Where I come from and where I’m going
Every illustrator has been shaped by others—directly or indirectly. The work of an artist who captured our attention steered the course of our own craft. Sometimes, you can even see those influences hidden in our lines. In this post, I want to talk a little about them. The Strokes of Childhood Akira Toriyama Any kid raised in the ’90s or 2000s saw Dragon Ball Z on their TV, mesmerized by those spiky-haired characters whose energy waves seemed to burst through the screen. I never picked up a drawing manual in my life because I learned body proportions and musculature from Toriyama. My first attempts at defined eyes were straight copies of his style, just like how I drew sharp angles for men and soft curves for women. As I grew older, I came to appreciate his vehicles—recognizable yet intricately detailed. And in recent years, I’ve studied his mastery of adventure and humor, better captured in Dragon Ball than in Z. Writing these lines tightens my throat because just listing everything I learned from him makes me wish I’d had the chance to thank him. O’Kif Alejandro O’Keeffe (better known as O’Kif) was one of the most prominent artists in Billiken, Argentina’s iconic children’s magazine. He illustrated nearly every cover and created comics in the late ’90s and early 2000s—back when I was part of that captive young audience. He also drew covers for some of Elsa Bornemann’s books. Though many illustrators passed through Billiken during my time as a reader, O’Kif stood out the most. I can see now how his quasi-realistic style seeped into my subconscious. He was one of those artists who sparked that little urge in me to draw my own comics. Santiago Dufour & Clemente Montag In one of a friend’s newsletter, we discussed the impact of children’s illustration books on our generation. And when I think of that influence, I think of the tiny stories from Anteojito, another legendary kids’ magazine in our country. In 1997, the magazine included the tales pictured above, which weren’t taller than a pen. Most were illustrated by Clemente Montag, creator of one of my favorite strips, Pelopincho y Cachirula. I never copied his style, but I envied how effortlessly he outlined characters and used bold colors—something I deeply admire today. Another artist from that collection was Santiago Dufour, whose name I only learned while researching for this post. His illustrations had a polished, vibrant palette. La Mochila de Sumatra (The Backpack from Sumatra) was one of my favorites—a story about a seemingly cursed backpack that came alive through Dufour’s art. Like Montag, I didn’t replicate his style, but his work helped me visualize the world around me. Hugo Scecs Digging deeper into memory, I rediscovered my favorite drawings in another Anteojito collection: El Libro de Las Maravillas (The Book of Wonders). It was a sticker album book offering a visual journey through different themes—world photography, cultures, curiosities, sculptures, and more. In the mythology section, pencil textures breathed life into legendary figures. “Scecs” was the signature beneath a towering dragon—and that’s how I found the master behind these breathtaking illustrations. Hugo Scecs was part of Anteojito’s roster of artists, delivering drawings with suggested yet powerful lines. Back then, I didn’t realize it, but his style is one I aspire to today. I’m trading thick outlines for pencil strokes, where color contrast and silhouettes take center stage. The Brushstrokes of Today Now, I have a clear vision of the style I want to achieve. Today, there are many artists I study, listen to, and admire. Estampita I’ve already talked about her in my last post about my artistic aspirations, but I have to mention her again—she’s a guiding light. There’s something about how she distills characters’ personalities into each illustration that leaves me in awe. I’m lucky enough to have direct contact with her, and she’s always willing to advise me—yet I still feel light-years behind. Her style is as striking as it is unique. I want to keep learning from the dynamism she brings to her art. Gabriel Picolo This Brazilian artist gained massive popularity with his Teen Titans illustrations, immersing them in casual, slice-of-life scenes. He’s another one I closely study today. Even when drawing realistic characters (like his Last of Us piece), he retains his originality—something incredibly hard to achieve. I’m especially drawn to how he renders eyes, and his choice of semi-straight lines is one of my favorite techniques. Audrey Mok Mok is a Hong Kong-based artist, mostly working in American comics. I stumbled upon her years ago, and the first time I saw her cover art, I thought: That’s how I want to draw faces. Like Picolo, I love how she captures gazes and try to emulate that style. She uses fine lines, keeping faces simple while emphasizing body language. It’s a level of abstraction that looks effortless but demands constant practice. Matías Bergara You might think I’m exaggerating, but to me, no one in the industry draws like the Uruguayan artist Matías Bergara. His watercolor work is masterful, and his characters lean into caricature with exaggerated features—giving his art a universal appeal. His sweeping watercolor blends and textured brushstrokes are unmistakable. His outlines are simple or implied, much like Hugo Scecs’. Every piece he creates leaves me dazzled, and I aspire to evoke that same reaction with my own work. Drawing Toward Tomorrow While writing this post and spending hours researching these names, I connected the dots between my childhood influences and what I do today. I see traces of what these illustrators imprinted on me, and in a way, it feels like closing a circle—their work shaped my artistic compass. I don’t dare compare myself to any of them, but I do want to thank and honor them the only way I know how: by drawing. Links:
hobby illustration vs. product illustration
This post has been originally written in Spanish for my Substack newsletter on February 2025. Since around 2018, I’ve been attending illustration fairs—sometimes as a participant, other times just to browse (“in civilian clothes,” as I like to say). At every one of these events, you can wander through aisles of artists selling all kinds of products featuring their own artwork. Whether it’s fan art or original characters, I see them printed on an endless array of objects: mugs, keychains, charms, glasses, earrings, stickers, prints, blankets, notebooks, notepads, and a long list of etceteras. I AM AN ARTIST THAT PRODUCES The process of preparing an item to display before thousands of people by a specific deadline is anything but simple. The first step is deciding what the illustration will be and where it’s meant to go. A drawing for a paper print isn’t the same as one for a mug or a tote bag. There are countless variables to consider, but above all, you have to think like a designer (or pretend to be one): composition, readability, whether the focus should be on the text or the artwork, whether to omit text entirely, whether the colors will translate well to the chosen medium, and so many other “what ifs.” After endless drafts and settling on a final design, you have to find the right supplier to bring your vision to life. Whether it’s acrylic manufacturers, companies that hand-paint pins, or print shops that handle paper goods, each supplier must be thoroughly researched, vetted through fellow artists, and subjected to exhaustive price comparisons. Once you’ve chosen one, you have to prepare the file for production—CMYK or RGB color profile, vector-based Illustrator files or layered Photoshop documents, transparent PNGs or flat-background JPGs, whether the dimensions fit the supplier’s printing matrix or if you need to account for a “safe zone” for cutting. At this point, you’d think all the hurdles have been cleared—but the production process isn’t over yet. You still have to pick up the printed product and check if it looks the way you imagined, keeping in mind there’s at least a 30% chance it won’t. And let’s not forget the possibility of defective items! Even then, the event date hasn’t arrived, so now you have to prep everything: trimming, rounding edges, sorting by color or theme so they’re easy to find when someone decides to buy them. And if you don’t finish in time? Chances are, on the day of the event, you’ll be backstage frantically cutting with a pair of kids’ scissors. I could go on about everything that can go wrong—and I haven’t even touched on the day of the event itself—but you can probably imagine that if you’re exhausted just reading about the process, living it is twice as draining. All of this is just to create a product featuring an illustration. But what’s the process for drawing just for fun? You pick up your tool of choice… and that’s it. The end. Nothing more. I AM AN ARTIST WHO BURNS OUT When I described the journey of creating an object, you might have noticed I used a lot of production-related terms—as if artists were meant to be tiny walking factories. Supplier, layout, quality control, packaging—these words drag us into an extremely capitalist approach to drawing. But drawing is an art. Why must we kneel at the feet of the goods-production machine? Artists shouldn’t have to be factories. They just want to be. Period. I dare you to ask any artist in your circle whether they’d rather draw freely or assemble a pin with their artwork. The pre-event ritual isn’t just about production or restocking—it’s also about watching thousands of peers on social media, stressed and exhausted, juggling multiple tasks, brainstorming new designs (it’s not even “drawing” anymore, now it’s “designing”), or scrambling to find a new supplier because their usual one jacked up prices. Doesn’t that sound exhausting? I’d even go so far as to say demoralizing. I AM AN ARTIST-TURNED-PRODUCT I’m not criticizing fellow artists who engage in what I call “product illustration”—they do it because, at the end of the day, we all live in the same society. We have to produce to earn money, and with that money, we eat (and reinvest in new products). Not everyone has a side job, and it’s very likely that their only income comes from selling merchandise featuring their art. You have to brainstorm and offer new products every month or every event to make enough profit to cover daily living expenses. I’d bet anything that everyone wishes they could break free from this cycle—but they can’t. I have to eat, and so, I have to produce. The point of these words isn’t to attack my peers but to make it clear that any artist, illustrator, designer, or ceramicist trying to make a living from their craft is also just trying to survive on planet Earth. And in that grueling production process, buried deep beneath it all, they’re leaving a piece of themselves behind. Production days are long, and every item is made with attention and care. Know that we display them with love and high hopes—for you, future customers, and a little bit for ourselves, too. I always hope that at least some of that love shines through in what I’ve made, that you can see beyond just a cute little drawing on a print. Behind that endless production journey is a sleep-deprived person who desperately wants you to appreciate their work. And in the end, when we manage to carve out a sliver of time between all that production, we do what we know best: we draw. But now, I’m not drawing for a customer. I draw for leisure. I draw to rest. I draw to be. I draw for myself.