Where did Quiet come from?
"Mix one part baby with two parts Día de Muertos..."
You see this skeleton here? This little fella is the beating heart of Quiet: Level One. I call him “Quiet,” but I’m not yet sure that anyone in the story will actually refer to him by that moniker. After all, he cannot speak… so he cannot say his name.
So where did this little skeleton, this “Quiet,” come from?
He never really announced himself to me - he’s too polite for that, and too shy. Rather, he approached slowly, watchfully, his appearance only coming into focus over time.
Here are some of the earliest artworks of Quiet, before he was Quiet. The premise of the first painting was the question “what if skeletons are afraid of the dark?” and I imagined this poor unfortunate little guy, all by himself, with his guttering torch. The second drawing - called “Irremediable” - showed an equally hapless skeleton warrior being stolen, piece-by-piece, by vicious crows. And the last drawing, “Phantasmagoria,” showed our hero in a truly dangerous circumstance.
These drawings made me laugh. They also made me want to protect him.
Then two things happened in relatively quick succession:
My wife had a baby, and then less then a year later,
the global pandemic hit.
And as feelings of confusion and helplessness swept the globe, I watched my oblivious little ape learn to walk, and I felt a need to do something good with my art. We were all cooped up, and everything was just so fucked outside (pardon m’language)… I didn’t want to make art that just looked cool, I wanted to make art that helped people feel better.
And so I looked at my daughter - with her big head, and her round, Churchillian body - and I began to tell a story:
For those of you who follow me on Instagram, you might have seen this story before. I told and illustrated a little Quiet-centric fairytale, and released the process as a series of reels - here’s an example. I’ll share it with the rest of you very soon.
One last little 30-second anecdote.
Pay attention now, because I suspect that this story marks the very origin of Quiet.
In October 1992 - when I was just 10 - I went to Mexico for a few weeks with my best friend and his family. We happened to be there for Día de Muertos - the Day of the Dead - and we experienced it from the perspective of our host family, in the town of Puebla. They set up an alter to the dead; we made bread in the shape of bones; and we decorated the graveyard with marigolds:
And between all the feasting and music and bottles of tequila (which we were, of course, forbidden to try), I was treated again and again to the sight of festive, colorful skeletons. Everywhere I went, there were sugar skulls decorated with shiny paper:
I loved sugar (still do), and - as a budding monster-maker - I loved skulls (still do). But this marked the first time I’d ever seen - let alone been surrounded by - images of death that were so beautiful and joyous. It had never occurred to me to treat death as something benevolent.
Twelve years later, when we were in college, that same friend walked into the woods of Minnesota to go on a fishing trip, and never came out again.
We must develop our own relationship with death, because it touches all of us.
In dreaming up Quiet, I’ve sought to create a character who embodies mortality itself, and yet manages somehow to be relatable, even lovable. And I don’t find this very hard to do. Yes, the big head and round tummy help, but Quiet - small, silent, stalwart Quiet - is not just like any one of us; he is like all of us. Have we not all felt hapless and confused, delicate and overmatched by the chaos and evils of this world?
And does it not help to meet a friend who struggles too?
I’ve come to realize that Quiet has been with me for years. He doesn’t speak - because what is there to say? - but he’s got a big heart, and little hands that are perfect for holding, and a head that is as round and white as sugar.
Thanks for reading.
Jonah
