![]() ![]() ![]() Years ago, after working as a designer in San Francisco’s dot-com craze, I quit my job and headed to Monterey, California for a children’s book conference. For an eight year old confined by the limitations of his material existence, this seemed like a pretty good deal. With a pad of paper and a set of markers, I could pretty much do whatever I wanted. ![]() But more importantly, drawing was an immediate path for creating something I could manage on my own terms. To be sure, these worlds were reflections of places inside of me. There was palpable joy in this: creating civilizations and stories filled with a cast of characters of my own design. So I switched gears and started drawing pictures of outer space instead. Below, above, to the right and left – nothing but infinite space.Īt some point, I surmised that a career in actual space travel required military training, and this seemed like a lot of work. The vastness of the starry sky was thrilling. She would take us along on her nighttime fieldtrips to the observatory its musky smell relieved with the opening of its domed roof. My mother was an astronomy teacher at a local college in my hometown of Baltimore. ![]() Like many American boys born in the wake of the Apollo missions, I decided early on I would be an astronaut. ![]()
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