The entire series is below. Click each page to see the full size version:
5/12/09
The Entire Brontobud Saga
Behold! The finale to the tragic tale of the immigrant Brontosaurus, Brontobud!
The entire series is below. Click each page to see the full size version:
The entire series is below. Click each page to see the full size version:
Stupid Comic with Good Art ?
I dug this up looking for something else today. It's a rejected comic I made for World War 3 Illustrated. You might find it retarded, but maybe you'll like the pictures? I do.
Click each page to see it full size:
Click each page to see it full size:
4/13/09
4/9/09
4/5/09
3/23/09
3/21/09
3/20/09
Anubizon & The Landlord
Made these at work. New design coming to www.doomescape.com soon. And new comics. Skateboards. Etc.
3/16/09
Volcom
Volcom saw fit to post one of my wee little pictures in their public art gallery.
Check it out at: http://volcom.com/art/PublicArt/index.asp
The final 5 Brontobuds are coming soon!
Check it out at: http://volcom.com/art/PublicArt/index.asp
The final 5 Brontobuds are coming soon!
2/3/09
BRONTOBUD 5!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
CLICK TO ENLARGE
Here it is, the long awaited Life and Times of Brontobud #5 of 10.
Check out the previous 4 adventures below!
Here it is, the long awaited Life and Times of Brontobud #5 of 10.
Check out the previous 4 adventures below!
1/27/09
1/21/09
1/20/09
1/17/09
Brontobud's New Adventures
CLICK TO ENLARGE
Catch the first of 10 strips detailing the trials and triumphs of Brontobud at his new job, pursuing the American Dream. Oh Brontobud, you're timing is so awful.
1/16/09
1/15/09
2008 never got weird enough for me.
Skeightfast Dyephun 2 is in full swing. Production by a pack of amphetamine fed lizards continues, now that we have a full management wing of coke addled ocelots to whip those lazy cold-blooded fucks into shape.
12/16/08
NEW SHIRT - "Lizard Boy Becomes A Man" from DYDRM
From DYDRM.com
Buy an exclusive t-shirt!
Does war turn a lizard boy into a lizard man? Either way, you can be damn sure he can ENDURE it. Based on the artwork recently featured by the Pen15 Club.
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Get yours here:
Lizard Boy Becomes A MAN
Buy an exclusive t-shirt!
Does war turn a lizard boy into a lizard man? Either way, you can be damn sure he can ENDURE it. Based on the artwork recently featured by the Pen15 Club.
Get yours here:
Lizard Boy Becomes A MAN
12/10/08
Skeightfast Dyephun Videos
Check out this videos that my buddy Pete made for Skeightfast Dyephun.
He's the number one fan, and he's got his own rad site, Sk8thePlanet.
He's the number one fan, and he's got his own rad site, Sk8thePlanet.
12/2/08
New Board for Sale at my shop
Grab hold of the DoomLord over at:
http://doomescape.deckpeck.com
Just $40 and you can own this badboy:
Come on, please buy a skateboard. I'm going to cry if you don't.
http://doomescape.deckpeck.com
Just $40 and you can own this badboy:
Come on, please buy a skateboard. I'm going to cry if you don't.
11/26/08
Concrete Wave Artist Profile: VTG
CLICK THIS IMAGE TO SEE THE WHOLE TASTY DANGEROUS THING PELIGROSO HERMOSOS
Click this page to see the full sized version.
Check out the latest issue of Concrete Wave for this hot shit and more hot shit and more hot shit.
Click this page to see the full sized version.
Check out the latest issue of Concrete Wave for this hot shit and more hot shit and more hot shit.
11/18/08
Pen15 art show at the Video Gallery
Video @ Brooklyn Hideaway
aimee lusty
victor giannini
susan belle
scott meyers
alan resnick
panos papalampros
laura bellmont
bene rohlmann
jon bocksel
rachel hauer
asa kawano
katey jean harvey
exhibiting artists (past and present)
aimee lusty
victor giannini
susan belle
scott meyers
alan resnick
panos papalampros
laura bellmont
bene rohlmann
jon bocksel
rachel hauer
asa kawano
katey jean harvey
11/15/08
Unity Skateboard "American Psycho" available now
Go HERE
And you can get this skateboard I designed for Unity Skateboards.
American Psycho or something. Dont' know where that name came from.
And you can get this skateboard I designed for Unity Skateboards.
American Psycho or something. Dont' know where that name came from.
Honor Roll to the Chariots of Fire/Pen15 Press
Got artwork in two ill shows in Connecticut and Brooklyn, with esteemed artists such as Scott Meyers and Amy Lusty, among many others.
Act fast and you can see the original drawing for my first Substance Skateboards Line, Doomscape I,II,&III, as well as the original artwork for the new shirt from DYDRM, "Lizard Boy Goes To War". And pick up a copy of the exclusive Pen15 Press zine, "What's Grampa Doin?"
Day One Skate Shop and Art Space
605 Brewster St
Bridgeport, CT 06605
Phone: 203.331.9525
Shop Hours
Mon Closed
Tue 12-7
Wed 12-7
Thu 12-7
Fri 12-7
Sat 11-5
Sun 12-4
and
VIDEO @ Brooklyn Hideaway
10 Goodwin Place
Brooklyn NY, 11221
Act fast and you can see the original drawing for my first Substance Skateboards Line, Doomscape I,II,&III, as well as the original artwork for the new shirt from DYDRM, "Lizard Boy Goes To War". And pick up a copy of the exclusive Pen15 Press zine, "What's Grampa Doin?"
Day One Skate Shop and Art Space
605 Brewster St
Bridgeport, CT 06605
Phone: 203.331.9525
Shop Hours
Mon Closed
Tue 12-7
Wed 12-7
Thu 12-7
Fri 12-7
Sat 11-5
Sun 12-4
and
VIDEO @ Brooklyn Hideaway
10 Goodwin Place
Brooklyn NY, 11221
10/28/08
Opening excerpt of "The Shark Engine Enigma", now published in Satirica
The Shark Engine Enigma
By Victor Giannini
Atonement
Porter Grimhause turned his back to the volcano, and carried his world down to the beach. His wetsuit clung to him like a desperate lover, a black seal skin mask to cover the scars of his burnt and naked body. Under his left arm, a 9 foot Robert August Wingnut II. Under his right, a coffee can, spray painted gold, loving inscribed with silver marker, vessel for his entire family.
The sand pressed into his feet, hot and cool at the same time. Grains mixing between his toes, slipping under the nails. His calves flexed and strained as he kept a constant stride against the shifting earth. He reached the shore, and knelt. He fastened the leash to his right ankle, while looking up at the pink and orange sky. Behind him, the tips of the city top, the mouth of the volcano. But the beach was empty. The sun would set soon. The deep beasts would rise to hunt, hammerheads and great whites. These were the hardcore hours, when only those who had to surf, surfed.
Emotion took precedence over logic. Only the freezing burn of loss, envy, and doubt filled his heart. Ever since the trucker smashed into their car, tearing his parents apart, ever since his fiancé burned in the back seat, and their child cooked in her stomach.
He carried the board into the water, holding the coffee can high. Like a warrior making an offering to his Blood God, Porter gave himself to green ocean. He threw his board forward, leapt onto it without impact, sliding into position on its glistening surface. The wax caught his chest. Back arched, head held high, he began paddling. Slow and confident, conserving strength which he held in abundance, each palmful of salty water pulling him further and further from the shore.
The sea’s gentle swell calmed him. The water licked at his face, cooling his brow. His hands became liquid ice, free from pressure and strain. He paddled out far, beyond the break. He sat on his board, perfect posture. The city faded in and out of view as the mother ocean lifted him up and down, but the volcano never vanished. Dark clouds were forming about its peak, even as the brilliant sun cast its countless shards across the water face.
Porter tore at the duct tape, releasing the vessel's seal. He hesitated for a moment, looking at his whole life, his past, his dreams, his future, gray and dry in this tiny hole. His throat tightened, and then he turned it over. Slowly, methodically, sprinkling his love around him in an even arc.
He watched the ashes melt into the sea, clinging to the sides of his surfboard, his legs, his hands. At last, he turned the vessel over, now just a coffee can once more, and banged on the bottom. He laughed. A circle of darkness wafted about. He sat in his circle, watching it slowly fade back to green, and his laugh lilted until it became nothing but strange sounds.
Another darkness swept the water. The cries of circling gulls drowned against his beating heart. Hands on knees, Porter squinted into the abyss. His chest tightened. The darkness faded from view, then swiftly returned, only to vanish once again. It writhed at it passed, like the demon ghost of a long dead belly dancer. Porter laid his chest against his board, calmly, and began paddling. Still slow, controlled, he felt the ocean begin to drop and drag him back. He prepared to catch this gift, to fly to the shore and escape.
The Wingnut II was a real down the line board, with a pull back nose, narrow tail, and single fin. With enough luck, grace, and skill, Porter would be shore side before the monster could rise.
The water level dropped. He kept his eyes on the shore, letting his years of instinct and experience time every movement perfectly. The volcano loomed above the beach, above the swaying palms, above the steel towers. He focused only on its silent peak.
Paddling faster now, shoulders burning with adrenaline, he seemed to lock into one place. His momentum met the gathering wall, and he was lifted up. Like countless times before, he gripped his board, and in one swift motion, lifted, sucked his knees under, and rose to his feet. He crouched, every muscle fiber tensed and ready, yet totally relaxed. Reaction, not thought. As Porter dropped in on the most important wave of his life, he wondered what happened to the coffee can.
Something bumped the bottom of the board. It was so casual, yet Porter lost everything. Pitched forward, he took a breath, only to see an opera house open before him. The water slowed around his head, huge drops hanging in mid-air. His lungs were burning, filled to capacity. He stared at the opera house, at the rows and rows of little people lining its ceiling and floor. Little triangles. No show on stage. Only flesh, and red darkness.
The teeth dug into his shoulder, wrenching Porter from stasis. Flesh stripped away like brisket. A stench of burning piss flooded his senses as black and red closed in, his face engulfed in razors and slime.
A burning light exploded behind Porter's eyes. This is it. The answer. The end.
Endure the final pain.
Porter fought back. He struggled like a fish being scaled. Flailing, seeking an eye or a gill to dig his fingers into. The beast clamped down, a force of nature with a soulless face.
By Victor Giannini
Porter Grimhause turned his back to the volcano, and carried his world down to the beach. His wetsuit clung to him like a desperate lover, a black seal skin mask to cover the scars of his burnt and naked body. Under his left arm, a 9 foot Robert August Wingnut II. Under his right, a coffee can, spray painted gold, loving inscribed with silver marker, vessel for his entire family.
The sand pressed into his feet, hot and cool at the same time. Grains mixing between his toes, slipping under the nails. His calves flexed and strained as he kept a constant stride against the shifting earth. He reached the shore, and knelt. He fastened the leash to his right ankle, while looking up at the pink and orange sky. Behind him, the tips of the city top, the mouth of the volcano. But the beach was empty. The sun would set soon. The deep beasts would rise to hunt, hammerheads and great whites. These were the hardcore hours, when only those who had to surf, surfed.
Emotion took precedence over logic. Only the freezing burn of loss, envy, and doubt filled his heart. Ever since the trucker smashed into their car, tearing his parents apart, ever since his fiancé burned in the back seat, and their child cooked in her stomach.
He carried the board into the water, holding the coffee can high. Like a warrior making an offering to his Blood God, Porter gave himself to green ocean. He threw his board forward, leapt onto it without impact, sliding into position on its glistening surface. The wax caught his chest. Back arched, head held high, he began paddling. Slow and confident, conserving strength which he held in abundance, each palmful of salty water pulling him further and further from the shore.
The sea’s gentle swell calmed him. The water licked at his face, cooling his brow. His hands became liquid ice, free from pressure and strain. He paddled out far, beyond the break. He sat on his board, perfect posture. The city faded in and out of view as the mother ocean lifted him up and down, but the volcano never vanished. Dark clouds were forming about its peak, even as the brilliant sun cast its countless shards across the water face.
Porter tore at the duct tape, releasing the vessel's seal. He hesitated for a moment, looking at his whole life, his past, his dreams, his future, gray and dry in this tiny hole. His throat tightened, and then he turned it over. Slowly, methodically, sprinkling his love around him in an even arc.
He watched the ashes melt into the sea, clinging to the sides of his surfboard, his legs, his hands. At last, he turned the vessel over, now just a coffee can once more, and banged on the bottom. He laughed. A circle of darkness wafted about. He sat in his circle, watching it slowly fade back to green, and his laugh lilted until it became nothing but strange sounds.
Another darkness swept the water. The cries of circling gulls drowned against his beating heart. Hands on knees, Porter squinted into the abyss. His chest tightened. The darkness faded from view, then swiftly returned, only to vanish once again. It writhed at it passed, like the demon ghost of a long dead belly dancer. Porter laid his chest against his board, calmly, and began paddling. Still slow, controlled, he felt the ocean begin to drop and drag him back. He prepared to catch this gift, to fly to the shore and escape.
The Wingnut II was a real down the line board, with a pull back nose, narrow tail, and single fin. With enough luck, grace, and skill, Porter would be shore side before the monster could rise.
The water level dropped. He kept his eyes on the shore, letting his years of instinct and experience time every movement perfectly. The volcano loomed above the beach, above the swaying palms, above the steel towers. He focused only on its silent peak.
Paddling faster now, shoulders burning with adrenaline, he seemed to lock into one place. His momentum met the gathering wall, and he was lifted up. Like countless times before, he gripped his board, and in one swift motion, lifted, sucked his knees under, and rose to his feet. He crouched, every muscle fiber tensed and ready, yet totally relaxed. Reaction, not thought. As Porter dropped in on the most important wave of his life, he wondered what happened to the coffee can.
Something bumped the bottom of the board. It was so casual, yet Porter lost everything. Pitched forward, he took a breath, only to see an opera house open before him. The water slowed around his head, huge drops hanging in mid-air. His lungs were burning, filled to capacity. He stared at the opera house, at the rows and rows of little people lining its ceiling and floor. Little triangles. No show on stage. Only flesh, and red darkness.
The teeth dug into his shoulder, wrenching Porter from stasis. Flesh stripped away like brisket. A stench of burning piss flooded his senses as black and red closed in, his face engulfed in razors and slime.
A burning light exploded behind Porter's eyes. This is it. The answer. The end.
Endure the final pain.
Porter fought back. He struggled like a fish being scaled. Flailing, seeking an eye or a gill to dig his fingers into. The beast clamped down, a force of nature with a soulless face.
10/22/08
American Psycho coming from Unity Skateboards
Unity Skateboards is going to start selling my skateboard, and t-shirt "American Psycho" pretty soon.
The Monster of Sunset Park at Fiction Circus
Fiction Circus recently published my story, "The Monster of Sunset Park". This is an updated, lean, mean, version of the same story that originally appeared in the anthology, "Silverthought: Ignition".
Now you don't even have to READ the story, they went to the trouble of recording a dramatic reading, which you will find at the top of the page. And I must point out, this awesome artwork was created for the story by the incredible future master printmaker, Justin Sanz
So read/listen to the story and see the art HERE
Here is what the good droogie Miracle Jones wrote about "The Monster of Sunset Park":
You can find the original post HERE
NEW STORY: "The Monster of Sunset Park," by Victor Giannini
by Miracle Jones
What is strength? Is it the quality of being able to dominate your surroundings and manhandle those around you? Or is it the quality of being able to withstand strife and torment, no matter how many times hell's lash stings your soul?
Sometimes we hold others in our hands. Sometimes others get their fist around us instead.
Is it ever possible to grasp someone while also being grasped? Must one person always be a monster, while another keeps them under lock and key, and another rages against damned, unholy love?
Is there any escape? And what did we do to end up here in the first place?
AS YOU READ "THE MONSTER OF SUNSET PARK," BY VICTOR GIANNINI, THESE QUESTIONS WILL HAUNT THE PERIPHERY OF YOUR CRITICAL FACULTIES LIKE STRUGGLING, ROTTING FLESH TURNING ON METAPHYSICAL SPITS. BUT IT IS ALSO A STORY ABOUT A DEAD MAN, HIS MOM, HIS GRANDMA, AND THE COLLECTION OF SIMULACRA THAT SIT STARING ON HIS SHELVES -- SHALLOW DEAD EYES THAT STARE BACK INTO SHALLOW DEAD EYES.
It's good. This story smells like worms. Someday, so will you.
Now you don't even have to READ the story, they went to the trouble of recording a dramatic reading, which you will find at the top of the page. And I must point out, this awesome artwork was created for the story by the incredible future master printmaker, Justin Sanz
So read/listen to the story and see the art HERE
Here is what the good droogie Miracle Jones wrote about "The Monster of Sunset Park":
You can find the original post HERE
NEW STORY: "The Monster of Sunset Park," by Victor Giannini
by Miracle Jones
What is strength? Is it the quality of being able to dominate your surroundings and manhandle those around you? Or is it the quality of being able to withstand strife and torment, no matter how many times hell's lash stings your soul?
Sometimes we hold others in our hands. Sometimes others get their fist around us instead.
Is it ever possible to grasp someone while also being grasped? Must one person always be a monster, while another keeps them under lock and key, and another rages against damned, unholy love?
Is there any escape? And what did we do to end up here in the first place?
AS YOU READ "THE MONSTER OF SUNSET PARK," BY VICTOR GIANNINI, THESE QUESTIONS WILL HAUNT THE PERIPHERY OF YOUR CRITICAL FACULTIES LIKE STRUGGLING, ROTTING FLESH TURNING ON METAPHYSICAL SPITS. BUT IT IS ALSO A STORY ABOUT A DEAD MAN, HIS MOM, HIS GRANDMA, AND THE COLLECTION OF SIMULACRA THAT SIT STARING ON HIS SHELVES -- SHALLOW DEAD EYES THAT STARE BACK INTO SHALLOW DEAD EYES.
It's good. This story smells like worms. Someday, so will you.
10/10/08
New Art In Space & Time Magazine again
These good guys published another illustration of mine. Uh...pick it up if you like scifi stories and grayscale art!
www.spaceandtimemagazine.com
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