Yesterday I mentioned the passing of Comic book artist Mike Wieringo. It's always particularly hard for me to deal with the passing of someone in this profession. The death of Seth Fisher really struck a chord with me last year, and this one being so much closer to home is even more affecting. It's apparent that Mike was one hell of a talent who was cut down with this best days ahead of him and I really don't have anything to say that would shed any light or offer any comfort to people who miss him.

But as I drove back from a wedding in Florida at 4 AM this morning I couldn't help but recall the first time I met him. I was a teenager shuffling around the Heroes Con floor soliciting the advice of professional artists about my work. So deluded and youthfully arrogant, I thought I had what it took already. In fact I was so sure that at age 16 I actually tried to get work from a Marvel editor.

So after waiting in a short line, listening to this editor shower a few "lesser" artists with praise I steadied my hand and prepared to blow his mind. I confidently plopped my work down in front of him, grinned and waited for my coronation as the new King of Comics.

5 minutes later I had invented four new curse words to describe the editors mother.

15 minutes later I had quit comics for the first time.

In the span of a quarter of an hour I had gone from an irresistible force of nature to the phantom teenage ego... a deflation of self so hard and fast that it left innocent bystanders with wind blown mullets in every direction.

Fortunately the day was young, and I had a few comics on hand that I wanted to get signed. Or rather, I wanted to use the excuse of getting them signed to meet the artists. At the time I was an avid reader of the FLASH... I'd gotten hooked on the character by the work of a rising young talent named Mike Wieringo who had taken over the book as regular artist. Shockingly my kid brother, who normally could care less about comics, loved his work more than I did and prodded me into showing him my work. So summoning up what was left of my ego I approached... with these awful sample pages in hand...

I can still remember how kind he was to me. How he stopped a con sketch he was doing, basically interrupted a signing, just to look over my work and give me pointers. I didn't understand why he'd do that. Sure I'd walked over to an editor with all the bluster and ego according a teenage Foghorn Leghorn... but this was an artist I respected. He had no reason to take the time he did, much less show the genuine empathy for a kid struggling to find his voice. He said all the right things, basically restored my faith in myself in a way that helped me see that I didn't know everything but still had a lot to offer.

And best of all he told me my work was "ballsy", a comment I hang my hat on and try to live up to to this day.

Years later I got to know Mike a little on the other side of the table, never great, but I was privileged to do a few signings and spend a little bit of time talking to him after con hours. I don't know if I ever told him what he did for me that day. I'm kind of sorry I didn't.

Rest in peace Mike.

-J La