Robert Smith will forever be the frolicking ghoul that excused my brooding dance.
I remember the calling drums and visceral chants of songs like Hanging Garden moving me to teen introspection. The Cure's punk grit and mystical arabesques masterfully set the stage for Smith's desperate vocals to entrance me. Enveloped in flanging echos, I ritually pushed the volume to its limits.
But just when darkness seemed paramount and spiderman was free to have me for dinner, Smith showed some hope. I was free to accept my inner gloom as a tool and not an end in itself. Which encouraged my pimply-teen self to see that sanctioned cool was not my path and that flailing my hands around while tripping over myself was as worthy a form of self-expression as any.
Thanks, Mr. Smith. I owe you one.
My goal was to capture Smith in his youthful Pornography era. The Cure fans so fervently sought to emulate all of the details needed to be there: black button-ups, tight black jeans, and contrast hi-tops. But perhaps most importantly, his playful spirit had to be caricatured to make one message clear: doom and gloom had a secret smirk, and Robert Smith was the archetype.
As an artist and designer, I sculpt, but human likenesses aren't my thing. So, to find the true soul of the project, I needed to collaborate with a sculptor that shared my affinity towards Smith. As I gathered source material, sketching poses, and researching the perfect sneakers, I remembered the work of John Truman Tan. John's uncanny ability to capture a spirit made me an instant collector of his pieces a few years back. Not only does he sculpt accurate likenesses, but he has a rare sensibility for representing minute garments and tailoring details. John also likes to make bobbleheads. It was the perfect medium for Smith.
Without hesitation, I reached out to John, found out we shared a love for all things 80's, sent him my drawings, design ideas, and research, and Unhappy the Man: Robert Smith was born.