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Steve DiLodovico is one-half of DiWulf Publishing, best
known for publishing the seminal account of Trenton, NJ's
City Gardens, No Slam Dancing, No Stage Diving, No Spikes:
An Oral History Of The Legendary City Gardens. DiWulf
has lots more in the hopper, as Steve discusses in this
interview with his old friend James Damion. Steve also talks
about how he became a publisher, why he loves it, and bravely
shares details about his lifelong battle with Crohn's Disease.
Interview by James Damion
Q: First of all, I’d love to learn more about
DiWulf Publishing. Can you give a description as to what
DiWulf does and how the idea to start a publishing company
came about?
Steven: This is going to sound real corny, but what we
do at DiWulf is make punk rock books. It’s kind of
our unofficial slogan. While we are primarily rooted in
music, we use the term “punk rock” loosely,
meaning it’s not always specifically about punk rock
music. We consider topics and projects that represent any
kind of non-mainstream subject to be “punk rock”
in our opinion. The idea behind the company is to publish
authors who specialize in various aspects of subculture
and the documentation of under-represented, talented people
whose work might otherwise go unnoticed.
DiWulf came together originally as just a slapdash name
to put on the spine of our first book. Since we self-published
it, we needed a name. It was simple – a combination
of my last name and my partner, Amy Yates Wuelfing’s
last name. Amy and I co-wrote a book, No Slam Dancing,
No Stage Diving, No Spikes: An Oral History of the Legendary
City Gardens and when it was finished, we spent a couple
of years unsuccessfully trying to get an established publisher
interested. We even had a fancy-pants literary agent represent
us for a time. But, no one was interested in a book about
some club in Trenton they’d never heard of and nothing
ever came of it. The kept telling us weird things like “you
need to sex the book up.” We had no idea what that
meant. We were told over and over that no one outside of
Jersey (and, most likely inside of Jersey) would be interested
in reading that book. Amy and I both come from DIY scenes.
Our obvious choice was to publish it ourselves. At the time,
around 2012, Kickstarter was a real big way to crowdfund
a project like this, and, at the same time, Facebook was
REAL lax with their algorithms – you could actually
post something, anything, on your public page and all the
people who followed your page would actually see the post.
Fortunately for us we had literally HUNDREDS of generous
patrons who really wanted to see this book happen. We would
not be here talking if it hadn’t been for all the
people who supported the book and made it a reality.
So, after picking the name DiWulf, Amy and I started talking
about the various people we knew who either had great ideas
for books or were looking to have stuff they had already
written published. We began to talk about using what we
had learned in the years we worked on No Slam Dancing
to help other people who had the same troubles we dd. Amy
and I have a deep love for history when it comes to the
subcultures we grew up in, and we both have a very passionate
love for books of all kinds.
Q: Was there a template or game plan?
Steven: At first, we kind of just made it up as we went
along. But, the more it took shape, we kind of modeled it
after the small hardcore and punk labels of the ‘80s
that put out our favorite records. We were very inspired
by these labels and that’s sort of what we looked
towards for guidance. The game plan was to publish works
by friends, family, whomever we could find that had a passion
for documenting histories that often went unnoticed and
undervalued. We wanted to make gorgeous books in really
small print runs to make them very special, and we wanted
our authors to cover subject matter that was important to
them.
Q: What was / is the ultimate goal?
Steven: Really, there are only two goals – to put
out beautiful, quality books and to make this a sustainable
business so I can quit these stupid fucking jobs that kill
my soul every single day.
Q: So, “No Spikes” was DiWulfs’s
first finished effort?
Steven: Yes, and it was the impetus for us to start a publishing
house
Steve and Amy Yates Wuelfing on the steps of Dischord
House
Q: I understand Amy had been putting the pieces of the project
together for years when you joined forces. How do you feel
your input impacted the project and if that impacted it
finally being finished?
Steven: Yes, Amy is the one who made all this happen. She
started working on No Slam Dancing somewhere in
the late-‘90s and it wasn’t until about 2007
that she and I (VERY randomly) met by chance on the Internet.
It turned out to be a perfect partnership. I’m enough
years younger than Amy (did I phrase that diplomatically
enough?) that I was basically a different generation, at
least when it comes to punk. While the stuff we were into
overlapped a lot, I was way deeper into the real heavy,
much more violent side of the scene – I was into hardcore
punk, thrash metal, really heavy rap (I refuse to use the
term “gangsta”)… really anything that
was super heavy, super-fast, super-offensive. I had no knowledge
of things like New Wave, I had no idea what the fuck a “New
Romantic” was. Amy knew all that stuff really well.
Also, a huge part of City Gardens’ history were their
alternative/new wave dance nights and I had never attended
one in my entire life while Amy spent many years going to
those. We each had specialties within our subculture, so
me coming along complemented what she didn’t know,
and she did the same for me. We also knew tons of people,
so it really helped broaden, not just the amount of interviews
we did, but also the variety of scenes our interview subjects
represented.
Q: (Asking for a friend.) How should an aspiring
writer approach an independent publisher when they have
an idea or finished product they wish to publish?
Steven: I can’t really speak for anyone else, but
I know that for us, just reach out like a normal person
and say hello first. Secondly, I think your best bet is
to have, at the very least, a finished manuscript. I love
hearing people’s ideas, but as soon as the email says
“I am working on this great idea…” that
means to me that there is no end in sight and, most likely,
the person will never finish. Especially if it is their
first attempt. If you do have a finished manuscript, put
a proposal together and send that first. I can tell you
I won’t read a manuscript until I’ve read the
proposal first. It’s easy enough to look up the format.
A basic PDF file that outlines the project, gives the details,
etc. For us it is as much about the person as it is the
project. Someone could write the next “Crime and Punishment”
but if they are difficult to work with or don’t share
the same vibe, the same philosophy as us, I don’t
care – we are passing. Life is too short to deal with
egos.
Q: Thanks, in large part to social media, A lot
of us felt as if we were along for the ride for much of
the process, particularly the interviews. Can you share
some of your thoughts and experiences working with so many
creative souls?
Steven: That was easily the best part about working on
No Slam Dancing: Meeting new people, reconnecting
with old friends, and, most of all, getting to talk about
the music that changed my life and had a huge part in making
me the person I am today with the people who made the music.
I got to spend a few hours asking Jello Biafra every fanboy
question I could think of. I got to grill Eerie Von on EVERYTHING
Misfits-related. Jack Grisham told me some of the wildest
stories I’ve ever heard. Ian frigging McKaye invited
us down to the Dischord House and spent an entire day answering
questions, showing us journals, photos, and just about everything
Dischord-related you can think of –
he even made us tea! Tesco Vee told great stories. Dave
Vision (R.I.P) gave me half a book’s worth of insane
stories. Amy and I had an amazing day with Dave Brockie
(R.I.P.) and the rest of the GWAR crew… I mean, this
is stuff I dreamed about when I was 14! So many people were
so generous with their time and memories, it really was
a testament to what the underground music scenes of the
‘80s were all about. The other thing is the “regular”
people that helped us out with stories and photos and memorabilia.
My old friend Jamie Davis pretty much wrote the entire second
half of the book for us! Social media was key for us –
not only did it help us raise the money for funding, but
it let people know that there was a book coming out about
a club that so many people loved. Amy and I felt that keeping
people posted in almost-real time might be fun for those
interested. Listen, it ain’t easy to get people excited
about a book that has more words than photos in the 21st
century, so we needed all the help we could get.
Q: Tell me a little bit about the team you assembled
and worked with. Ken Salerno and Peter Tabott. They are
personal heroes through both photography and music. I’d
love to know more about those who participated and how they
became part of the team.
Steven: While Amy and I were working on the
book, Steve Tozzi reached out to us and told us he was working
on a documentary about City Gardens. We had never met Steve,
but once we found out Ken Salerno was involved, and then
Pete Tabbot from Vision, we were all in. Suddenly we had
a whole new avenue of resources when it came to contacts
and interviews. Amy and I became producers on Riot on the
Dance Floor, and that project was a HUGE help for our book.
Anyone who has ever met Pete knows what a great guy he is
– thoughtful, smart, and really just gets it. And
Mr. Salerno… of all the people I personally encountered
working on all the City Gardens stuff, I think it was Ken
I bonded with the most. And now, even though I don’t
see him often (no one does), I consider Ken a really close
friend.
Q: Having been from Queens, New York and getting
most of my Punk and Hardcore music education on the Lower
East Side. New Jersey seemed tame to many of us. However,
my several trips to City Gardens were hair raising experiences.
You were a lot closer geographically. Therefore, I’d
like to get your perspective of the club and the area.
Steven: Philly was a pretty rough scene, but I always felt
safe because we all knew each other. Going to Trenton in
the 80s was like a whole different universe. Trenton, like
a lot of cities at the time, was struggling economically.
I was 14 the first time I went there. Up until then, every
show I had been to was always in a “bad” neighborhood,
so Trenton really didn’t phase me. Plus, you have
that ignorant fearlessness of being an invincible teenager,
so you just weren’t scared of anything. I was more
afraid of what went on inside City Gardens than the neighborhood.
When I started going, City Gardens had a pretty big white
power skin contingent that would show up a lot and cause
trouble. The only thing that ever really worried me was
the fact that I was an outsider. The same way I would feel
the times we’d make road trips to CBGB matinees. It
was not my scene, and all I wanted to do was blend in, have
fun, and not be noticed. Honestly, I never had a problem
at any venue, really. I learned early that when you are
not in your home arena you have to be cool, be respectful
of where you are.
Q: What was your overall reaction the first time
you went to a show there? Were you forewarned? Were there
people who gave you descriptions before you went?
Steven: City Gardens definitely had a reputation that reached
us in Philly, but once I went there, I could see how overblown
it was. Their hardcore and punk shows were no different
form any others I had been to. Just a lot bigger of a venue.
Mostly I heard about Nazi skins there. This was around 87,
88, so Nazi skins were all the rage thanks to Geraldo and
Morton Downey Jr. City Gardens, at least to me, was this
mythical place. It was far away – you had to either
have a car or know someone with a car to get there. It wasn’t
like Philly, where you had any number of options to get
to a venue. We would see these insane flyers with the craziest
bills, but for a few years we had no idea where City Gardens
was, or how to get there. That was a big part of the “mystique”
for me.
Q: If there was one anecdote about your experience,
there. A particular band, show or exchange that sticks out
in your mind?
Steven: Really, there are two. One was a big riot that
happened after a Leeway show, for the simple fact that it
was the biggest “riot” I had ever seen. But
the story I always tell about City Gardens was going to
see Jane’s Addiction in 1988. It was not a show I
would have gone to normally, but we got free tickets. I
had never heard Jane’s. Back then, we would go to
just about any shows just because, well, they were shows.
So, I went, had a fun time, and when Jane’s played
they absolutely blew me away. I was stunned at how good
they were and even more stunned by how much I liked them.
There’s a lot you can say about that band and its
members, but for that night, for about an hour and a half,
they were the greatest band on the planet.
Q: Every writer has his/her journey. Can you tell
me about what first inspired you to write?
Steven: I grew up surrounded by books, and my first love,
even before music, is a good book. I always wrote stories
in school and would try to make them as funny as possible.
I did well with the laughs, but the nuns quickly beat the
sense of humor right out of me. It always seemed that I
would be a writer. Little did I know how much I would come
to hate it. That’s why I became a publisher –
I despise writing.
Q: Having been at it for so long, both as a hobby
and profession. Would you any advice to give to aspiring
writers?
Steven: Just keep writing. Whether it is a blog, a journal,
whatever. Just keep doing it. Every day try to write at
least one thing, even if it sucks. There are so many outlets
today, which is a blessing and a curse. Sure, it increases
your ability to be read, but, for the most part, you can’t
make a living out of it anymore. I have to work 2 jobs just
to keep my lifestyle hovering right at the abject poverty
level, and I’ve been doing this professionally for
over 25 years. Words and writers don’t really have
much value these days.
Steve, Amy, and author Freddy Alva
Q: How did you get the nickname “Sicko”?
Steven: So, when I was 11 or 12, I found, totally by accident,
a local college radio station playing Slayer. I was an aspiring
metalhead (or, as we call them in our local vernacular –
“Hammers” because of the way they bang their
heads), but I really only knew the classic rock bands from
my aunt’s record collection – Sabbath, Deep
Purple, Zeppelin, etc. I heard Slayer and that was it. It
was a wrap. Sabbath was my first love, but they weren’t
“mine.” They belonged to the generation before
me; a demographic of dopers and parking lot rulers. Anyway,
I found this local college radio station playing metal and
I became a regular listener. I never had any friends, so
Friday nights at midnight I’d be in my room with a
boom box and the phone, calling in Death Angel and
Mercyful Fate requests. I got to know a bunch of the DJs.
To be a true metalhead you had to have a cool hammer nickname.
The guy whose show I called (and who eventually took me
to my first “real” show) went by Dr. Death.
The guy who named me “Sicko” was called “The
Ripper.” So, naturally, I needed a cool metal name.
Since I ALWAYS called and requested that Suicidal song “I
Saw Your Mommy and Your Mommy’s Dead,” The Ripper
began calling me “Sicko.” It stuck. It’s
been sticking since I was 12 goddamn years old, ha ha!
Q: I had been following your blog for years. Are
you still blogging in any form?
Steven: Nah. I do far more work editing other people’s
stuff these days. I end up hating everything I write, so
I delete it all. Before that, I would burn my notebooks
after they were filled. One of the great personal revelations
I’ve had in the years since we did No Slam Dancing
was that I found it far more fulfilling to help other
authors get their books out. The second book DiWulf released
was from a good friend of yours, Mr. Freddy Alva. I can’t
tell you how much I loved working on Urban Styles
and working with Freddy, although Freddy might have a different
view because I can be a real pain in the ass to work with.
I am very intense about how our books look, feel, and sound,
and I REALLY wanted that book to be as beautiful as possible.
When that thing was done and we got the first shipment in
our hands, and when we were able to hand the very first
copies to Freddy… man, what a great feeling that was.
To see an author get their first look at their very first
book… that is a joy I was not ready for, and it is
what confirmed for me that I wanted to be a publisher and
not a writer.
Q: I’ve always identified with your sense
of humor and quick, yet often dark wit. Where does that
edge come from and has it ever come back to haunt you?
Steven: Ha, that’s a loaded question if ever there
was one. Let’s just say I very much take after my
mother and let’s just say that my big mouth has gotten
me in a LOT of trouble over the years. I’m almost
47 years old and I am STILL getting into trouble because
of the things I say.
Q: At the moment, I’m sitting here at The
Mayo Clinic waiting for my third scheduled appointment of
the day. With that said, I’ve been thinking about
you a lot lately. Your struggle with Chrohn’s Disease,
how you learned you had it, the treatment and road ahead.
Would you be open to sharing your experience?
Steven: It’s funny – for the forty-some years
that I’ve lived with Crohn’s, I’ve never
really talked about it, definitely not publicly. It’s
a difficult thing to get into because it is so personal
and, such a huge, intimate part of my life. But everyone
has something – everyone struggles with some kind
of bullshit, either mental, emotional, physical, whatever.
I don’t have to tell you that. I never want to come
off like I am looking for sympathy because I know so many
people who have it so much worse than I. To tell the truth,
I am pretty lucky. Basically, I’ve had it all my life.
I wasn’t diagnosed until I was about 14 or 15. It’s
no accident that my utter devotion to and love for music
really solidified around this time. When I first got really
sick, I had two tapes with me in the hospital: the Embrace
album and “Dark Days Coming” by 3. I don’t
think I have to tell you how important music is when you
are spending literally weeks in a bed recovering. Same with
books. My companions became people like Raskolnikov and
Dwayne Hoover and Holden Caufield and Yossarian and Hazel
and Fiver. Isolation easily leads to disenfranchisement,
and I was at the perfect age.
Back then, there really wasn’t much treatment available.
They pretty much loaded you up with steroids. I was on Prednisone
regularly throughout most of my teen years, and decades
later I’ve come to realize how that drug affected
my life. I was an angry kid to begin with, but Prednisone
REALLY exacerbated the anger and really fucked with my personality.
I was VERY unlikable as a teenager (I ain’t much more
likeable as an adult, but that’s an entirely different
story). Part of that was due to the disease and the treatment.
There’s a certain amount of self-actualization and
realization that comes with being young and being diagnosed
with an incurable, life-long disease, I think. I think everyone
who faces something like that goes through some intense
introspection.
I’ve never been much of a PMA guy, so I’ve
never been much of an advocate or cheerleader or the kind
of person that gives life advice. To me, the PMA is a cop
out – a Brad Goodman-like easy band aid for very deep,
very complex situations that arise in life. It’s a
slogan, not a solution. And I’m not trying to put
down anyone who follows the PMA lifestyle or keeps it close
to their heart, that’s not what I am about. I am simply
speaking about myself and my own beliefs. I’m never
going to stand here and say, “I don’t let this
disease control my life because blah blah blah…”
Truth of the matter is, the disease has limited me and a
lot of the things I’ve wanted to do in my life. I
have weird relationships with food - I don’t like
it. I never developed a palate, discerning or otherwise.
I eat the same things my six-year-old nephew eats. I have
a deathly fear of restaurants. I mean, think about it –
the most culturally accepted act of communion and commonality
among human beings is the breaking of bread; be it symbolic,
ritual, or just sharing a meal with friends. I have none
of that – no desire for it. It’s not a sad thing;
you can’t really miss what you never knew. But, in
the normal world, this kind of cuts you out of so many societal
conventions. Everything is about a meal or a drink. And
both of those things I have zero interest in. It’s
weird how many aspects of your life it affects. When I was
a teen, I thought for sure that I’d “grow up”
to be the punk rock version of a Rolling Stone reporter
– travelling all over the world with bands, writing
about music, living the life of the road… Well, traveling
has always been a problem for me, and it’s even worse
now. So, yeah, it’s definitely affected parts of my
life. I spent the better part of the 90s self-medicating
in VERY dangerous ways. Basically, I wanted to die, and
I went about in the slowest, most self-destructive ways
I could find. I can talk about it now because I am so far
removed from it. I don’t think I was consciously aware
of it at the time, but I knew. I had a lot of fucking fun
getting high, but the ‘90s were pretty brutal.
It’s a painful, miserable fucking way to live that
most people don’t understand. It’s not something
that comes with a death sentence. It comes with a promise
that your quality of life will pretty much suck. It’s
suffering, and there is nothing noble or character-building
about suffering. It’s unnecessary. It’s something
that is very difficult to talk about with the people in
your life, it’s easier just to bail and make up an
excuse. My wife understands, and I can talk to her about
it, but that’s about it. I don’t join any kind
of support groups or anything like that. I’m not much
of a joiner. But there are people, like yourself, James,
that have an innate understanding, compassion, and natural
empathy that comes from both personal experience and from
being a perceptive, kind person, and they are easy to talk
to about this kind of stuff. And I think maybe those people
come into your life for some kind of reason.
Earlier you had asked about where the darker side of personality
comes from – I guess this is really kind of it.
I’ve recently begun talking more openly about it
and how it’s affected me for a few different reasons.
I put a big public facebook post up, mostly out of convenience.
It’s just the easiest way to reach most of the people
in my life and try to explain to them why I’ve missed
their shows, their gatherings, their parties, etc. I’ve
just begun a new course of treatment, but I’ve been
given “new, exciting” treatments every time
a new one comes along. It’s really all the same –
you manage symptoms and hope for the best. Recently I’ve
been dealing with my immune system going haywire. It keeps
me in the house most of the time, avoiding crowds. But the
thing is, I’ve struck a balance as far as dealing
with it psychologically. That whole macho “I’m
gonna beat this and I refuse to let it affect my life”
thing is just not me. I am not that guy. I have respect
for the people who can handle things that way – they
are a lot stronger than I. But it’s just not me. What
I have learned is to deal and survive and move on. That
there is strength in submission; that there is a peace in
accepting limitations and, if those limitations can’t
be overcome, then finding ways to get around them. I learned
that anger, while motivating, is self-defeating when it
is not productive. I learned that shame and guilt are brutal
enemies, and I’ll probably be butting heads with them
for the rest of my life. Crohn’s is the reason that
the things that bring me the most joy are solitary endeavors
– reading, mostly, (especially when it is combing
through manuscripts looking for gems and jewels), and listening
to music really, really loud.
Jesus, that was a fucking grim answer. Sorry if I bummed
anybody out.
Steve and Pookie Wildwood
Q: Over the years I’ve learned and come to
know how special and integral to my own overall health,
both physical and mental, my wife is. I know you and RoShawn
have been together for a long time. Would you be open to
sharing how you met and how she inspires you?
Steven: Ah, now we can move from the darkness to the light.
What can I say about RoShawn, AKA Pookie? Shawn and I have
a FANTASTIC “how we met” story that just kills
everyone else’s. For real: I’ll fight anyone
who thinks theirs is better. It’s a long story that
I’ve written about (and then, of course, deleted,)
extensively. I first met my wife in a shitty dive bar in
Philly in 1994. I was in my most self-destructive phase,
and I would go to this bar almost every night. In the most
cliché of moments, I actually did see her across
a smoky room, and I was instantly struck. And, even more
cliché, I turned to my friend, Craig and his girlfriend
at the time, and literally said: “I am going to marry
that girl.” It was mad corny, but I fully admit to
saying it out loud. I was talking shit, but it sounded cool.
Of course, I never got the courage to go and speak to her,
and just went home. Went back again the next Friday night
and there she was. And there I was, paralyzed as usual.
I became a stalker – I knew she’d be at the
bar every Friday night, and I made sure I was there. One
night, I finally got drunk enough to approach her. She was
cordial, coy, and I actually thought I was getting somewhere.
When it came time for me to ask for her phone number, she
hit me with the old line “I’m sorry, I don’t
have a phone.” I knew what that meant, and, crushed,
I went home with every intention of returning the next Friday
night and resume my stalking. Well, she wasn’t there
the next Friday. Or the next. Or the next. She was just
gone. I didn’t know anyone who knew her, I had no
real connection to her, I had no way to find out where she
went. But, I was 22 and having the time of my life, so it
was pretty easy to move on. Except my fucking friends would
torment me with stories of seeing her all over parts of
the city. But even those stopped, and it wasn’t until
10 years later I found out she had left Philly with a friend,
a dog, a gun, and a pound of weed, and went across the country
where they ended up “accidentally” joining a
cult in Texas before escaping and making it all the way
out to California.
Fast forward to February of 1998. I am working in coffeeshop
on South Street and living in the apartment above, sort
of like Fonzie, but way less cool and no Pulaski triplets.
One random Tuesday night this stunning woman comes in my
shop and she’s giggling. Her guido friend (his name
was literally Vinny) finally said to me, “my crazy
friend here thinks she knows you.” And it was her.
About a week later she moved in with me, and we’ve
never been apart since. What’s really funny is how
different we are. Other than great literature, we have very
little in common, at least when it comes to the superficial
things. She likes stuff – I do not. She loves fantasy
and comic books and podcasts and all that nerd shit. She’s
been podcasting for years, has won all kinds of awards (her
Harry Potter podcast hit over a million downloads) and I
literally have never listened to one second of one episode!
But, to be fair, I hate podcasts and I hate Harry Potter,
so it’s not about her, ha ha.
RoShawn is the strongest person I’ve ever met. There
are stories from her life that, if anyone else had tried
to tell them to me, I would never believe it. I once watched
my wife curse out Danny Partridge Bonaduce in a bar, telling
him: “I don’t give a fuck how famous you are,
stop asking me for cigarettes.” She has saved my life
on numerous occasions, metaphorically and literally. She
got me out of the life. She took care of me after all my
surgeries. She’s an emotionally even keel to my full-on-Italian
over-sensitivity, and she knows how to diffuse my potential
blow ups. She is the reason I can keep going. I’ve
never met anyone like her. I’ve known her for 25 years
and she still surprises me every single day. She’s
also the funniest human being I have ever known. She’s
the best I know.
Q: What’s next for DiWulf? Are you currently
involved in any projects?
Steven: We had a couple of setbacks in 2018, lost two projects
we were really counting on, so we’ve regrouped and
focused our energies on the next wave of books. We have
some good ones. Back in the ‘80s, Amy worked on a
well-known NY/NJ ‘zine called “Hard Times.”
We are in the process of finishing an anthology book with
all the issues and original interviews from the ‘zine’s
run, plus some essays and stuff from some very cool people.
We’ve also been working with filmmaker/photographer/historian
Angela Boatwright, who directed the documentary Los
Punks: We Are All We Have, on a book that will be an
expanded and updated version of her film about the thriving
East LA backyard punk culture. And we have a great oral
history of the American Ska movement that is currently being
written by Marc Wasserman that is going to be a fantastic
book; I’ve been reading chapters he’s sent and
thus far it is both highly informative (the research is
deep and impeccable) and very entertaining. We also have
an author who is currently working on a history of a very
well-known bar in the New Hope area of Pennsylvania that
has a long, storied history with music, and that is coming
along nicely. I have plans to do an art book with one of
my oldest and most talented friends, Jim Houser. And I am
ALWAYS looking for something new and different to work on.
We’ve learned a lot over the past few years, and
the biggest lesson is to only work with family. No matter
how great a book might be, it just ain’t worth it
if you can’t vibe and connect with the author; if
they don’t share your same philosophies on what a
book should be and what a book means. This isn’t a
field to get into for money or prestige, or to become facebook-famous.
This is something that is almost sacred to us, and the artist
is almost as important as the work itself. We’ve been
VERY lucky with the people we’ve gotten to work with:
Freddy Alva, the legendary Ken Salerno, Steve Tozzi, Angela
Boatwright, Orlando Arce… really too many fantastic,
talented people to name. It’s as important to us to
keep that familial vibe going as it is to find and publish
great works of art.
For more information, visit www.diwulf.com.
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