This form does not yet contain any fields.
    Powered by Squarespace


    Hey all! I need to art. Give me something to do!

    Sketch bust $25

    Inked bust $50

    Sketch pinup $75

    Inked pinup $100

    Color pinup $125

    If you need more, like multiple characters or fighting armies of orcs and space mutants, message me. 




    ... Man...

    So The Rough and Tumble is done. St. Louis Comic-Con is in the bag. I'm still here, but things are weird.

    Firstly, my graphic novel is finished and being printed. Man what a feeling. It's something I always wanted. 110+ plages. 300+ hours of work over 8 months time. What I get to do with this book is exciting. Showing it to publishers and other creatives may advance me to the next level. The paradox, unfortunately, was that I had to stay out of the public eye- away from commissions, fan art, fan comics, and things Deviantart, Tumblr, and Instagram are looking for- and stop any momentum I may have had. I've got my fans, and I love them. But my life as a freelance artist has completely deflated. No work coming in. No commissions. No clicks. No new fans.

    So I got a job to stay alive. No big deal. I'm working on motorcycles! My other passion!

    Enter St. Louis Comic-Con. I decided, after much counseling with my Illustrata bretheren, that I should produce and sell prints. It's a good thing I did! It's the only money I made! Whilst policing up eligible prints I realized everything I said above. I haven't been working on ANYTHING except my book. And before that I was devoted to Zenescope and coloring. No new art to show! I cranked out a few more pieces and they got very little attention. The prints I DID sell were from YEARS ago- a Megaman anthology piece and my Kirby Galactus.

    There are aspects of my professional art career that I neglected and the punishment was it's death.

    My art career has had many lives. I've tried and failed to get into many studios and industries. This is just another death. Chalk it up. I will have to fight extra hard to bring it back as I work another 30/hr a week job. I have to do it if I want to ever do art full time ever again.

    Build fans by giving them what they want. They you make them so thirsty for your art that they'll buy anything and everything you produce. THEN you release your creator owned.  

    Stay tuned, y'all. I'm not done. Far from it.



    I have a Kickstarter going and it's going really well! But every day is a stress ninja waiting in the shadows to cut me down to pieces. I know I have some hardcore fans in here and I need your help. I need a donation from you. One dollar. Five dollars. Ten dollars. It doesn't even matter. This will be my second Kickstarter and I delivered on the last one. Except this one will be BETTER! 100+ pages of badass characters, action, drama and laughs. Yes REAL laughs. Not those kind of laughs that non-funny people try to get out of you. My writers are bonafide funny guys! 

    Anyway. Come watch the videos, browse the rewards, and please, PLEASE consider helping out your buddy Benbrush. Thanks everyone!

    ~Benjamin Sawyer


    Some New Color Samples

    Zenescope has kept me busy!


    A Two-Wheeled Journey To and From Kentucky

    For a year or more my immediate family had been half-heatedly planning a motorcycle trip to Kentucky for a family reunion. In the weeks approaching the trip the excuses started to roll in: money, distance, old-age, and a few others. I reminded them that THIS was part of the reason we got motorcycles and that skipping this trip would be very regrettable and maybe even establish a pattern.

    The night before the trip Caleb -my nephew- and Tim -my father- brought their bikes to my garage for pre-trip bike diagnostics, oil changes, and general planning. My dad's oil was a dark chocolate and licorice syrup and making a terrible racket. Beer, a nice mixture of The Black Keys, Band of Skulls, and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club complimented our haphazard/impromptu troubleshooting and guesswork maintenance.

    The next morning I was actually ready before my dad. His 22 years in the Navy makes him perpetually and annoyingly punctual. Bikes rolled out of the garage, greased up, tool kit, gas can, and luggage ready, I paced outside with my morning coffee.

    Everyone shows up, we pack and gear up. Dad is nervous and is hacking up the lining of his stomach. His time in the service gave him great time management but a strange lack of nerves or intentional fortitude. The weight of the trip seems to lighten at this point and as we saddle up the jokes start to trickle out. With a rowdy chorus of our v-twins we rip out of my neighborhood.

    We are out of St. Louis in what now seems like a flash. After a missed highway junction we journey into the flat wastelands of middle America, also known as rural Illinois. Flat. Featureless. Smelling of pig farms and dairies. Caleb flies in front of the pack, starts messing with his cruise control, and misses us changing highways. We pull over to wait for him which gives us a time to stretch and laugh a little. We decide to take this time to fuel up and let our sweaty butts breathe.

    The day starts to drag around lunch time. The highways are straight and very long. Dad is driving under the speed limit and forms a long line of cars behind him. I can't enjoy riding because I'm always looking behind me to see where everyone is. I have to stop for them to catch up.

    As we get closer to Louisville we realize out trip is coming to a close. And before we know it the flat terrain turns to hills. Then woods. Then bluffs. Then twisties. Glorious, dark, shaded, tight twisties. It was medicine for the boredom we had to endure. Of course dad didn't try to keep up. After two years of riding and a training class he still treats his bike like a wild animal that could buck him off and kill him at any time. And we all know you don't enjoy your ride until you're confident.

    We ride around the outside of Louisville, through a tunnel, over and through some hilly super-highway, then finally to our destination. The last leg was 83 miles and it felt like it took two hours. I was sore, my ears were ringing, and I was tired. But we made it. The old man did it, my nephew -who is new in the saddle- did it. I was extremely proud of everyone, despite the slowness and the frequent stops.

    The path home, we decided, would be all highway. We wanted to shorten our trip and ride a more direct route. And while this doesn't immediately sound like "The Long Way 'Round" the fortunes made sure we didn't make it without a hitch. 

    We pack up, load up, say our goodbyes, roll the bikes from the gravel parking spots, Caleb and I start up. Dad's bike starts vomiting fuel, and not from the carb overflow tube. We park, I rip off my gear, whip out the tool box and get to work. With dad's direction we take off the carb overflow, clean some grit out of the jet, put it back together and it fires right up.

    45 minutes late we hit the road. A few back roads later and we're on the highway cruising through downtown Louisville and the rolling hills of Kentucky and Indiana. 

    The weather warms up. The road starts to get boring. We're going too slow and everyone on the highway passes us. My father and I are lacking windscreens and the wind is knocking us around something fierce. Caleb and I speed up to keep ourselves awake and entertained which, in turn, makes us slow down even more for everyone else.  Our group is spread out and other cars easily slip inbetween us. My attitude drops and my frustration becomes hard to hide. Fortunately, or not, my allergies looked to be the biggest cause of my misery. My eyes burned and my throat was closing up.

    Humidity rises considerably. There's a thick wall of black clouds rolling over us from the south like a heavy blanket. The wind picks up and drops the temperature 10 degrees. We are now racing the storm to our next stop. 

    We are fifty miles from St. Louis.

    We don't make it.

    I cover half of my face to stop the stinging. I hunker down, follow our support vehicle to the next exit where we pull in to the nearest gas station. The station across the street shelters another group of bikers. More bikers join us shortly thereafter. We huddle inside of the connecting Burger King, drink coffee, and watch the weather channel. 

    The storm gets worse and evolves into a real downpoor. Riders in rain gear pull up and come in to get warm. 

    After a short while we get a break in the clouds and sporatic blue skies. We ditch what's left of our coffee, gear up and head out. We get a short shower a few miles later but clear skies and dry roads shortly there after. 

    We break the treeline and St. Louis and it's arch is on the horizon. The feeling of completion starts to creep into our brain, wakes us up and straigtens our spines.  

    St. Louis traffic is challenging as four major highways converge downtown.

    We exit the highway, make our way across town, and pull into my driveway. We made it. 650 miles. Hundreds of miles of straight, drawn-with-a-ruler-highways, wet butts, sore backs, and ringing ears, and I wouldn't trade any of it. I want more. I want it tomorrow. I just want to be better equipped. 

    Dad gives me a hug that says a thousand words. Caleb demands a group hug. The sense of joy, completion and accomplishment are hard to all swallow at once. We unfortunately must part ways. Caleb has to beat the storm and drive two hours north to his current home and Dad and Mom (in the support vehicle) have to drive thirty minutes west to their home. Our victory celebration is short. They part saying thanks repeatedly as they leave. The next trip will be better, but will in no way be as important as our first.