I just found out from Rick’s ex-wife Wendy that Rick Hoppe passed away about six months ago. Despite being a year younger than me, we were best friends for my final two years at Thousand Oaks High School and after that for decades. We shared a subversive sense of humor, as well as a love for comics, art and drawing. For some reason now scattered to the winds of time (the name might have come from a late 1960s sit-com), we called each other “Burford” — or just “Burf”.
Rick was one of the most creative guys I ever met. He put me to shame with his brilliant originality. We spent one summer living in my dad’s cabin in Bouquet Canyon. We created and drew our own superheroes all day long. Sometimes we would draw each other’s characters or ink each other’s drawings.
We shared a passion for the work of Frank Frazetta. We especially loved Frazetta’s illustrations for the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Tarzan creator and John Carter author). Somehow we convinced Rick’s dad to drive us from Thousand Oaks to Tarzana one Saturday to meet a very gracious Hulbert Burroughs, one of ERB’s sons.
Rick and I were constantly conniving ways to “go pro” in the world of comics. We decided we would create our own comic book, Illo, a celebration of fantasy and superhero art and stories. Unfortunately, I was the only guy who finished his half of the book.
We both financed the years we spent as art students by painting watercolor portraits in New Orleans Square at Disneyland during the summers. Rick and I shared an apartment in Anaheim during my second summer there.
Rick had a kind of wacky theory when it came to art, a theory that often held him back. He felt he couldn’t produce finished art until he had exposed himself to and attempted to learn from every great piece of art that had ever been produced. Well, with that system, that endless tunnel, you could spend a lifetime studying art and never produce anything that was finished by yourself. Rick didn’t understand that the process of creating finished art, no matter if it didn’t hold up against the art of one’s artistic heroes, was just as valuable as studying it. This misguided obsession of his resulted in him producing very few finished pieces.
That came back to bite him in the butt in at least one instance I was witness to.
We were both producing art for a new line of Edgar Rice Burroughs comics. Rick managed to finish his story and turned it in on time and on deadline, quite an accomplishment for Rick. He did a fine job. It was great to finally see him commit to actually completing an entire story. Rick was rightfully proud of what he had done.
Unfortunately, the publisher assigned a hack to color Rick’s story. The hack did a horrible job, ruining Rick’s work. Rick was devastated. He was in tears as he showed me what had been done to his creation.
I sympathized with my pal. The reality, however, was that Rick’s devastation was made even more gigantic by the fact that finished art by Rick was so incredibly rare. If he had had a stronger (and faster) work ethic and this had been just one story ruined out of dozens that were not, I think the devastation wouldn’t have loomed so large in his life.
Rick was a terrific artist but he was not a self-starter, nor was his mindset a match for the life of a freelancer. He was perfect for salaried jobs, however: show up, go to work, do what you were told, go home, collect a weekly paycheck.
Rick landed several jobs that were perfect for his talents and his approach to work. He became a top animator at Walt Disney‘s animation studio. He also excelled as an art teacher at the Laguna College of Art + Design. Those kind of jobs were made for a guy like Rick. I learned a lot from Rick myself, especially when it came to learning human anatomy.
We drifted apart over the years, seeing each other occasionally but rarely intentionally. My own film work had me living in Yugoslavia, Spain, Mexico and British Columbia. For a short while, we lived just a few blocks from each other in Pasadena. After his marriage fell apart, I visited Rick at his home, giving him emotional support, cheering him up and making him laugh his ass off, almost always a good cure for post-marital doldrums.
My studio mate Richard Hescox stayed close to Rick, so I was able to keep up with what was going on in Rick’s life through reports from Richard.
As I get older, I am more and more struck by the deaths of friends who are younger than me. I am now seeing my own dim light at the end of life’s long (or short, depending upon one’s point of view) tunnel.
Here’s to you, Burford…Hopefully we’ll meet again on the Other Side, each intent on creating more masterpieces.
Not too soon, though, I hope…
