Theo Ellsworth - Most energetically imaginative pen and ink drawings you've ever seen

Theo Ellsworth, Capacity (Secret Acres, 2008)

«Ellsworth's weird little tales sometimes read like acid trips of the future, complete with lonely robots and unknown creatures. But there's also a nice personal story threading through this. I have no idea why this guy isn't considered a comics God yet. Maybe someday he rightfully will be.» - Kevin Sampsell

«This hefty 336 page tome collects all seven issues of Mr. Ellsworth's fantastic self-published series of comics of the same name, PLUS well over 100 pages of new - and amazing - material. It is packed with page after page of the most energetically imaginative pen and ink drawings we've ever seen. There's a hint of Moebius here, but really, when you get right down to it, this book makes us think that Ellsworth's body, despite residing in the northwest of the USA, has been occupied by a spirit from gothic Europe; probably that of a monkish scribe who produced illuminated manuscripts that contained detailed architectural renderings... and this spirit is pushing itself into our world through Theo's skillful hands, manifesting itself here in these fantastic pages of comics, which, the more you look at them the more they really do seem to start to come alive and enter into the mind and spirit of the reader. We strongly encourage you to visit www.artcapacity.com to help prepare yourself for the experience. Theo Ellsworth's talent is clearly working at maximum capacity.» - www.copaceticcomics.com/comics/484

«Ellsworth is a self-taught artist who has been making and self-publishing comics for sometime now, and is also the co-founder of the Pony Club art gallery in Portland, Oregon. Capacity collects seven previously self-published comics of Ellsworth (also called Capacity and numbered 1-7) along with 150 pages of new work. This new work is largely comprised of Ellsworth’s own commentary on the creative process that went into making each of the seven issues of the Capacity comics, as well as some other self-contained vignettes. For instance, before showing us Capacity #1, Ellsworth describes how he reached a crisis in his own creative process—starting and not finishing numerous works—and how this ultimately lead to the Capacity series. He notes in a manner that is sincere yet self-aware that “every one of the following stories is completely true. Each one of them documents something that actually happened inside my head”. It is in this way that Capacity seems to begin to function as a material stand-in for both Ellsworth’s dreams and imagination.
Unlike some of the other bits of popular culture that have used self-reflexive or memoir techniques, Capacity avoids situating the reader as merely an observer to what sometimes seems like self-indulgence or navel-gazing. In the introduction to the work, the reader is introduced to a character that looks something like a totem-pole in a space suit with a flower pot on its head. Ellsworth asks that “for an enhanced appreciation of this narrative, please pretend this [totem-pole spaceman] is you”. The reader remains an active character throughout book, observing the ‘skits’ (as Ellsworth calls them) that play out on the stage of “the thing from the chest” as “the thing from the attic,” also known as the author’s brain, narrates, as well as ultimately helping the author achieve creative mastery in a climatic, exciting ending that I won’t ruin here.
If that all sounds interesting so far, it doesn’t begin to touch on how Capacity actually looks. While the story and structure of Capacity is fun and imaginative, the art is still the book’s strongest suit. Each and every page is overflowing with engulfing and elaborate dream-worlds filled with monsters, tea gnomes, clouds, and imaginary forests, just to name a few. The style and layout change throughout most of the book and sometimes seem to lack cohesion, but the commentary between ‘skits’ saves this from ever becoming problematic. The detail on some pages, for instance at the beginning of the “Eye to Eye” skit, is so breath-taking and elaborate that I believe it stands out as the most immersive of comics since Windsor McCay created his highly detailed tableaus for his Little Nemo in Slumberland comics. The drawings in Capacity truly beg the cliché “you have to see it to believe it”.
If you were wondering if art could be made that is both self-aware and sincere, experimental but not at the cost of being humanistic, here is your answer. This ability to make a self-reflexive piece of art that is neither ironic nor over-stylized is what is truly exciting and innovative about Theo Ellsworth’s first full-length graphic novel. Capacity does not just show you magic, but embodies magic itself. In a year where self-reflexivity seemed either overshadowed by the drum machine or hampered by the wry, snarky smile of the silver screen, Capacity manages to avoid being gimmicky in its look inward and instead enchant and endear.» - Sara Cole
«Capacity is a collection of one cartoonist's attempts to nail down his own creative process, to fill in the gaps between his artful depictions of his own imagination with an honest explanation of the motives behind them, and yet, at no point does one get the sense that he's a self-deluded prick who would be much happier doing just about anything other than drawing cartoons based around his own thoughts. On top of that, despite blurring the lines constantly about who the man is behind the cartoons, despite off-handedly mentioning that he lived out of his car or created a work of cartoon art that, due to it's cumbersome size, is unlikely to be seen by anyone who doesn't show up at his home, Theo Ellsworth completely fails to come across as someone with a trace of foolish arrogance. He's just an artist, and he's completely content to let the work stand on its own.
The Capacity collection consists of Theo's various Capacity mini-comics, along with a interweaving bridging story that consists, for the most part, of a substitute author who leads another character (one that is constantly referred to by a blank line that the reader is supposed to fill in with their own name) through the various chapters, most of which consist of reprints of the mini-comics. From a weight of sheer page count, the longest official "story" in Capacity is probably the bridging sections which also serve as bookends to the narrative. For what they are, the bridging sections are probably the true test of the reader--they end up being more baldly honest then anything else in Capacity, and their very nature could end up being more precious then some readers can handle. This reader didn't have a problem with them--but still, it's completely understandable that some comics fans may have reached their limit of how much time they want to spend with this kind of sincerity.
The remainder of Capacity though - and here's where all that time in the 20-something tea party of whimsy pays off--is the mini-comics themselves. Theo's greatest strengths lays in his cartooning, and when the guy starts drawing these gigantic fantasy structures, these gargantuan Aztec-looking statues covered in slides and highways, it makes for a brilliant experience. It helps that Theo embraces one solid fact throughout, a simple one that would benefit anyone who tries to spend their time creating fantasy architecture: make sure that the fantastic has logic. No matter how easy it would be for Ellsworth to just draw his intricate structures with no rhyme or reason, he takes the time to construct some kind of convoluted--yet wholly accurate--Rube Goldberg structure, often by way of the smooth plastic of the old Mousetrap board game. Sure, these mazes, these slides and pennywhistle compounds that end up looking like some kind of alien oil rig on Jack Kirby's Apokolips--they couldn't ever be "real." But they've got weight to them, and the path the little substitute character takes is one that makes sense. You can trace it with your finger--and if the odd little pieces of text are to be believed, Ellsworth would probably like it much better if you did. On top of that, there's pages of the things, and yet he's smart enough to split them up between his own renditions of the classic indi-comics anthology staples--here's a couple of unfunny gag panels about a He-Man type character named Voltan, here's his rejected anthology submission (an overwrought anti-war poem that's as frankly honest as it is lazily repellent), here's his random take on commercials for fake products--and then it's back to the structures. By the time Theo gets around to telling stories--odd dream riffs about a seven year party that was over in seconds, or an attempt by the heart and brain to meet separately to plan the capture of dreams--the overall weight of the book's honesty becomes apparent. More then just an attempt to capture the mundane fancy of a meal, or a boring relationship, Capacity makes the entirety of its author's mind the focus, and then chooses to tell the story as frankly as possible. While it's a comic that probably won't end up making it to the home of as many readers as it deserves, it's a damn fine one, and it's a testament to good taste that the Secret Acres company is putting this much care into something that too few care about.
Theo Ellsworth's imaginary cities are densely populated with funny monsters, hybrid animals, Mazatec gods, visiting aliens, and other members of his seemingly infinite bestiary. And yet they're a little lonely, too, and their creator seems to want company. Perhaps that's why, over the course of Capacity-- which sandwiches all seven issues of the Portland, Oregon, artist's eponymous self-published comic between a hundred pages of semiautobiographical hide-and-seek--Ellsworth seeks, again and again, to transform the reader into his silent witness and co-conspirator.
Upon being inserted (gently) into Ellsworth's intricately rendered imaginary world, a place in which Maurice Sendak or Dr. Seuss would feel right at home, the reader is gradually initiated into the artist's hermetic headspace. We learn about his creative process (long walks spark countless interior "skits" he subsequently draws into existence) and about his personal life (living in his car and house sitting gradually gave way to his current domestic tranquility). After initially fearing that his demons would catch him, Ellsworth now relies on his own, self-created monsters to catch him when he falls.
Ellsworth matures impressively as an artist over the course of Capacity's seven issues. The withdrawn cartoonist in issue one assumes an almost shamanic identity by the end of its run. The narrative, such as it is, remains secondary to the many elaborate full-page illustrations that pepper the book. Entire worlds condense into symbolic headgear in some of drawings; bodies, cities, and amusement parks metastasize into something considerably trippier than the sum of their parts in others.
After assisting him in his quest for "full access to my subconscious, without going insane!" the reader is gently sent away and the artist returns to his studio and shuts the door. Having become acquainted with the multitude of gods and monsters inhabiting Ellsworth's head, you may be tempted to ask, "Who's the lonely one now?"» - Richard Gehr
«The first thing that struck me about this comic book is that in every panel, everything is alive. Objects and creatures (including humans) mix. For example, there's a human whose head is part helmet-birdhouse and whose chest resembles a cuckoo clock, with a little opening under a drawn heart for the bird to come out of. There is a monster partly made up of roots, because everything is part of the natural world, too. Almost all of the buildings have faces, there are faces everywhere.
And he invites you in to this, completely. He invites you to become the mute being who bears witness to his story, but in a very active, very present, and necessary way. You are necessary to the story. (Or maybe I'm psychotic; I felt that way). The monster welcomes you into the story, you are given a blank on which to write your name as he greets you, and he (Theo, not the monster) asks you, How does the monster's breath smell? He apologizes if it's terrible. He encourages you to envision your view from your new perch atop the monster's head as he carries you to where the story will be told.
All in all, there's a lot here expressing (and inviting) interconnectedness.
Theo takes you through his dreams and through his waking hours, but I'd be hard-pressed to tell you the difference, as he appears to be one of those lucky guys that sees magic everywhere. When you enter the comic, you enter a dream, whether it claims to be waking life or no. Matter is more visibly fluid than in my waking life (though I'm making an effort to see things this way). The monster who greets you morphs various times, trying to come up with a physical identity which suits him, but this doesn't disturb the action or his monologue.
Theo here creates not another world, but many other worlds, and he gives them all an incredible amount of detail. He tells us "Stories always get more complex the closer I look at them. Even the tiniest character could have whole worlds inside of them, and those worlds could be filled with characters that have stories of their own. I become terrified of losing myself."
But he listens to everyone, even if they don't speak a language he understands, trying to understand and give each one a voice. Which is the very idea of St. Lucy, and of Tlon: to be able to unhinge from your own perspective, which defines yourself; to make yourself open to many, often completely foreign perspectives; to immerse yourself in them, and become something utterly new. This is what he offers us, as he invites us in.
Later in the comic, there is a brief performance of a conversation between a man (the author) and a woman. The woman gives herself over to all of her emotions, showing what kind of creature each of them would be--what you would see if you could see each of her moods, instead of her regular old body costume. (This section almost seems like a tool for dream exercises: If in a dream, I'm being chased through an abandoned house by a noisy puppet, what does it mean? But that's actually from a different section...) And then she finally asks him: what about you? If I could see what you feel like right now, what would I see?
His answer:
He opens his heart to you, and I mean that literally. You'll understand what I'm saying when you buy the book.
(note the two of them having coffee somewhere near the middle)
On Austin English's blog, there are 20 questions for cartoonists to answer, and Theo has offered his responses. This one is particularly telling (and also, I think, very, very obvious):
"1. can you describe your drawing routine---how often you draw, how many hour per day---how you break up the day with drawing?
I try to spend as much time as possible drawing everyday. It's a constant battle. There's always a list of other things I should be doing, but drawing comics is what I want to be doing. I try to get up in the morning and get right to work. On good days, I'll work maybe 10-13 hours. I have periods of time each day where I have to make myself completely unavailable (no phones or computers) just so I can sink into my own world and live there for periods of time with no interruption. If I didn't live with my girlfriend, there'd be a lot of days where I just don't see anyone. Other days, I'm running all over town doing chores, trying to get my left brain to help me keep my life in check. Other days, I'll draw all day with friends, which helps me feel less isolated and strange. The goal is to make art whenever and wherever I can."
You may look at all these super-detailed illustrations, realize that just this book is 336 pages long, and wonder: How is it that his fingers still work? Answer: His girlfriend is an acupuncturist.
At the end of the comic, he brings you gently back into your regular body, but not before letting you know that your time in his world has left you with some excellent benefits, not the least of which is inclusion in the Imaginary Body Club, which allows you access to places previously unavailable to you (as a person with only a real body).
Let's hope so.
Please also note that on his journeys, he seems to have discovered a few vehicles, gadgets, and snippets of language that Luigi Serafini left out of his record.» - zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com


«While print magazines are folding and newspapers are going bankrupt, Portland-based artist Theo Ellsworth has a dream that might sound slightly silly in this technological age. Nonetheless, one can't help but respect the man's dream and drive to revive the art of comic books... one book at a time.
As an illustrator with DIY roots in zines, Ellsworth started off his artistic career humbly, by way of hand-stapling photocopied comics and selling them at zine fairs. Since then, he has gotten a publishing deal through independent publisher Secret Acres and pumped out two beautifully-crafted books. His first book, Capacity, was a monster at over 100 pages and featured a wide array of shorter comic strips. Its dream-like, whimsical sequences received a great deal of critical praise and allowed for Ellsworth to publish a second book, Sleeper Car.
Sleeper Car is a great example of the lighthearted fantasy themes that are inherent in his works. At only 32 pages long, it contains what Ellsworth describes as, "mostly just silly, off-the-cusp kind of stuff I thought of while riding my bike or something."
And for the most part, Ellsworth works in just such a fashion. He conjures up ideas while getting from place A to place B and then visually spews out his thoughts onto paper, often without an idea of what the end goal even are. "Most of my stories have been shorter, so I'll just kind of play it out in my head a number of times and think of it from different angles," explains Ellsworth. "[Then] I usually just sit down and draw; I've rarely written it out beforehand. Even the bigger scenes in Capacity I'd sort of made up as I went and hoped they would all come together somehow."
And it all did, with Capacity being a book that, although not necessarily homogeneous, feels appropriately diverse. For the new book, however, Ellsworth finds himself having to change his methodology simply because of the enormous scope of the project. It will feature characters he has been developing since he was a wee lad, and as a result, all of the characters he wishes to write about have backstories that have grown quite hefty through the years. The challenge, then, is putting all of their stories into concise boxes and then deciding how to sequence them -- which are struggles similar to those one would face when writing a novel or a screenplay.
"I'm going to have some kind of chart where I keep track of all the characters and where they are and where they need to go so they don't get totally lost," explains Ellsworth about his revitalized process for the new book. "It's going to follow a number of different characters in how they come together, and it is going to be short sequences that lead together to form a bigger whole."
Contrasting greatly with the short, playful Sleeper Car, Ellsworth's next book will be a much more serious effort.
"[It's] going to be an all-out fantasy story and not auto-biographical. In a lot of ways, it feels even more personal. It's sort of the culmination of all these characters that I've been developing for years, so I've kind of been challenging to go to a point where I feel like I can tell that story," reveals Ellsworth.
It won't be the first time Ellsworth has attempted to tell the story, but it will be the first time where he feels like he has the necessary skills to tell the story properly. In fact, that is the prime reason Capacity evolved into what it is to begin with. "I tried starting [the new book] a number of times, and it never really worked. And that's why I started doing the Capacity stories. That whole book was me sort of trying to get a handle on the medium -- to just start drawing things I think about and daydreams and things inspired by actual dreams I've had," explains Ellsworth. "From the moment I finished that big book, I've just been writing away, building things, trying to work away on the next big story." – Interview with Vivian Hua
«BROKEN FRONTIER: Capacity - in broad strokes - is about your quest for the acceptance of your subconscious. After finishing Capacity, did you feel different about yourself? Have you changed as a person in any way after the book was finished?
- I feel like every work of art I make changes me in some way. The labour intensive quality of my work makes it an ideal tool for self reflection. At the same time, I’ve never really wanted to write about myself; I want to write character driven stories. But I felt like I needed to work out so many things inside of my own head before I could actually be selfless enough to clearly write about the characters I see. I joke in the back of the book, that Capacity was my thesis project for an imaginary school I’ve been secretly attending. Finishing the book felt like a graduation ceremony of sorts.
The goal has always been to get out of my own way, and delve as deeply as I can into this big story I can’t seem to stop thinking about. At the same time, I’ve always seen the possibility of becoming a Henry Darger type character, and completely losing touch with the outside world. So the other aspect of working on Capacity was to find a balance inside of myself, where I can maintain healthy relationships in the world without losing touch with my own creative drive. Creating Capacity was a huge step for me. In the beginning of the book I’m living out of my car, spending most of my time alone, and towards the end, I’m in a healthy relationship and part of an art community. I feel like the actual creation of the material in the book was the map that led me through all those changes.
Capacity's sole focus is your inner mind's eye, you could say; the way you arrange and view the world and how to put this on paper. Did you find yourself adapting or changing while working on the small press comics that preceded the collected edition?
- Every story seems to be a learning experience. Some of the work feels a little embarrassing now, but they also feel valuable to me because they honestly represent where I was at when I made them. I think each story helped me get a little closer to figuring out what kinds of stories I really want to tell. They were all an important part of the puzzle for me.
Imagination
The question that is on everybody's lips: do the mythical Aztec-like constructions and beasts really come to you fully formed? How does that process work?
- They weirdly do feel fully formed, yet I’m also making it up as I go. I just kind of start drawing and the details begin to form. It’s kind of like slowly turning a focus knob on a camera. I know that there’s something there on the page, and by drawing it, I’m sort of just bringing it out of the fog, onto the page. It’s a relaxing and invigorating process to me, and suspenseful, because unexpected things always show up. When I draw my creatures, I’ll just think “Lets see who’s hanging out by this building” and I’ll start drawing. A lot of the time it really feels like I’m being “visited” as opposed to making things up.
What is your own theory behind your active dream life? How do you access that particular mind's eye?
- I was reading Ron Rege’s great new collection called Against Pain a few weeks ago, and there’s this story about a kid who solves an impossible math equation by going on lots of walks and letting his mind wander. The kid mentions that when he’s on a long walk, he becomes relaxed and alert at the same time, and I thought “that’s exactly it!” Drawing allows me to get into this mind state where I’m relaxed and alert simultaneously. My drawings are so obsessively detailed because adding all that texture helps me delve even further into that feeling. Sometimes a square inch of paper can take up my whole entire world. I remember a lot of dreams, past experiences, and ideas while I’m drawing. Long walks and bike rides are also an important part of the process. Without exercise, I’d fall apart. It really is all about being relaxed and alert at the same time. That combination of feeling seems to be where art and dreams come from.
I fell totally in love with the way you make people fill in their own names in the intermediate parts. Are you in real life also such a nice and polite person, actively searching out interaction with other human beings?
- I would like to think so. The social side of me is kind of a goofball, and I’m never really quite sure how I come across, but I have a genuine love and respect for people. I feel awkward in group situations a lot of the time, but when I put myself into the right mind state, I love chaotic social scenes, and random conversations with strangers. I usually just feel like some kind of weird, walking cartoon that’s trying to pass as solid. On the opposite end of that, I have a more serious side that just wants to hide away and work all the time. It’s hard for me to find a balance.
Having the reader to fill in their own name in the blank came out of my own fascination with the fact that anyone who reads my book would be interacting with my own imagination on their own terms. I wanted to be able to invite them in and play around with the weird kind of suspension of disbelief that happens when the reader steps into someone else’s imagined world. Having the reader inhabit an imaginary body throughout the book was also my way of validating all of the preposterous, impossible things I try to do in the book. It’s my way of saying “See? It all really happened! You were there!”
How do you work out the story flow of your stories? Do you just dive in and see where it takes you or is there a method to your madness?
- I feel like my method is always mutating according to what the story needs. For the most part it all starts with watching a scene in my head, and trying to see it from different angles. I don’t do thumbnails, though sometimes I’ll work out a rough script. I’ll work out the flow of a scene, sometimes up to 10 pages of so, drawing really roughly, just to break down what happens on each page. After that, I’ll go back and start working out the details. I usually can’t tell what actually works until I put it down on paper. Other times, I’ll work out a story one panel at a time and make it up as I go. I’ve been doing a lot of short pieces this way lately.
Why did you choose comics to express your feelings in? What is your take on the validity of comics as a storytelling medium?
- To me, it’s the ultimate art form. It somehow seems to combine pretty much everything that interests me. I get to pursue my interests in architecture, clothing design, character design, mythology, psychology, the musicality of pacing, and just about anything I can think of. And all I need is a pen, paper, and time! I also love the fact that comics are so interactive. The reader chooses the pacing, lingers on the details in their own way, and turns each page. It’s a very intimate medium. I’m also interested in animation, but I really do feel like comics are the best possible art form to me, and it doesn’t really bother me that it’s not taken as seriously as other mediums. If anything, there’s a sort of freedom in that.
There's an inexorable design sense to your drawings, a sense of balanced order and immaculately laid out line work. Does this come natural to you or do you have a background in design?
- I never went to art school. It’s nice that you say my pictures feel balanced. I don’t exactly feel like I know what I’m doing. Whenever I’ve heard people talk about design theory, it never makes any sense to me. I just go by what feels right. It’s more of an impulse than an understanding. I do some pretty detailed pencils a lot of the time before I ink, but a lot of new details spontaneously show up during the inking process.» - Interview with Bart Croonenborghs