I’ve posted a number of times on social media since the passing of Ed Piskor (1982-2024) and have written a couple pieces for publication elsewhere. Several people have commented that they have found my words consoling, although I want to stress that I wrote purely for my own personal, selfish, therapeutic reasons—to help me process this awful tragedy and loss. For what they may be worth, I’ve gathered them here for the record:
Facebook post, April 5, 2024:
To reiterate, I never, ever saw Ed on a power trip, not for a split second, in any of his comportment at shows or online. (Excuse me for thinking this is completely invented and in the minds of those who so desperately wanted to cling to something they perceived Ed could do for them.) I was across from the Kayfabe tables two years in row at Heroes, and directly behind them in an island separated only by a curtain at Baltimore (right next to Jill Thompson). I’ve known those guys since before they became big online brands, and never noticed any change in their behavior as they blew up to become the Image Founders or Eastman and Laird (take your pick) of their generation.
I’ve seen mediocre editors at big companies tear prospective freelancers to shreds over samples they sweated weeks over; I’ve seen superstars on ego trips after only three hot issues (sometimes, only one). I’ve seen every form of power trip in forty years in this so-called industry, and I’m guilty of moments of the same myself.
But I never saw an inkling of that from Ed, only encouragement and cheerleading and egging on to have fun and do your best.
If my business partner had done what Ed was alleged to have done, I’d have kicked him in the balls. What was he thinking? And I’d be beating myself up after the fact. I’m already beating myself up for not sending him some lame message of love and support over this past weekend.
But you’ll have a hard time convincing me he deserved all the jealousy and vitriol from complete strangers. (Disagree? Block me.)
We are all fragile creatures. I shouldn’t have needed to see those gentle, bony hands folded so neatly in his casket last night to be reminded of that.
P.
Facebook post, April 6, 2024:
Ed’s persona was performance art. He was passionate about hip hop music, culture, fashion, sure—but he never took himself seriously. He had fun constructing an image for himself, like Warhol, also from Pittsburgh; both knew a good brand when they saw it.
People who bought the fierce white kid, the Eminem of Munhall thing, literally are simplistic. They didn’t get the kayfabe, the pretend, the cosplay. Ed swore but he was never impolite; he may have presented as intimidating, but I never saw him as less than approachable, embracing, and encouraging to fans.
The notion that some fans idolized him and were disappointed when he ignored them is childish in the extreme. If they thought he owed them something maybe it’s because they wanted the wrong things. Ed gave everything to comics. He left it all on the field. It was all there. If that wasn’t enough, that’s on them.
The notion that he pissed people off and there was blood in the water and the massive pile-on was somehow deserved or his fault—well, you’re going to have a hard time convincing me of that. Ed had his own work to tend to, and managing toxic fan expectations that had gotten out of control is the full time job of an entourage, which Ed didn’t have.
Ed just had a couple crazy hats and jerseys and a drawing board. He did as much with them in too short a life as I’ve ever seen a creative person do.
P.
Written for The Comics Journal, April 8, 2024:
I don’t remember the first time I met Ed, but the second time was the 2004 Carnegie International, featuring a major Robert Crumb retrospective. Before, Ed had been trying to break into Image Comics, I believe, with a neo-Liefeldian style; apparently, I’d offered my typical boilerplate, encouraging him to find his own voice. Already, in 2004 (he showed me his sketchbook), Ed was developing his own unique underground alternative style—not that I can take any credit whatsoever.
If I’m being honest, I was always a little jealous of Ed over the couple of decades since. He had the kind of career that always eluded me—you’ll have to explain to your readers who I am, but you won’t need to explain who Ed was. Ed moved easily from personal to mainstream work as if the barriers weren’t even there, without changing a thing. He was right—there never were any barriers. He didn’t even need a hokey pseudonym; Ed was always just Ed.
I can’t put it any better than I stated on Facebook:
Ed’s persona was performance art. He was passionate about hip hop music, culture, fashion, sure—but he never took himself seriously. He had fun constructing an image for himself, like Warhol, also from Pittsburgh; both knew a good brand when they saw it.
People who bought the fierce white kid—the Eminem of Munhall thing—literally are simplistic. They didn’t get the kayfabe, the pretend, the cosplay. Ed swore but he was never impolite; he may have presented as intimidating, but I never saw him as less than approachable, embracing, and encouraging to fans.
The notion that some fans idolized him and were disappointed when he ignored them is childish in the extreme. If they thought he owed them something maybe it’s because they wanted the wrong things. Ed gave everything to comics. He left it all on the field. It was all there. If that wasn’t enough, that’s on them.
The notion that he pissed people off and there was blood in the water and the massive pile-on was somehow deserved or his fault—well, you’re going to have a hard time convincing me of that. Ed had his own work to tend to, and managing toxic fan expectations that had gotten out of control is the full-time job of an entourage, which Ed didn’t have.
Ed just had a couple crazy hats and jerseys and a drawing board. He did as much with them in too short a life as I’ve ever seen a creative person do.
It’s only been a week as I write this, but there are already signs that the canonization of Ed, his transfiguration into immortality, has just begun. Documentaries, biopics, are inevitable—again, Warhol. Ed was young, he left a considerable body of work, he was at the very pinnacle of comics at this moment. Now, he’s passed into legend. His influence on cartoonists and cosplayers yet unborn (Pirate caps and Public Enemy jerseys will be de rigueur) hasn’t even started. It’s likely to be astonishing and gaudy and tasteless and crass for those of us who were lucky enough to have known Ed in life. But it’s not going away.
Finally:
Any criticism of Jim will most assuredly trigger me; I won’t abide it. Jim didn’t ask for any of this; he didn’t bring any of this on. Jim had an impossible needle to thread, just impossible. At the end, Ed and Jim may have been forced apart professionally, but they were inseparable personally. It’s an indelible link now, forever. Every time Jim sees a cool comic, he’s going to think, ‘I can’t wait to show this to Ed!’ and be heartbroken all over again. It’s crushing to think. Now, Jim is absolutely crucial to the Piskor family and estate in sorting through its affairs. Everyone who loves comics and the positive legacy of Ed Piskor owes kindness, generosity, love, and support in safeguarding that legacy in any way they can, especially to Jim.
Written for Comics Illustrated, April 10, 2024:
Move Over, Andy: A Remembrance of Edward R. Piskor, Jr. (1982-2024)
Andy Warhol is from Pittsburgh. A museum dedicated to him is here, along with a bridge named in his honor. His resting place, at a Byzantine Catholic cemetery in the South Hills, is an international site of pilgrimage; people who never knew Andy in life leave cans of Campbell’s soup and other pop memorabilia, poems, messages, prayers. His birthday is celebrated with bagpipes and people in white Andy wigs; Andy is almost a secular saint. A contemporary artist of my acquaintance, Madelyn Roehrig, has composed numerous documentary videos, books, and installation pieces documenting the phenomenon, referred to collectively as “Conversations with Andy.”
Well, move over, Andy. There’s a new kid in town.
It’s barely a week since his passing as I write this, but the canonization of Ed Piskor has already begun. I don’t even know where his final resting place is, but his memorial service at a funeral home in Munhall was standing room only with friends, family, and fellow cartoonists. Ed was laid out in his trademark Pirates cap and glasses, his slender, delicate fingers neatly folded over his blanket. His open casket was almost a pop-up shrine, festooned with Hip-Hop Family Tree action figures and Ed’s comics.
It reminded me so much of Andy.
Perhaps I’ve learned to look at celebrity, art, and even death through a Warholian lens because I’ve spent more than half my adult life here in Andy’s hometown. I’m sure Ed picked up a great deal from Warhol—Ed was extremely knowledgeable and smart. Both artists understood the importance of persona, of constructing an image. For Andy, it was the wig and the black turtlenecks and surrounding himself with stars like Mick Jagger, Liza Minnelli, and Lou Reed—as well as the imagery of stars he never met, most notably Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley. For Ed, it was the Pirates cap and Public Enemy jersey and the icons of hip-hop he cartooned assiduously, like a Warhol silkscreen.
Ed was passionate about hip-hop culture, music, and fashion, certainly, but he never took himself seriously. As with Andy, the persona Ed constructed was performance art, pretend, cosplay. How else was a gawky, lanky kid supposed to compete with a handsome devil like Jim Rugg?!
It was the essence of kayfabe—make believe. Just like professional wrestling—which isn’t even wrestling at all.
Some people who never met Ed didn’t get that. They mistook the image—the fierce, urban, rustbelt white kid, the Eminem of Munhall—as something Ed thought he was or was trying to be. A gangsta rapper. But Ed never rapped, as far as I know. I don’t know if Ed could even carry a tune.
But, like Andy Warhol, Ed Piskor knew a good brand when he saw one.
They mistook the kayfabe for the real thing, too. The body slams, the folding chairs—that was all carefully rehearsed. Sometimes, mishaps happened. But the storylines, the violence, was supposed to be comic book, for entertainment. Not real.
They seemed to believe the imagery Ed conjured—on paper, on his person, on social media—was real, too. completely missing the point of Cartoonist Kayfabe.
Ed and Jim only discussed the comics they loved, with a passion and scholarly historical context unmatched even by so-called comics scholars.
Toxic fans somehow garbled that into trashing comics they never even read (I know this from firsthand experience), and finally, trashing Ed over facts not in evidence, with an omniscience they could not possibly have possessed. Certainly, that I don’t possess.
And now, Ed is gone.
Cartoonists yet unborn, who will have the chance to know Ed in life—and perhaps cosplayers, too, with their Pirate caps and Public Enemy jerseys—will only know the legend, the image, hopefully the work of Ed Piskor.
But will they be able to discern what is real and what is kayfabe? I wonder.
The Andy Warhol thing has already begun.
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| Ed and Andy Warhol. |
Those of us who knew Ed in life, who saw him before he blew up and knew it never changed him, who saw the generosity and encouragement and sheer love of comics that he dispensed to every fan and young cartoonist who came his way, have a responsibility to keep the best of Ed’s work, life, and legacy alive.
It’s not going to be easy. If they didn’t get him while he was alive, they’re even more likely to latch onto the clichés and tropes, the image rather than the substance.
I wasn’t of Ed’s generation. He was barely older than my entire career, which has been nothing as stellar as Ed’s. My earliest recollection of him is running into him at the Carnegie International in 2004, at the Robert Crumb retrospective. It wasn’t our first meeting, apparently; we had met before, as Ed reminded me. He must not have made a very big impression on me, but I was given to understand I had looked over his Image Comics samples and offered my usual boilerplate about the importance of finding one’s own voice and not cloning Rob Liefeld. Some bullshit like that.
Already, in 2004, Ed was well on his way to finding that voice; the sketchbook he showed already showed the beginnings of the more personal, alternative-underground style he would develop over the next twenty years.
What’s amazing about those two decades—aside from the fact they now seem over in a flash—is that “personal” style served him even when he tackled “mainstream” projects like X-Men: Grand Design or gaudy shock-schlock like Red Room. There was no discernable difference between Ed’s less or more “commercial” projects—Ed was always himself.
Jim Turoczy, co-owner of Eide’s Entertainment, where Ed frequently shopped, told me how Ed always rifled through the coverless comics and bought every Jack Kirby he could grab—just to give out to young artists at shows. During these sojourns, Ed reportedly expressed the desire to get back to his “crib” and draw more comics. This may be a secondhand story, but I will tell it from now on.
My last actual conversation with Ed was about keeping the lettering at the top of the panel for legibility. This was the key to the popularity of newspaper strips for decades. Ed and I both came to that conviction independently. (Not very earth-shaking, is it? An example of why reality doesn’t stand a chance against mythology.)
That was at Heroes Con, where for the past two years I was directly across the aisle from the Kayfabe tables in Indie Alley. I asked Ed why he didn’t draw sketches; he said he didn’t have time—he was too busy talking—and that was certainly true. Fans and cartoonists flocked to those tables all weekend without letup. They dropped off comics and showed Ed their sketchbooks—they sure weren’t bothering with an old-timer like me. And I’m sure Ed offered them more than boilerplate.
He was too passionate, too enthusiastic, too in love with comics for that.
The torch had been passed to a new generation, or so I thought. Which is no doubt why this tragedy has hit me all the harder. I don’t have children, but this must be what it’s like to lose a child. It’s the closest thing I’ll ever experience.
Ed was too young to be Andy Warhol, to be a myth, a legend. But there we are.
Donald E. Simpson is a cartoonist and creator of IP. He possesses a PhD in art and architectural history from the University of Pittsburgh, which he never thought would converge with comics in quite this way.
Facebook post, April 21, 2024:
The biggest shows I attended as a guest in the past two years I was in close proximity to the Kayfabe tables. At Baltimore two years ago, I was next to guest of honor Jill Thompson (for some reason!) and right behind Ed and Jim in a four-table island; at Heroes Con in 2022 and 2023, I was directly across the aisle (next to Michel Fiffe). Since I will be back at both shows again this year, my landscape will have definitely changed in a concrete way. For the larger comics world, the changes in many ways will be even more profound, if less immediately visible.
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| My view from my table at Heroes in 2022 and 2023. |
Facebook post, April 24, 2024:
The only two artists to have their work appear under both the Monster Comics and Eros Comix imprints are me and this guy—and he didn’t even come up with a gaudy pseudonym like I did (Anton Drek)—he was just Ed Piskor in both cases (or all at once, as it were). I was hoping to ask him about this unusual combination of honor and inside joke this summer when I ran into him at Heroes or Baltimore. Of course, now I won’t get the chance.
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| Scripted May 1, 2024, completed May 3, 2024. |
Other blog posts:
Other blog posts not included here can be found from April 3, April 12, and April 21. I’ve not included Facebook posts that were only a few words accompanying a photograph or image (all Facebook posts should still be found there).
Video remembrance:
Compiled by Ryan Balkam. If you click on this, the video will start at my segment, but they are all worth watching:
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