrency in the field of
entertainment.
But my completion issuesdemanded I go back and finish
what I'd started.
When I finally graduated,despite what I'd been naively
promised by the internshipdirectors, the job was not
simply waiting for me.
On the contrary, it took somehustling to get back into
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Disney.
Repeated phone calls to myanimation mentor and my
in-betweening mentor and theinternship directors themselves.
I'd scored well during myinternship, which reflected well
on the program, and the artistdevelopment department that ran
it.
This meant they had a vestedinterest in championing me
during review board sessions,the weekly lunchtime gathering
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during which portfolios werereviewed by the key players on
whatever film was currently inproduction.
Together they weeded through thework of the 20 or so applicants
that made the cut, having beenwhittled away by artist
development from the hundreds ofportfolios that Disney receives
weekly from the world over.
After one of these sessions, Iwas given a background painting
test with a week to complete it.
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It entailed executing a mastercopy of a production background
from the film Bambi, matchinghue, value, saturation, and
technique as one would onproduction while maintaining
on-screen continuity.
The stars aligned.
There just happened to be abudget for a trainee on an
upcoming production.
The background supervisor andart director with the power to
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hire me just happened to be inthe room that day.
They could just as easily havestepped out for lunch.
Flash forward.
I had$5 in my pocket the day Ireceived the call to come in and
start work as a backgroundpainter on a tiny film to become
known as Lion King.
I worked at Disney featureanimation for 11 years on Lion
King, Pocahontas, Hunchback ofNotre Dame, Tarzan, Little Match
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Girl, and One by One.
The normal production cycle ofan animated feature, minus
development, pre-production, andpost-production, was 18 months.
But in the case of Lion King, Iwas brought on 18 months early,
during pre-production, to train.
I kept my nose to the grindstoneduring training.
I knew no different.
I just burned the candle at bothends for three years in During
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Art Center's program, one of themost rigorous and demanding in
the nation among privateschools.
I'd been the only one in myclass to continue working and
paying rent throughoutgraduation, out of necessity,
and still managed to be one oftwo to graduate with
distinction.
The thing is, it didn't feellike work or drudgery.
It felt energizing.
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The work was inspired, andthough I didn't know it at the
time, the universe conspiredwith me in the pursuit of my
personal legend, as Paul Coelhowould call it in The Alchemist.
I had learned his terminologymuch later in life, along with a
recognition of all the forcesthat had worked in my favor.
About eight years into my11-year stint at the mouse,
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Tarzan was greenlit.
Just as I had on Lion King, Ihopped on Tarzan in
pre-production, eight monthsbefore full production began to
help develop the look of it.
I was one of two artists to helpdevelop the alpha release of the
groundbreaking deep canvastechnology that gave the film
its immersive look.
On Lion King, I'd been blessedwith a mentor who walked on
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water in my eyes.
I respected him as an artist, agentleman, a leader, and a human
being.
My effusiveness has not wanedover the years.
I count it a blessing to havehit the ground running in this
way.
It was the same gentleman whorequested me for his team years
later when Tarzan was green-litfor production.
There were many highlights overmy 11 years at Disney feature
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animation.
Among them rank moments likewhen Eldon John first sat down
to the piano to pitch the songshe'd crafted for Lion King.
It was the first time thedirectors were hearing them,
along with the small crew thathad assembled.
Needless to say, the film becameone of the top grossing films of
all time and a globalphenomenon.
Eventually, the songs werepublished as sheet music.
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I'll never forget returning tomy high school for a spring
concert, the very high schoolwhere I'd been vocal music
president.
A true full circle momentoccurred on hearing a medley of
Lion King songs being performedby the very show choir that I'd
led to victory in thecompetition circuit years
before.
During my 11 years at Disneyfeature animation, there were
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too many highlights, too manyfond memories to count.
There was the thrill of seeingthat huge orange disc of a sun
rise over the savannah for thefirst time in a real theater
once Lion King was released.
There was the time I brought myparents to the Pocahontas
premiere in Central Park becausemy mom had never visited New
York.
The night before the screening,I brought my cousin Veronica
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from Jersey to the dinner inRadio City Music Hall's Rainbow
Room.
When our meal came, my cousinswiftly seated herself next to
Roy and Patty Disney, notknowing any better.
The couple have both sincepassed, but the picture of them
with my cousin hangs on herrefrigerator to this day in the
Jersey countryside.
During production on Tarzan, Ispent several months working out
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of our Paris studio, lodged inan opulent apartment Disney kept
for such purposes on the fringeof Place des Vosges.
Most prescient to the spirit ofthis book, I was surrounded by
artistic geniuses and masterstorytellers all day, every day.
I sat in on every story meetingin which Lion King sequences
were pitched to JeffreyKatzenberg, and then later, of
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course, when sequences werepitched by story artists to
Michael Eisner.
I was privy to every note thetwo powers that be disseminated,
and the discussions that ensuedamong directors and story
artists after their departure.
I listened to the likes ofStephen Schwartz, Alan Mencken,
and Howard Ashman finessinglyrics to support the
ever-evolving stories beingbounced back and forth between
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writers and storyboard artists.
This experience formed thefoundation of my current
understanding of story, theWestern storytelling convention
that informs screenwriting forcinema.
Listening to the rationale ofcreative executives, directors,
and the board artists themselvesprovided a myriad of
perspectives.
And seeing how all the discourseplayed out with regard to
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critical reception and boxoffice proceeds taught me about
the element of randomness.
This book will address theintersection between art and
commerce.
The two are not mutuallyexclusive.
Lion King represents the rareintersection in which literary
value and artistic integrity arethe very reason for the
universality that translatesinto box office gold.
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Just as important as what Ilearned about Western
storytelling structure was thevisual storytelling that was my
contribution to these films.
The technique, the craft, andthe conceptual basis of art
direction, I was honing, wasbeing folded into the mix of
what made me an artist.
Unexamined, I was beginning tosee both word and image as the
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means by which we stir the soul.
I left Disney over 20 years ago.
Traditionally animated or 2Dfilms were going by the wayside.
Though many of the decisions onthe part of corporate Disney
have been proven short-sighted,at the time, executives
attributed the success ofcertain CG films to the medium
and not the message.
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To the fact that they weredigital and not traditional.
The truth is, the film'scritical and box office success
had nothing to do with themedium in which a particular
story was being told.
Only with the story itself.
In any case, suffice it to saythat the axe fell.
Hundreds of artists were laidoff in a single day in LA.
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The Florida studio was shut downentirely, and eventually the
Paris studio.
In advance of the decimation,many artists were given the
option of making the transitionto digital technology by taking
classes at my alma mater artcenter.
Instead, however, many chose tojump ship.
The mentor whom I mentionedearlier that trained me for Lion
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King chose to pursue the gallerypainting he'd dabbled in but
never had the time to fullyrealize.
He now shows in Tahiti and hishome of Hawaii.
I chose to accept a mutualseparation agreement in order to
benefit from a nice severancepackage and begin telling my own
stories.
Long story short, during ayear-long sabbatical written
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into my final contract, I'dwritten a screenplay about a
broken heart I'd recentlyendured.
Writing it had been cathartic tosay the least.
Long before learningscreenwriting by Osmosis at
Disney, I'd taken plenty ofcreative writing classes in my
general education.
Writing was still in my blood.
Even so, I was green as ascreenwriter when I tackled that
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first extremely personal featurescript.
Whatever I lacked in craft wasmade up for by the truth my
feature screenplay spoke.
When I hosted a reading of themanuscript with Dr.
Quinn Medicine Woman's ChadAllen and other professional
actors, the consensus was thestory that had poured out of me
was more raw and poignant thanmost scripts they were normally
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handed.
But the sabbatical came to anend and I returned to Disney for
the final year-long option of mycontract.
For the duration of it, I foundmyself champing at the bit to
make the film I'd written.
I'd watched two fellow Disneyartists make the plunge into
independent live-actionfilmmaking as au tours, so I had
a model for the risk I was aboutto take.
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During that final year, thewriting on the wall foreshadowed
the falling of the axe.
The universe was telling mesomething.
I made the decision to take theplunge.
I'd begun teaching two yearsearlier at my alma mater art
center at the outset of myyear-long sabbatical.
I'd purchased a home so I had amortgage to pay.
Since my sabbatical was unpaid,I figured I'd need some bread
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and butter money during my yearoff in order to keep a roof over
my head.
I'd also reached a point where Iwanted to pass the baton and
give back.
At that point, I was nine or soyears into my 11 years at
Disney, but it had taken me thatlong to feel I had something to
offer as an educator.
I'd continue to learn and growand perfect my craft on the job.
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I'm not sure I'd ever feel I'dbecome the best background
painter or visual developmentartist I could be.
Still, with 16 nieces andnephews but no children of my
own, teaching would be my way ofbeing bigger than myself.
When I left Disney, I kept theteaching gig but not the house.
I put it on the market in orderto take the coming risk with a
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lower overhead.
I immediately attended New YorkFilm Academy, ironically here in
LA, to learn the craft offilmmaking.
After completion, I did whatevery last book on independent
filmmaking says not to do.
I spent my own money to financemy first short film.
The investment was well thoughtout.
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This would be my real filmschool.
Learning craft practically, inthe trenches, meant it would
really stick.
The short film was to be alearning experience, beyond
being a story I was passionateabout putting into the world for
art's sake alone.
Further, being shot on 35mm withhigh production values, it would
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serve as my calling card, thereel that would lead to the
making of the feature film I'dwritten.
The story was about the anatomyof heartbreak, a subject I felt
was too rarely spoken of.
The feature was titled GivingIn, and it still tugged at me.
Financing the short film thatwas to be my calling card was
not completely delusional.
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The student film that had beenmy thesis project at New York
Film Academy had made it intoseveral festivals.
I dipped my toe in the waterand, for good or bad, had been
encouraged.
The self-financed film destinedto be my calling card was titled
The Passerby.
It did well in the festivalcircuit, winning several awards.
It forged many fond memories andlasting relationships.
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I remain good friends with manyof its actors and crew members
to this day.
But it did not immediately leadto the financing of giving in my
feature.
In the waiting, I was talkedinto writing and co directing a
feature that garnereddistribution with Lionsgate.
A subsequent shortfall.
Dear to my heart, Outpost, alsowon awards in Garner
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distribution with TLA, thelargest distributor of LGBTQ
short film collections at thetime.
During my live-action filmmakingdays, I continued freelancing an
animation and teaching severalclasses in the entertainment
track I'd founded at my almamater art center.
The modicum of security allowedme to take creative risks.
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One day, I woke up to realizethe original screenplay credits
I'd garnered on SAG IMDB filmswith distribution constituted a
writing resume.
This, of course, keyed into mylifelong love of writing, the
one that had never left me sincefirst popping a key off that
manual typewriter at the age ofnine.
Having been raised in LA, I knewjust how many aspiring writers
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would have killed or died for myaccolades.
I'd stumbled into screenwritingcredits simply in order to tell
my stories.
I'd hosted no burning desire tobe a screenwriter.
It's just that I saw the two,writing and directing as
inseparable.
At that point I had no desire todirect the stories of others,
nor did I really have any desireto hand off my own unique
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stories to other directors.
They'd hardly know what to dowith them.
I suppose my singular vision iswhat makes an auteur, a
writer-director, or a walkingcliche as the case may be.
All I had to do was look aroundat all those aspiring
screenwriters pecking away ontheir laptops at Starbucks.
With their two-year make it orbreak it plan or their five-year
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plan to realize the value of theresume I'd stumbled into, I
immediately put my writing onthe front burner.
Truth be told, doing so was alsofueled by the fact that I
couldn't rub two nickelstogether to get a film made.
There's a conventional wisdomthat one must have a rich uncle
to get an independent film madein Hollywood.
I found it to be true.
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I had precisely one rich uncle,but any money he could have
brought to the table would havebeen dirty money.
Mafia money.
Instead of going the organizedcrime route, I'd been
resourceful and industriouspursuing financing.
Though I'd underwritten my firstshort film myself, the second
one, Outpost, involvedinvestors.
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Involving them turned out to bemore of a headache than it was
worth.
My films had all entailedambitious shoots.
The first broke a martial lawfor green filmmakers with its
inclusion of horses, a baby, andno less than 60 extras.
Frankly, I was tired.
Writing was a solitary pursuit Icould do at coffee shops, to the
smell of brewing Sumatra andchocolatey desserts, with no
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hundred-man crew to worry over.
Writing literary fiction for thepublishing world sounded like a
soothing bomb.
And so it was I cracked mylaptop and began haunting coffee
shops.
I had recently discovered DavidSideris.
This revelation happened tocoincide with a milestone in
aging, the awareness ofmortality that drives one to
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leave a mark.
Like Sederis, I'd spent time inParis and endured my own
comically tragic languagefoibles.
This fact, combined with myimpending midlife crisis, nudged
me to embark on writingnarrative nonfiction essays from
my own life.
I began performing them inspoken word events around Los
Angeles, even founding one of myown.
(34:05):
A few of the crowd pleasers gotlaughs, encouraging me.
Oh, I was no stand-up comedian,let's be clear.
I don't have the constitutionfor that.
If I ever fell flat or heardcrickets from a back alley, I
could always fall back on thepremise that I was reciting
literature.
Several of the essays werepublished in their own right and
included in anthologies.
(34:27):
In keeping with a recurringtheme, this encouraged me for
good or bad.
I continued teaching at ArtCenter, which allowed me to
continue indulging the craft ofwriting every chance I got.
In 2012, I wrote my first novelin a matter of months.
Oh, it had been germinating fora while.
A lifetime to be precise.
(34:49):
I had carried a long-standingdesire to write a
through-the-rabbit hole fairytale based on the hero's
journey.
I'd always loved stories likeThe Reluctant Dragon, Bridge to
Terabithia, Phantom Tollbooth,and Indian in the Cupboard, in
which the protagonist, usually aloner, encounters a mythological
creature in an unexpected placeand follows it to an alternate
(35:11):
realm through some kind ofportal.
I grew up on C.S.
Lewis and J.R.R.
Tolkien, among others, and foundmyself returning to the worlds
they created time and again asan escape.
During my general education,when my first niece was in
Pigtails, I'd begun such a fairytale for her, but it never saw
(35:31):
completion.
Twenty-five years later, whenTwilight Times Books picked up
my novel, The Nameless Prince, Idedicated it to that same niece,
who now had a growing family ofher own.
The publisher marketed the bookas urban fantasy, a subgenre I
didn't previously know existed.
I launched the book at Roman'sbookstore in my college town of
(35:53):
Pasadena, the very bookstore I'dfrequented since attending Art
Center in the 80s.
I'd always admired their artfuland literary lists, so seeing my
book displayed on NCAPs next toheroes like Shell Silverstein
and Roll Dahl was a dream cometrue.
I commented to a cashier thatthey'd surely ordered the book
for my upcoming launch at thestore.
(36:15):
He denied it, assuring me they'dordered it after simply seeing
it in the catalog and beingintrigued.
After the launch, I learned theropes of book promotion.
Readings, signings, guest blogspots, podcasts, and talk radio
interviews.
The sequel, The Royal Trinity,launched in 2016.
Both have maintained stellarratings and reviews, but have
(36:38):
yet to make me the next J.K.
Rowlings.
Suffice it to say, I have noLearjet on my landing pad.
For that matter, I have nolanding pad.
I've continued to win notableawards like the Writer's Digest
competition and Kraft Literary.
I've continued to findpublication in anthologies and
collections.
However big or small thecirculation, it's satisfying to
(37:00):
share my stories with the worldand create a legacy.
The most rewarding moments,those in which I feel the
completion of a circuit, occurwhen I know the work has landed
with someone.
It's usually a complete strangerin the way of the shoemaker's
children.
During personal testimonials,the particular way in which my
work has spoken to a strangermakes all the risk-taking and
(37:23):
investment worthwhile.
One would think working on thetop grossing animated films of
all time would have held somewater with my 16 nieces and
nephews.
If my occupation had anycurrency at all, it was kept
secret from me under the guiseof playing it cool.
Other than giving myself themoniker Uncle Disney, the guy
who could use his silver past toget up to five people into
(37:46):
Disneyland at any given time, Imay as well have been a concrete
salesman or a CPA.
At one point, I so overdosed onall things Disney that I found
myself driving to Anaheim to getmy relatives in Disneyland's
gates, then turning around anddriving home.
One can only take so much of thehappiest place on earth.
(38:07):
It's usually an Uber driver, agrown man, who tells me Lion
King was his favorite movie as akid.
When I let slip, I worked for alittle company called Walt
Disney.
I feel blessed to have been partof a moment in time when the
stars aligned.
The window of time I spent withDisney feature has become known
as the Renaissance of 2Danimation, and it was a wave we
(38:29):
all rode as far as it would takeus.
I still have lunch on occasionwith Roger, one of the two
directors of Lion King.
We regularly reminisce about ashared moment in time, a magical
one in which the stars aligned,allowing an unlikely family to
put stories out into thenoosphere that changed the face
of culture.
(38:50):
Since the Renaissance ended,along with indulging my writing,
I've continued to teach and keepat least one foot in animation.
The visual development work Iwas able to do at Disney by
jumping onto films in the earlystages meant I had visual
development experience onleaving.
The bulk of the work I do now isas a visual development
generalist.
(39:10):
I have worked in that capacityor as a concept artist in both
2D animation and 3D or CG andtelevision animation and feature
both as well as in gaming.
Over the years I haveillustrated middle grade books
and books for young readers forall the majors Putnam, Random
House, Harcourt, Penguin,Hyperion, etc.
(39:30):
I've worked as both a freelancerand an in-house independent
contractor.
What this means is I have hadthe opportunity to glimpse many
different cultures at manydifferent studios, different
production pipelines andmethodologies, different
protocols and practices.
Though many traditions andconventions remain universal and
consistent across the board, thespirit of the work and the
(39:53):
intention behind it can differvastly, as can the business
model.
The intersection between art andcommerce is a tricky one.
I've never been so blessed as Iwas at Disney when it comes to
respect for artistry.
Most crucial to the spirit ofthis book, the conversation
around word and image, thelanguage of the soul.
(40:13):
The breadth of my experience andthe privilege to have crossed so
many genres and formats in mycareer, so many mediums, means
that I have become intimatelyacquainted with the trappings of
each.
All storytelling formats havedifferent, quote, rules.
It's said that film is a feelingmedium, one in which one must
show it, don't say it.
(40:35):
There's nothing worse than usinga character as a mouthpiece for
needed exposition, and we allknow it when we see it.
One must demonstrate acharacter's essence through his
or her actions, rather thanspoon feeding it in dialogue.
More importantly, showingthrough action rather than
narration is what, among otherthings, keeps butts in the
(40:55):
seats.
It's said that literature reliesmore heavily on inner dialogue,
and theater ventures into verycerebral territory that would be
a snooze fest in cinema.
When it comes to art directionand design, the look of a film
is largely story-driven in bothanimated and live-action film.
See Chapter 4, Image and Story,worth a thousand words.
(41:17):
But in gaming, story be damned,it's all gameplay.
Design is not driven by thevisual reinforcement of thematic
content or even a linear storyarc that can be supported with
color palette.
It's driven by what's cool,what's trendy, and what best
suits gameplay.
For example, when a playerreaches a given level in a game,
(41:39):
Silent Hill comes to mind forwhich I designed many characters
around the release of the movie.
A sound cue might alert theplayer that the big boss of that
level is in the vicinity.
That sound cue might motivate adesign decision like an axe that
can be dragged across the floorof the burned-out abandoned
hospital.
I joke that having been spoiledby artistic genius at Disney, I
(42:00):
often want to tear my hair outin other cultures.
In gaming, the most thought-outbit of art direction I received
on Silent Hill was put a hook onit, dude.
Man, that would be sweet.
Regardless, I feel blessed tohave been able to explore
different modes of expression,different mediums, and the
unique way each touches heartsand minds.
(42:21):
The final chapter of this book,Finding Your Voice, speaks to
the ongoing journey ofdiscovering one's personal flair
and empowering the work with it.
The lifelong artistic journeytends to feature universal
milestones like discovering whyone has chosen a given craft in
the first place.
My relationship with my personalwork has evolved concurrently
(42:42):
with my life journey, if notwith the technique I perfected
in my professional career.
My own authentic voice, the onethat most closely reflects what
I uniquely have to say in theworld, has infused itself in my
writing.
My voice as a writer is far moremature than any voice I might
apply in the fine art world.
(43:04):
Not to mention it's been marriedwith a sense of purpose.
The production art I produced inanimation, an illustrator by
trade and a visual developmentartist slash background painter
in the animation industry,provided a skill set and a
living I would not trade for theworld.
But the understanding of story Ilearned in animation is what
I've carried forward.
(43:24):
And what I cherish most.
My love of story, my passion forthe role it plays in culture and
the power it possesses totransform individuals and change
the world at large is whatdrives me now.
The thread has remainedunbroken.
From the moment I watched thosesea monkeys break out of their
crystalline state to swim lazycircles in the dim beam of my
(43:47):
flashlight.
Through the moment in mytwenties I realized what all my
creations had sought toaccomplish throughout life, to
the unapologetic now or neverfire that fuels me since a
recent brush with death.
Threading it all together is adeep desire to illuminate, to
inspire.
I continued teaching atArtCenter for 20 years after
(44:08):
leaving Disney.
The electives I initiallypitched, the first entertainment
offerings in the illustrationdepartment, became the basis of
ArtCenter's entertainment track.
The program has since divergedinto today's entertainment arts
and entertainment design tracks,and effectively spun out of
control.
The good news is entertainmentis not going anywhere anytime
(44:30):
soon, nor is the fundamentalhuman drive to tell stories and
partake in them.
My classroom experience,witnessing the various
relationships my students enjoywith the creative process and
the lifelong artist's journey atlarge, has taught me more than
anything I could have read in abook.
That experience, along with myown journey, forms the basis of
(44:52):
the perspectives offered in thisbook.
When I first began teaching, Iwas hesitant to impart anything
definitive.
Or to own it anyway.
It was much more comfortable forme to share conventional
wisdoms, schools of thought, orexisting principles that could
not be characterized as myopinion.
This convenient escape hatch wasbased on an understanding that
(45:15):
art and beauty have remainedelusive and ineffable.
I was not going to be the firstto define the concepts or claim
that there was a right or wrongway to approach them.
I regularly qualified my contentby reminding students to be
judicious and synthesize allperspectives to which art school
exposed them.
I was simply there to offerexisting schools of thought,
(45:36):
perhaps in juxtapositions thatmight inspire them to draw new
conclusions of their own.
I was there to expose them totools they might not have
otherwise considered in theirown work, tried and true
conventions plucked directlyfrom centuries of perspective or
light logic, from GestaltStudies or Chevrolet's Laws of
Color Theory.
I was there to orchestrateconversations between peers and
(45:59):
start dialogues.
To me, asking the questions anddialoguing about them was as
important as answering themdefinitively.
Adding to my distortedreticence, of which I have since
cured myself, life is short, Iwas a big fan of the Socratic
method.
I knew that anything definitiveone could say, starting with the
sky is blue, could ultimately bedisproven if enough questions
(46:22):
were asked.
Flux, perspective, and semanticswould always win out over the
realm of black and white,quantifiable quote, knowledge.
Needless to say, I'd paintedmyself quite literally into a
corner.
The hard truth was, no matterhow many times I reminded
students of the above, the sheerpassion with which I delivered
(46:44):
material said otherwise.
Being Italian, I could discuss ahangnail with the same zeal as
the second coming of Christ.
And so it was that I eventuallylet it all go and stopped
monitoring, editing myself.
With the exception of onegrandiose speech at the top of
the term about perspective,semantics, and flux.
(47:05):
The speech inevitably ends withthe plea that students never,
for a minute, imagine I consideranything that comes out of my
mouth the ultimate truth, nomatter how convicting my
delivery.
In conclusion, myItalian-American father was
raised Catholic, and my waspiermother comes from a long line of
Mormons, some practicing andsome not.
(47:27):
Needless to say, no religion orbelief system was forced on us.
Still, in the third grade, I wasthe first of their four children
to attend church on aninvitation.
It was Methodist, and I ended upgoing regularly and becoming
involved in the youth groupthroughout grade school and
junior high.
But for much of my adult life,in addition to every
(47:48):
denomination of Protestantismand Catholicism, in small doses,
I've explored many ideologies.
To say I was a spiritual seekerwould be an overstatement, not
to mention a cliche, as therewas nothing deliberate about it,
nor was there a void to bedesperately filled.
I was simply curious and open.
(48:09):
I tend to resonate more withEastern philosophy and its
religious offshoots thanWestern, it turns out.
For that reason, I've practicedyoga, chanting, and meditation
for much of my adult life.
I've attended synagogue withJewish friends and even Kabbala
or Jewish mysticism.
In my twenties, I dated a guywho is now a Reiki master.
(48:30):
He was studying Chinese medicineat the time, which meant I
became the guinea pig for everyhot oil third eye massage in his
curriculum.
Not a bad gig.
When it came time foracupuncture, however, I put the
brakes on.
You get good at those needles, Iheard myself say.
Then you can stick them in me.
Somewhere in there I attendedwhat was called Chinese Church
(48:52):
by the friend from Disney who'dinvited me.
I don't remember much more thanthat, and the fact that it was
on the upper level of a stripmall in a busy corner.
It's important to know I hadbeen practicing yoga for years
by this time.
Details are fuzzy, but I recalla series of stretches with a bit
of chanting thrown in for goodmeasure.
The guru told us repeatedly wewere simply preparing the body
(49:16):
for meditation.
We were also told that doing sowas a long process, one that
takes years.
I came away with the distinctimpression that, according to
the guru running the service,one's body temple is not ready
for meditation until it has onefoot in the grave.
Though I respect tradition andunderstand the sentiment to a
degree, I have never liked theidea that nirvana,
(49:39):
enlightenment, or evenself-actualization is
unattainable.
The damning characterization theguru leveled on us reminded me
of the approach of a vocal coachwho came regularly to our high
school.
In the same vocal music programI presided over, which grew
eventually to become the oneafter which Ryan Murphy modeled
Glee, the coach would drill weakcaptive high schoolers with a
strange mantra (50:01):
posture, breath support.
Posture breath support.
The diaphragmatic breathingtechnique that was her religion
required that a great deal ofattention be paid to posture,
and the hideous sneer sheassured us was essential for
resonance.
With such a fixation on physicalcomportment, few ever graduated
(50:23):
beyond proper breath support.
Performing a song with anyexpression whatsoever was out of
the question, for sheer terrorof falling short of perfect
posture, breath, and support.
When I redeemed theaforementioned scholarship with
Seth Briggs Studio, I wasencouraged by Dale, the young
protege who was assigned tomentor me.
(50:43):
It was a positive experience Iwouldn't trade for the world.
But years later, when I soughtvocal training on my own dime, I
had a different experience.
Granted, it had been a while,read years, since I'd sung
regularly outside of my shower,I was out of shape.
The well-recommeded vocal coachon our first lesson had me
(51:04):
execute 45 minutes worth ofvocal exercises.
None of the scales wereunfamiliar, but the intervals he
chose were the more challengingones I knew.
Only after 45 minutes of vocalgymnastics did he prompt me to
perform the song I'd comeprepared to sing, complete with
recorded accompaniment.
Of course, my vocal foldsflipped.
(51:26):
They were not only fatigued butspasming due to the abuse.
The song I'd sung dozens oftimes at home went quickly
south.
I sounded like alfalfa from thelittle rascals, after swallowing
a bullfrog who'd ingested a pipewhistle.
I was in my 30s at the time, nospring chicken.
Even on the ride home, it wasclear as day to me.
(51:48):
The man's approach wasstrategic.
The taxing exercises withoutwarm-up came before the lame
performance for a reason.
This is the kind of instructorwho makes you feel broken.
That way you need him and youcome back for much-needed
lessons.
I've seen it a million timessince, even among guest speakers
(52:08):
I've invited to my art centerclassroom.
My young students are sharp.
I can sense their resistancewhen patronized, pandered to, or
manipulated.
I vowed never to be that kind ofinstructor, one who relies on
another's brokenness, lack, orinsecurity to increase the value
of my content.
The good news is it's thefurthest thing from my nature.
(52:31):
And now the caveat.
The book you hold in your handmay introduce you to potential
pitfalls you may not havethought of.
The goal is never for the powerof suggestion to introduce
insecurity into your journey.
Medical student disorder, a formof hypochondria, is the
phenomenon in which med studentsfall ill with each disease or
(52:52):
condition they study.
An education in the arts surelyhas its own equivalent, but I
want no part of it.
During my own schooling, I washyper-vigilant about deflecting
external voices of doubt orinsecurity to a fault.
When we students were assignedletters to a young poet and told
it was the artist's handbook, Ienjoyed it.
(53:13):
But I was suspect of more thanone romantic notion it
proffered.
At the tender age of 19, I hadno desire to sign up for a
lifetime of suffering for myart, harboring angst, or even
indulging the solitude the bookdeemed the only true source of
inspiration.
I have since come to understandthe tenets with greater
(53:34):
perspective and less resistance.
But at the time, the defiancethat springs eternal in youth
compelled me to categoricallyreject, hook, line, and sinker,
what I did not wish to hear.
The ideas at which I trulybristled did not come from that
little handbook, so much ascertain instructors I was sure
were projecting their ownexperience as gospel truth.
(53:55):
In one case, a fairly miserabledrawing instructor warned us in
no uncertain terms that we were,in essence, paying top dollar,
our tenor is one of the mostexpensive private schools in the
country, to sign up for a lifeof depression.
Inspiration, he explained, onlystrikes after an inevitable
cycle of depression.
(54:16):
At 19, I did not want to hearthis.
Yet again, a few decades of lifeexperience has given me the
perspective to accept the truthin the statement.
With one small revision, Ireplaced the man's projected
characterization depression withthe word germination.
Any pitfalls, challenges, ordownsides to the artist's
(54:38):
journey mentioned in this bookare conditional.
Many things in life areuniversal, despite how unique we
all wish to fancy ourselves.
But varying conditions andcircumstances assure that shared
milestones and rites of passageplay out in unique ways.
If a suggestion is made in thisbook that does not resonate,
just let it roll off andcontinue on.
(55:00):
If a particular challenge ismentioned with which you do not
identify, count your blessings,dig in your heels, and
strengthen your resolve toremain vigilant.
This book is meant to beinspiring above all else.
In 20 years of teaching, I havelearned more from my students
about the creative process,various relationships with it,
(55:20):
and the artist's journey atlarge than I ever could have in
a book.
My own journey has proven agreat source of learning, and I
will freely share anecdotes fromit, but I will limit myself to
those I find universal whencompared with other testimonials
and the data I've gatheredinterviewing and polling
artists.
My greatest wish is to plant aseed, to light a fire, wherever
(55:43):
you may find yourself on theartist's journey.
It is, after all, synonymouswith the life journey, the
spiritual journey we all share.
Those of us called to pursue acraft have been given a unique
gift, the opportunity to honeour craft as a way of getting
good at life.
The artist's journey and thespiritual journey go hand in
(56:06):
hand.
Whatever your creative gifts, myhope is that you will value them
above all else by coming intoalignment with the immense power
of storytelling and art.
That you will accept the call torealize your capacity and
contribute to our collectiveevolution.
That you will accept it as abirthright, a gift, and a
(56:27):
responsibility.
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