I've known Pete Poplaski for a long time --since the mid 1970s. When I first met him he was  working for Denis Kitchen's little comic book company, "Krupp Comic Works," in Princeton, Wisconsin. He was never officially on the payroll. Denis would give him cash as he needed it --a very informal arrangement. He struck me right away as a vivid, highly individual character, with a boyish enthusiasm and energy that was infectious. He was already in his mid-twenties, an accomplished artist, producing drawings and paintings of exceptional quality. Even way back then I urged Kitchen to publish some of his sketchbook material (he didn't). I could see immediately that he was burning with fervent idealism and dedication to his art, to the life of the artist, to the history of art (as of this writing he has visited more art museums than any other human being on the planet, I feel certain), to comics, movies, television.

He had then, and still has, among his heroes Douglas Fairbanks and Buster Keaton, and emulated their way of leaping about and blithely taking pratfalls. He had a gear fondness for the comic book superiors, and sincerely believed in their old heroic ideals which they stood for. I would say he hasn't changed much over the decades I've known him, except that his knowledge in various fields of interest is more refined, more extensive. The boyish enthusiasm has survived intact; the idealism and dedication to art is still the central theme of his life. He is still unmarried at age fifty, owns no real estate, lives quite spontaneously. To his family he has been rather a disappointment. They would very much like to see him in a secure, comfortable position in the world, with a nice wife and some nice kids. Pete may suffer from some anxiety over these expectations of his parents and relatives, but my observation has been that he will always jump free of any "adult"-type commitment that presents itself, whether it be a steady job or a woman who would like to set up housekeeping with him.

"I'm a cowboy," says Pete. He'd just as soon eat out of a can and go to bed in his funky old sleeping bag. I've never known him to officially own a car or have a functioning telephone. Money burns a hole in his pocket. His family, the Poplaskis back in Green Bay, are solid Midwesterners, and they don't see the point. "Pete, what are you doing with your life," they ask during his visits home. He has no ready answer for them. How does one explain such a way of life? He feels bad about it --it haunts him because he still has strong ties to them and knows that they'll never understand the life he's chosen. Sure, they admire his artistic skills, but when is he going to settle down? Where's that wife he should've had by now? Where are those grandchildren they've been waiting and hoping to see? Where's the nice house, the car, the recreational vehicle??

There's no way to explain to these good people what it takes to be a sincere, dedicated artist in this world. A lot of things have to go by the wayside. The ideal is to concentrate on the work. The more focused energy you can put into the art, the better the art will be. Energy is a finite thing and if it's not used wisely we get nowhere. It's a battle every day. You gotta be a warrior, as Pete says. Better that Pete has steered clear of all those "normal" responsibilities than if he had taken them on and then behaved irresponsibly. He has made the choice for art and had the clarity of purpose to stick to it. That is unusual and commendable.

Pete first arrived at this village here in France about ten years ago, about a year after I moved here with my wife and daughter. He came with Denis Kitchen to attend the annual comics festival in the city of Angouleme, and afterward they came down here to visit me. He liked it here, liked the way everything looked, the old stone houses, the dramatic rocky terrain, "like a movie set," he exclaimed. He came back and stayed longer each time. The loose, casual "laissez faire" atmosphere suited him. He found that he could live here on almost nothing. He would do some commercial work for American comic publishers occasionally, or sell an oil painting now and then, and make enough money to get by. He spent the larger part of his meager earnings collecting old Zorro Movie posters. Aline and I bought some of his paintings, and Aline pitched them to her prosperous German friends, and now they own two or three Poplaskis. We considered them bargains. We were getting on the ground floor, us, and a few others, before the rest of the world caught on. Yes, we are supremely confident of our discerning taste in all aesthetic matters. Pete has produced many gorgeous town and landscapes, still-lifes and portraits in oil, charcoal, water color and pen-and-ink since he's been living here. His work habits are idiosyncratic to say the least, but when you see the results, the striking pictures he turns out, there's nothing more to say about it. That's the mysterious miracle of the human creative process.

Pete is one of these artists who always totes a sketchbook. He's been piling up sketchbooks for decades. These books are a visual diary of his life, same as mine are for me. If you are the type of person who gets enjoyment from looking at fine drawing, then you are in for hours of pleasure with this book, for herein are are nearly 200 pages densely packed with drawings of human faces and figures, buildings, rocks and trees, all rendered in a manner both pleasing to the eye and penetrating of the subject. Everything is drawn with character, essence and vitality. All the faces are of real, live human beings, individual and unique. The lines tell a story, a narrative taken directly from the real world. The artist is firmly convinced that drawing from life produces the strongest, most authentic art. Every single drawing in this book was made from life. The people were drawn in cafés, restaurants, waiting rooms of train stations, bus depots, airports --any public place where humans are found sitting around.

The artist has to work fast, and try not to be too obvious. It's best if the subjects are unaware that they're being "captured." I have been with Pete in places such as these and watched him surreptitiously drawing people. He's good at not being noticed. His sketchbook is small, and he doesn't look like an artist. Not at all. He looks like the man who reads meters for the utility company. Later, at his leisure, he will often tighten up and refine these candid portraits, give them more solidity. There's a drawing of me in here, one of hundreds of heads. He did it sitting next to me in the back seat of a moving car. There are several of Aline, and many other personal friends mixed in with total strangers, Most of the outdoor scenes, old stone buildings, ruins, and rock landscapes are from this village and its surroundings. This book is compiled of drawings from several sketchbooks filled up since the artist has been living here in the south of France with periodic sojourns back in the U.S.A.

The cumulative effect, on me, of looking at Poplaski's sketchbooks is an optimistic feeling, an affirmation of life, of people. This is good for me --a tonic for a curmudgeon such as myself, who tends toward a bleak, despairing outlook. All the people in this book appear heroic, each in their own personal way, in their own struggle for survival, because Pete's spirit is essentially positive, buoyant, resilient, and this shines through in all his drawings and paintings. It is this positive spirit that gives his artistic skill its real reason and purpose for being.