Portrait Sketches - October 2026

Bogdan, digital illustration.

This is the Autumn of our discontent. Multiple crises upend previous assumptions of safety, prosperity, and meaning. Creativity in itself becomes less and less valued. Why do it if Ai can do it faster, cheaper, and without a word of complaint?

Petra, digital illustration.

Even now the machines are scraping our output, repackaging it, and charging us fees for its use. Soon original thought will be proprietary. Soon the act of living will be subject to copyright litigation.

Aldo, digital illustration.

Maybe the last act of rebellion is to create art and hide it away from the world forever. To live without speaking. To scream without making a sound.

Portrait Sketches - September 2026

Piotr Sr., digital illustration.

Been thinking a lot about the past. About the people who left my life too quickly, and those who stayed around too long.

Piotr Jr., digital illustration.

Alive or dead they're all ghosts. Phantoms that only exist in my memory. And as such they are representations no longer true to the people I knew. Remembering has altered them, made them into caricatures.

Geri, digital illustration.

Such is the experience of recall. In time memory softens the edges. In time memory forgives even if you don't want to.

The ghosts that haunt us become mere flickers. Only the emotional weight remains.

The Tamale Lady

The Tamale Lady, digital illustration.

I've lived on the same streets on the northwest side of Chicago for 40 years. The old blocks have changed some in those four decades, but not much. Most of the houses are the same. A good number of the people too.

The old neighborhood is today as it always has been: a refuge for the immigrant working class. Poles and Mexicans mainly, along with some Italian and Irish holdouts.

For as long as I can remember the neighborhood was full of pushcarts. A steady traffic of steaming old-country dishes and bright sodas poured from big liter bottles.

My favorite was the tamale lady from up the block. You could set your watch by the tamale lady.

Dressed all in black she'd come up the street at exactly 2:30pm every day, chiming her bicycle bell as she headed toward the nearby public school. There she'd set up camp on the corner and peddle hot shredded chicken tamales until foot traffic died down. Then she'd head to the park in time for baseball practice.

Her tamales were good. Homemade, Oaxacan style. Always served with a bright salsa verde. And always cheap.

I haven't seen the tamale lady all summer. Most of the pushcarts have been absent this year. But the old neighborhood is full of signs that weren't there before. They read: Keep ICE Out of Chicago.