I’m super excited to announce that I will be appearing at the first annual Brooklyn Horror Convention October 23rd & 24th 2021. You can find me somewhere in the Artist Alley. I will post more info as it becomes available.
In preparation for my first real convention appearance, I’ve been painting up a storm and having a blast!
Below you can see one of my dear friends who will be attending the convention.
In addition to my original paintings, I will have an assortment of prints and postcards. Good ol’ Pumpkinspice will be on hand to ruin your pastries and spoil your coffee drinks.
I will also have a few copies of my illustrated book on hand. Pick one up for the monster kid in your life. I’ll even sign it for you (although that might actually decrease its value.)
Forgive me if you’ve seen it already, but I nearly forgot to mention this here on my own blog. I have a new book available! Below is the description from Amazon:
” It Came from the Basement is an illustrated, inky homage to monsters and monster movies accompanied by a collection of thirty-one ridiculous rhymes to make you laugh uncomfortably in the night.
Darkly humorous, M. R. Kessell’s It Came from the Basement lies somewhere between Edward Gorey’s The Gashleycrumb Tinies and Tim Burton’s The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy.
Intended for the monster kid in all of us.”
Available in print and Kindle format on Amazon.com
You may have seen here on my blog that I published a new creepy illustration and rhyme each day of October 2017 in celebration of my love of Halloween. I’ve spent the past few months cleaning up and compiling all of it into this weird little book.
I am self-published and totally independent. Please check it out or pass it along if you or someone you know is a Monster Kid too!
His empty hands dripped with sweat as he approached the altar on his knees. The creature with a million dead eyes was waiting, its many orifices watering, towering over the small human.
“I know that you crave constant stimulation,” he said, “and you demand new content continuously,” he put his hands up, “but as an artist, I just can’t do it. I have nothing of value to offer today.”
The beast reared back and howled, pulling taut the thousands of cables running from its body. It thrashed. It shrieked. Drops of saliva rained down. The artist shielded his head and vital organs, anticipating a swift yet painful execution.
But the beast turned away, laughing and gurgling, distracted by another’s offering; something loud, flashy, and viral. That would buy the artist some more time.
He crawled into a dark corner of the temple, where, being enveloped by the whirring of giant cooling fans, he could have a moment to just be human and think.