The Human Resistance at MoCCA Fest
Why showing up to a crowded room in West Chelsea is now a mandatory act of cultural survival
Every year, I make what has essentially become a mandatory, slightly masochistic pilgrimage to West Chelsea for the MoCCA Arts Festival.
It used to live at the Kimpton Hotel near the USS Intrepid, a venue whose lobby always smelled simultaneously of high-end boutique diffusers and the lingering, atmospheric disappointment of military bureaucratic spending. Eventually, the sheer volume of cartoonists and their associated neuroses outgrew the space, forcing a migration down to the cavernous Metropolitan Pavilion on 18th Street.
When I walk past the long line down the street and through those doors now, my knees make an audible crunching sound that instantly transports me back to 1990. It was a beautiful, entirely analogue time when the concept of digital painting would have been considered a form of dark witchcraft performed in a windowless MIT basement.
The Society of Illustrators is the engine keeping this entire weekend alive, transforming it into something deeply special. As America’s oldest nonprofit organisation dedicated to the art of illustration, they operate as the ultimate keeper of the flame. They honour historic masters like Norman Rockwell while simultaneously fully embracing strange new voices making zines in their bedrooms. Here’s an old video of me explaining more about what the SOI is, and why it’s so important.
Over seven thousand people shuffle through this space to celebrate a medium that critics constantly claim is dying, yet somehow categorically refuses to actually die.
When you walk into the Pavilion, you have to navigate a dense human forest of towering talent, crippling anxiety, and genuinely incredible artwork. We all pretend to be completely well-adjusted, social human beings while internally monitoring our rapidly draining social batteries like a cracked iPhone 11. It’s a spectacular place to see new illustrators desperately trying to navigate an incredibly uncertain, rapidly shifting industry.
I spend the lion’s share of my time at the festival sitting at the National Cartoonist Society booth. The NCS is currently celebrating its eightieth birthday, which is a staggering milestone for a group entirely dedicated to the simple act of making marks on a piece of paper with a physical object held by a human hand.
I looked up from drawing dogs in my book to see John Leguizamo posing for a picture with Zippy the Pinhead creator Bill Griffith. That’s simply the kind of ridiculous shit you see at places like this. It never gets old.
I sit at the table flanked by two cartoonist friends I admire; On one side is Ellen Liebenthal, the Manhattan Chapter President and gravitational centre of the New York cartooning community. Her work is so inventive, and she possesses an absurd (rare) amount of practical wisdom for a cartoonist. On my other side sits Mike Cavallaro, an SVA lecturer and a successful comic artist. At one point, over the roar of the crowd, Mike casually mentions that a major studio is currently turning his graphic novel series into a movie. A literal movie. I immediately go through the standard cartoonist progression of genuine happiness for a friend, profound shock, and a rapid descent into crippling self-deprecation. I stare blankly at my own graphite-stained hands and aggressively sip a lukewarm coffee just to have something to do with my face.
I was drawing people’s dogs into the book for the day, which is always fun. (Let me know if you want one of your dog.)
We’re currently living in an exhausting era where any tech-bro with a keyboard can generate a soulless image with a single, lazy click using a machine trained entirely on stolen human labour. MoCCAFest is the supreme, undeniable counter-argument to all of that nonsense. It is the perfect moment to actively support human artists who are making real art with physical, flawed human hands.
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I sit and watch Ellen sketching for fans. I watch Mike interacting with wide-eyed young creators. They are real people whose art is born from a highly unique life experience rather than a predictive probability model. When you buy a comic or a print from a human artist, you are validating the agonisingly human process of creation. The wobble. (the struggle.)
Showing up to this event is a necessary act of rebellion. By the end of the day, my eyes are blurry, my wallet is lighter, and my brain is completely depleted, but supporting human art is no longer just a nice choice. It is a strict requirement for our cultural survival. This medium is not going anywhere, not as long as stubborn humans keep insisting on making our funny marks on paper.
‘til next time!
Your pal,
PS. Look, if this actually did something for your brain (or at least distracted you from the creeping dread of your own inbox for six minutes), please consider restacking this and sharing it with your people. It’s the only way the word spreads.
