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Comic: Beauty Llama
cap, captain miss america
Beauty Llama

This is the Beauty Llama!

I went to the Durham Fair this weekend, which is an agricultural fair in Connecticut. It’s a pretty big one, with lots of neat exhibits and an old-timey farm museum. Plus, really great fair food– there is a stand that serves Polish food, like pierogi and kielbasi and golabki and potato pancakes, and my mom and I always get a plate of everything to split. We look at the chickens and have been keeping a more serious list of which breeds we would like to get (So far, we like the Orpingtons, the Ameraucanas, Rhode Island Reds, and Plymouth Rocks best, I think).

Anyway, one of my secret stories is that I once tried to convince my parents to buy an alpaca farm. I love alpacas and llamas, and we always spend a lot of time looking at them at the fair.

This year, there was this one llama that we nicknamed the Beauty Llama. It barely moved, just stood in its pen at whatever angle was most advantageous to showing off its silhouette. If the people looking at it moved, the llama would move only enough to angle its body so that everyone looking would get the full and glorious effect of its beauty. Vainest. Llama. Ever. So I drew it.

Mirrored from Antagonia.net.


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Ha! Its plan worked! You have immortalized it! :"D Nicely done, too.

LOL I want the Beauty Llama!

This may seem...odd but I am reading a book and I keep thinking you may want to look it up if you haven't seen it already. It's part "words" and part comics, a really unique blend.

It is "I was a Child of Holocaust Survivors" by Bernice Eisenstein

I read a lot about the Holocaust, in fact it was the subject of the only fiction I have had published (a short story.) And that short story was written for my first season of Idol (last season) It...to me, there is so much to learn from that time, including to realize that one person can persuade a whole group to do evil things and one should be sure to recognize that tendency in the future. But also, there is so much to learn about the strength of others with all they went through in that time.

Here are some reviews to give you an idea of what this book by Eisenstein is about:

Eisenstein illustrates her slim prose testimony with drawings in a dreamy, sad-faced style. B. -- Entertainment Weekly, August 18, 2006
Product Description
In this truly innovative memoir, Bernice Eisenstein combines her skills as a writer and illustrator to recount her early childhood in the 1950s. Drawing on the memories of her parents-both Holocaust survivors-and the fragmented stories of other family members lost in the war, she explores the impact of their legacy on her own life. Through her vivid prose and stunning illustrations, Eisenstein crafts a tale that is emotionally rich and visually arresting.

I Was a Child of Holocaust Survivors harkens back to Art Spiegelman's Maus but breaks new ground in combining graphic novel and memoir. Mixing sadness with bittersweet humor, Eisenstein describes her experiences growing up in the wake of the World War II. But more than a book about the Holocaust and its far-reaching shadow, this moving, searingly honest testament speaks to the universality of memory and loss.

Anyone who sees this book will be deeply affected by its beautiful, highly evocative writing and its brilliantly original, haunting artwork.
About the Author
Born in Canada in 1949, Bernice Eisenstein was awarded an honors degree in English literature from Yale University before moving to Israel and England to study art. Following her return to Canada several years later, she worked there as a freelance editor and illustrator for numerous publishing houses and periodicals. Today she is a regular contributor to The Globe and Mail.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I have always been able to step into the presence of absence. It is something that I have needed to do. But I have never found for myself the right distance from the time when my parents’ lives had been so damaged.

I was born in October 1949, in an area of downtown Toronto called Kensington Market. Bordered by Spadina Avenue, one of the city’s main north-south arteries, the streets to the west – Augusta, Kensington, Baldwin, Nassau, Oxford – held a maze of narrow alleys and densely packed-together houses. Eastern European Jewish immigrants arrived in the early twentieth century and made their first homes here. Residents quickly set up shop with bolted-down pushcarts in front of their houses from which they sold a variety of goods.

Those who prospered over time left their frame houses and moved north, to other parts of the city. After the war, room was made for the next wave of immigrants and, with them, shtetl life became transplanted and took root.

The day of my birth that year happened to coincide with Yom Kippur. I don’t know whether or not my mother fasted on the eve, but her Day of Atonement provided a new name for the Book of Life. I’ve never been quite sure if being born on this auspicious date meant that from then on I was off the hook for feeling guilt over any deed or thought or so riddled with it that I believed The Guide for the Perplexed, written centuries before my arrival by the Jewish philosopher Maimonides, was intended for me. Whatever. A state of confusion seemed an appropriate place to start from, especially within the labyrinth of Kensington Market, which was home for the first four years of my life.


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