Bendy, page 1
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
FOREWORD
INTRODUCTION
THE ILLUSION OF LIVING
1. THE WHAT
2. BENDY
PART I: A QUESTION OF REALITY
1. SHOES MAKE THE MAN
2. THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER
3. THE INITIALS
4. SPARKLE UNICORN
PART II: ART AND THE EVERYDAY
1. THE WINDOW
2. ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE
3. WORDS WORDS WORDS
4. STILL LIFE AND MOTION PICTURES
5. THE PLAY’S THE THING
PART III: THE MURDER OF WALTER RICHMOND
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
PART IV: ACTUALIZING THE DREAM
1. THE BUSINESSMAN’S ADVICE
2. A SHOE BOX
3. AN ART SHOW
4. THE BIRTH OF BENDY
5. “WITHOUT MUSIC, LIFE WOULD BE A MISTAKE.”
6. IT DON’T MEAN A THING . . .
7. DEALS DONE IN THE DARK
PART V: LIVING IN THE NOW
1. MUD
2. AMUSEMENT
3. THE MOMENT
4. THE PLAN
5. A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
PART VI: WHAT COMES NEXT
SOME PRACTICAL CONCERNS
1. A DAY IN THE LIFE
2. AN INTRODUCTION TO ANIMATION
A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO CREATING THE ILLUSION OF LIVING
1. JOEY DREW’S SEVEN RULES TO ANIMATE BY
2. JOEY DREW’S THREE RULES TO TELLING A GOOD STORY
TO CONCLUDE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
BY NATHAN ARCH SR.
All I want is to share joy with the world. I want to teach the world that when they watch Bendy and Boris and Alice, they aren’t just watching cartoons, they are watching themselves. I want folks to laugh and to see a positive reflection of their lives. To understand that dreams are reality and reality is a dream.
Not everyone can do this. But I can.
—Joey Drew
The Illusion of Living first found its way onto our shelves in 1942. This was a moment in our country’s history full of angst and turmoil, and Joey Drew, who was a good friend and someone I had known since we’d been teenagers, thought that this book might be of help to a nation in crisis. Indeed, it is my firm belief that, had readers not been so deeply invested in stories about the horrors of the world and savage satire, or the complete opposite, desiring to close their minds with silly pointless diversion, they might have found a true vision in his memoir/treatise. A true hope for the future and a model for how to live a life full of positivity. As it was, the sales upon the original release of the book were not what anyone hoped for, but Joey Drew, ever the optimist, didn’t get upset. He knew the world would be ready for his words when the world was ready.
I feel that the time has come. That the world is ready again for Joey Drew’s particular philosophy. Further, in the years since the man has passed, some untruths have come to surface, some rumors and backlash. The fact that the studio collapsed in such an unceremonious fashion, I have no doubt, contributed to the suspicions that Joey Drew was not the genius he truly was. This is wildly unfair, and the rewriting of history a blemish, not just on those who worked at the studio itself, but a deep, dark reflection of our current societal interest in cynicism over optimism.
Over the years, I have collected every single piece of the studio and memorabilia I could find to restore it to a former glory, to create, in a sense, a private museum that gleamed with the true vision of Joey Drew. It never felt quite like enough, and I found myself searching for a way that moved beyond just our personal properties. That restored not just the original animation cels and comics, toys, and games, but that also restored his good name in the public memory. Bendy was Joey’s child, and he felt just as strongly about Bendy as I feel about my flesh-and-blood son. My goal is to restore the name Joey Drew to the history books as one of the greatest contributors to animation the world has ever known.
Hence this 1972 reissue of the original Illusion of Living. Unedited, just as it was released thirty years earlier, save for a few footnotes by yours truly to help contextualize some of the writing for a contemporary reader. I hope this book inspires you as it did me. I hope the spirit of Joey Drew inspires you as it did for many generations. I hope that we can share the positivity of his philosophy and truly make, at long last, Joey Drew’s dream come true.
There’s one thing that every self-made man gets asked at some point in his life: How’d you do it? How’d you go from point A to point B? It might be so they can copy his actions, or question his motives, but in the end, they all want to know that one thing. I’ve been asked this so many times over my illustrious career. At different point Bs, you could say. When I opened the studio. When I made my first million. When I expanded. The more real estate I bought, the more movies I made. How did you get here, Mister Drew? How did you get here?
I’ve been told so many times to write my story. I’ve been told my memoir would become a bestseller. I’ve been told many things. My story is a good one. But I never really had that urge to put pen to paper. To go back into the past. My way is before me. The long road in front, fading into the distant horizon. Not knowing what’s to come. But certain I’m heading in the right direction.
Looking back is awkward. Looking back, you can trip yourself up. I’ve never been a fan of it. Which is why I’ve never really had the desire to tell my story. No matter how many book deals were offered, no matter how many dinners were thrown for me. I am a man who makes up his own mind. You can’t buy me. No one buys Joey Drew.
Then something happened. It was a conversation. This conversation I had with my driver, Simmons. He’d picked me up from another lunch and I was, I admit, a little ornery.
“Mister Drew,” he said, “you okay? I can tell something ain’t right.”
“Simmons, you have no idea.”
“Are they asking again, sir?”
I looked out the window. It was tinted dark, so everything outside had the appearance of a storm brewing. We were driving up Fifth Avenue and we passed a woman walking one of those large, strange dogs. You know the kind I mean, the ones that are tall and thin, stretched out like the shadow of a dog, but their fur is long. It seemed like some creature Bendy would have to confront, something that would turn front facing and just disappear, or slip through a crack in a floor and reappear somewhere else, oozing out from under a doorframe. So I was distracted, and Simmons asked again: “Are they asking, sir? About the memoir?”
“Oh, yes, of course they are,” I replied, shaken out of my contemplation.
“I don’t know why you don’t just tell them, sir.”
“Tell them what, Simmons? About my father and the shoe store? About the Signal Corps in World War One? About raising the capital back in the day to start the studio, and vaudeville and what else? That moment, that moment when Bendy first came to me? It’s a good story, but there’s no purpose to it. We know how it goes, and the ending is still a long ways off.”
“No, sir, I mean about the reason for it all. That thing you’ve told me about. About life. Your philosophy.”
Now Simmons was not exactly what anyone would call a deep thinker. He was a good fellow, a hard worker, and that’s always been the most important thing to me. So I was surprised when he said the word “philosophy.” But I was even more surprised that he remembered it at all. What I had shared with him one late night traveling from the airport back to my penthouse after returning from another successful round of meetings in Hollywood. It had stayed with him. My words.
“Well that’s not a memoir, Simmons,” I said. But I was already thinking. Who ever said my life story had to be a memoir? Who ever said I needed to color within the lines, as they say? I never played by any rule book but my own.
“A rule book,” I said carefully.
“Sir?”
“A treatise.”
At this point Simmons had no idea what I was talking about; I didn’t expect him to. But maybe now, maybe when he finishes this book—just like when you, dear reader, finish this book—maybe you will understand.
It’s not how I made it here.
I have always been here.
It’s: Where is here?
What is here?
The definition of “here.”
And I am here to share that with you.
What is the “Illusion of Living”? That’s the big question, and that’s what this book of mine will answer for you. In one way, there’s an answer no longer than a couple of sentences to that question. But in another, it is an answer that will probably take several volumes in order for me to truly capture the importance of this concept. It is a life philosophy, but unlike some of our great past thinkers, I did not come to any conclusion through thought and careful meditation. Instead it was born within me. My whole existence has been shaped around this concept. It just took some time for me to learn how to articulate it to others.
In short, in this book I will explain the basic idea behind the Illusion of Living. Do not fret if you do not entirely understand at first; after all, this is a complex philosophy that only the greatest of minds can truly wrap their heads around. But I have always believed that we can communicate to even the simplest person. Communication is everything. And even if you don’t understand quite yet at the beginning of this book, by the end, and through your own due diligence, you will have at least a basic understanding. Your mind will be open to such new possibilities in your own life that you will be most gratified for having made the effort here and now. We are all dreamers at heart, and I want to make sure that all your dreams will indeed come true thanks in no small part to my unique insights.
So in the briefest of explanations: The Illusion of Living is the art of mimicking real life on the big screen. An understandable concept, I would think, and yet it is not! The more you dig down to the how, the more that you dig down into reality, the more complicated it all gets. Fortunately you have me as your guide. Picture me standing side by side with my greatest creation, Bendy. Picture us together in our exploring ensembles, each of us wearing a pith helmet, a khaki jacket, and trousers. We are here to guide you through as we climb down into the muck of my philosophy and unearth the treasures buried inside.
Before we begin though, I know why most of you picked up this book. I am a very self-aware person. I know that most of you came to this book because of your love of our favorite little devil darlin’. I am not offended that he is first in your heart. He is, after all, first in mine. He was my very first creation—one could even call him my firstborn.
Bendy is my muse. He is also my messenger. He tells the stories of our lives in absurd, hilarious ways that put all of it into perspective. He reminds us that what we truly need in this world is joy and laughter. Money doesn’t matter, power doesn’t matter, not when we acknowledge the Illusion of Living.* So yes, have no fear, I will indeed be detailing how he came to be, how the studio came to be; all those wonderful stories will be in here. Because all of it is part of the greater philosophy.
Yes, he is a simple cartoon creation. Some might even dismiss him because of it. Some round lines here, a straight edge there, black ink. He isn’t real, others might argue. Such a ridiculous argument, “isn’t real.” We can see him, we can touch him, kids snuggle with their stuffed Bendys at night. He has more fans than the Marx Brothers! What is real if he isn’t?
I tell people that Bendy is the perfect example of my philosophy. He is its manifestation. Or as I like to say, “Dreams come true.” Ha! If you work for me at my now world-famous animation studio, Joey Drew Studios, you will have heard me say that more than once. I hope you don’t mind me repeating it. It isn’t some pat phrase to inspire people or remind my employees what they are working for. It’s reality. It’s real. Your dreams can come true. Because, as I’ve explained, illusion and reality are the same thing.
I tell people that Bendy came to me in a dream. It’s the truth. But when I tell people this they imagine me asleep, in my striped pajamas and nightcap, sleeping cozy under the covers and then—poof!—Bendy fully realized with that devilish smile, appearing to me like magic! I wish it had been so simple. No, what I had to do was want the dream in the first place. To know that I needed a creation so perfect, so accessible to so many people, that it would help me change the way the world saw itself. That was my dream. I was awake, and I knew what I wanted; I made it happen.
Only then did Bendy appear to me. Only then did I start working with other artists to make him into a reality. But you see, I first made my dream. And then I made my dream come true.
Now I’m getting ahead of myself. I get excited and tell the story too fast. That’s what editors are for I suppose.* It is curtain after all! Let’s dim the houselights, start the projector, and get this show rolling!
1927
I remember my first pair of shoes that fit like a glove. It’s funny that we say that, isn’t it? “Fit like a glove.” I’ll tell you, a shoe that fits the foot perfectly is a much more satisfying feeling than a glove suiting a man’s hand. The perfect shoe takes so much more work; the perfect shoe is art. The perfect glove is common, easy, and even if it doesn’t fit exactly, you can live your life, go about your business, and forget you’re even wearing it. The perfect shoe, on the other hand, a shoe that fits like a shoe, well, that can change your life.
I remember that pair of shoes. It had taken twenty-six years to get to wear that pair, so you’d better believe I remember them.
I remember the black shining leather. The brand-new laces, stiff, hard to tie, but worth the effort. I remember just how loudly they squeaked in that first hour of wearing them. I’m a smart guy, though, and I knew shoes well enough. So I wore those squeakers around my room, doing chores and even a couple of dance moves (I’m quite the mover, or at least that’s what people tell me), working to get that squeak out.
More than anything, though, I remember the fit. They seemed made for my foot.
The suit I was wearing was something. Seeing a professional tailor on the Upper East Side was something. Visiting the Upper East Side in and of itself was something. Park Avenue, which I always thought I knew but didn’t until that day, not really, was something.
But those shoes. They were something else.
There’s a saying, I don’t recall where I heard it first, but it’s a good one. You probably have heard it too. It’s “the shoes make the man.” This was a saying I’d known all my life, but it wasn’t until that day, and those shoes, that I finally understood.
“Those look darn fine on you there, Joey.”
Funny now that I think about it; that might have been the first time I heard someone call me that without me asking them to first.
“Some things are meant to be,” I replied. I adjusted my bow tie to make sure it was fastened tight.
“You and those shoes?”
“Could call us sole mates.”
Kyle laughed pretty hard. What can I say? It was a good joke.
1906
I grew up in Paterson, New Jersey, in the good old U S of A. You might have learned about that city in your American history books. It was known for its industry long before I was born, in 1901. We make it all in Paterson; we have famous breweries, we make firearms, and we are home to the famous City Stadium. But when I was a kid, my city was known across the world for its production of silk fabrics. They even nicknamed us Silk City. My dad liked to say we were “smooth as.” He never finished the saying when he said it out loud, but we all knew what he meant. There was a lot of pride in Paterson.
Now with all that said, the most interesting thing I can say about my father was that he didn’t work in the textile trade. Sure, he got his start in the mills, those great big brick buildings churning out fabrics, powered by our seventy-seven-foot-tall Great Falls. It seemed like that water powered everyone’s destinies. But not Father’s. Even though I left the family business, I like to think that our actual family dynasty wasn’t shoes but breaking the rules.
Father opened a shoe store. That was his dream come true. I’ll be honest and say I never had much of an interest in how shoes were made and definitely no interest in selling them, but you better believe I definitely understood and still understand to this day what shoes mean to people. I definitely understood Father’s keen business sense.
It was a smart move for Father to go against the grain and open the store. Everyone else in Paterson was making things for people outside Paterson. Father was making things people needed within the city.
And everyone needed a decent pair of shoes.
Father’s shoes didn’t squeak. They were solid, a little too heavy, and lacked any real artistry. He wasn’t gifted, he just saw a hole in the market and filled it. You wouldn’t go out of your way to buy his shoes if you could avoid it, but they were decent and inexpensive. He made shoes for the workingman. Boots too. He also quickly realized the workingman wouldn’t be a regular customer, not being able to afford a new pair with any regularity, so he made sure his repair shop window around the corner, down the dusty lane, was always open. That meant of course that I, a young Joseph Drew, spent many a day watching the world go by sitting at that window.
I always said that that window was my first movie screen. But that’s a different story. This is a story about shoes.
We weren’t rich. There was an honest living to be earned and Father did that with Mother keeping the books. That wasn’t her real job. Her real job was as a homemaker, and what a home she made. We may have lived up above the shop, no backyard like some of my school chums, but ours was one of the nicest homes in the neighborhood. My mother could make delicate tablecloths from scrap linen, curtains out of old dresses, and if that weren’t enough to impress, then the smell of her cooking, wafting not only through our apartment but out the open windows, most definitely was.
