Daniel Herrera
Daniel Herrera
Daniel is a former professional left-handed relief pitcher for the New York Mets, Milwaukee Brewers, and Cincinnati Reds. Drafted in 2006, he played 11 professional seasons across the United States and Mexico.
Now focused on visual storytelling, he's interested in editorial work, conceptual illustration, and developing personal projects like graphic memoirs and surrealist paintings.
Now focused on visual storytelling, he's interested in editorial work, conceptual illustration, and developing personal projects like graphic memoirs and surrealist paintings.
Artist Statement
A new career in art and illustration begins at a particular time of hidden truths and radicalized realities. Like sitting in a therapist's office, my work dives through the ruckus to work through the emotional fog. There is resilience in honest expression and that diligent process feels essential to my personal and professional survival. The development of composition and textures are the foundation of each piece with objectives in emotional resolve. Largely, my focus is on handwork in ink, charcoal, watercolor, and experimentation with a variety of mediums. The future of America is drifting in uncharted waters and my voice will be honest and steady as it unfolds.
Essay - A Kind of Loneliness - May 18, 2020
Stippling a comic illustration I abruptly asked myself, are there more dots on this page than Covid-19 deaths in New York City? Or in the United States? I could only answer honestly with tears. The enormous sadness clouds this city and brings puddles to my eyes. As of May 18th in the U.S., the virus has claimed over 90,000 lives.
A short time has passed since the world got sick and illusions of normal life are enough to make you choke. Sharing fat meals and random hookups are experiences for a previous generation. Now, we are too afraid to touch or breathe or trust when we can leave our guarded spaces. While impatiently waiting for a vaccine, Americans are deliberately confused by a President who disregards science for his irrational gut. You better protect yourselves out there or the boogie man will cleanse your lungs with bleach.
As a part of the whole, I've sheltered in my small Brooklyn apartment. Only venturing out for lofty bodega grabs and walks with my dog, I can't help but sense the smothering weight of our collective loneliness. Like standing chest-deep in the ocean I'm swayed by the epicenter I call home and violently drowned by an inadvertent view of refrigerated semi-trucks in the loading docks of the Ridgewood hospital.
This loneliness is one from touch, a detachment from a vital primal need. Close your eyes for a second and feel it...cuddles with mom, punching someone in the mouth, or better yet, feeling a lover's tongue in your mouth. It now comes with risk. Regardless if you're strong enough to internally fight, you could still be responsible for taking a life, all with a hug. I feel endless grief for families who can't receive closure, for the growing number of unemployed, and for exhausted single nurses who just want to get laid. The simple touch of a foreign object has changed, organic or synthetic we subconsciously take in the texture and grip and utility...'But will it kill me?' is the new question.
My loneliness gives way to anger watching news cycles spread biased opinions. Misleading quotes and headlines do nothing for those suffering the loss of life. Looking towards the presidential election, the rhetoric is maximized as politicians point fingers at the other side. The blame game is a masterful art, free from responsibility, and follow up questions. It only forces the country further and further apart during the toughest crisis we hope to ever endure. The only things lost are our lives and livelihoods. My anger only simmers compared to what unrest and depression will do to this mismanaged country by winter. It's a boil too hot to fathom.
The American fight is economical, tethered tightly to bull and bear. The treasury pours money into pharmaceutical contracts and unguarded corporate bailouts instead of helping the marginalized communities most affected. Federal escapism replaces compassion to force taxpayers back to work. It's taken a global virus to recognize the race for wealth topples the cost of healthy human life. And the virus has much more patience, a microscopic lion in the weeds, as we prioritize financial urgency like an impala in heat, wandering around and ready to fuck. So who wins?
It's the wretched feeling of helplessness that I find most debilitating. To stoically pain over art school homework feels unnecessary and even disrespectful, like sketching a fresh burn victim stepping on the model stand. Chores seem meaningless and thought patterns are habitually interrupted by daily press briefings. Career ambitions aside, I am useless with this brush. Tears continue to be my only contribution.
Regardless that I have a fiance to curl up with, I need a hug from anyone and everyone...and please embrace me like you care for me in this moment, I need it. I clench at the smoggy coat of the city skyline and wish to weep on the shoulder of sweaty scrubs. There have been zero comforts except for the solace of four walls in a 5th-floor walk-up building. This destitution of spirit needs urgent attention. Demolition of the soul would be easiest, like an empty pit I couldn't crawl out of, but quarantine is no time to spiral into the bottle with selfish desperation. Brick by brick is my preferred method of construction. Patient mental and physical self-care has to be my contribution to global upheaval. Take control of destiny, find clarity in these cacophonous caverns of the mind, and nurture the love of my little family.
The rest of this calendar year is doomed to utter chaos so I have to believe my loneliness is communal. If that can be shared, so can reconstruction. If you're reading this, I await the day I can hug you and tell you I miss you. The virus may be enough to change the fabric of global life but not enough to keep me away from you.
A short time has passed since the world got sick and illusions of normal life are enough to make you choke. Sharing fat meals and random hookups are experiences for a previous generation. Now, we are too afraid to touch or breathe or trust when we can leave our guarded spaces. While impatiently waiting for a vaccine, Americans are deliberately confused by a President who disregards science for his irrational gut. You better protect yourselves out there or the boogie man will cleanse your lungs with bleach.
As a part of the whole, I've sheltered in my small Brooklyn apartment. Only venturing out for lofty bodega grabs and walks with my dog, I can't help but sense the smothering weight of our collective loneliness. Like standing chest-deep in the ocean I'm swayed by the epicenter I call home and violently drowned by an inadvertent view of refrigerated semi-trucks in the loading docks of the Ridgewood hospital.
This loneliness is one from touch, a detachment from a vital primal need. Close your eyes for a second and feel it...cuddles with mom, punching someone in the mouth, or better yet, feeling a lover's tongue in your mouth. It now comes with risk. Regardless if you're strong enough to internally fight, you could still be responsible for taking a life, all with a hug. I feel endless grief for families who can't receive closure, for the growing number of unemployed, and for exhausted single nurses who just want to get laid. The simple touch of a foreign object has changed, organic or synthetic we subconsciously take in the texture and grip and utility...'But will it kill me?' is the new question.
My loneliness gives way to anger watching news cycles spread biased opinions. Misleading quotes and headlines do nothing for those suffering the loss of life. Looking towards the presidential election, the rhetoric is maximized as politicians point fingers at the other side. The blame game is a masterful art, free from responsibility, and follow up questions. It only forces the country further and further apart during the toughest crisis we hope to ever endure. The only things lost are our lives and livelihoods. My anger only simmers compared to what unrest and depression will do to this mismanaged country by winter. It's a boil too hot to fathom.
The American fight is economical, tethered tightly to bull and bear. The treasury pours money into pharmaceutical contracts and unguarded corporate bailouts instead of helping the marginalized communities most affected. Federal escapism replaces compassion to force taxpayers back to work. It's taken a global virus to recognize the race for wealth topples the cost of healthy human life. And the virus has much more patience, a microscopic lion in the weeds, as we prioritize financial urgency like an impala in heat, wandering around and ready to fuck. So who wins?
It's the wretched feeling of helplessness that I find most debilitating. To stoically pain over art school homework feels unnecessary and even disrespectful, like sketching a fresh burn victim stepping on the model stand. Chores seem meaningless and thought patterns are habitually interrupted by daily press briefings. Career ambitions aside, I am useless with this brush. Tears continue to be my only contribution.
Regardless that I have a fiance to curl up with, I need a hug from anyone and everyone...and please embrace me like you care for me in this moment, I need it. I clench at the smoggy coat of the city skyline and wish to weep on the shoulder of sweaty scrubs. There have been zero comforts except for the solace of four walls in a 5th-floor walk-up building. This destitution of spirit needs urgent attention. Demolition of the soul would be easiest, like an empty pit I couldn't crawl out of, but quarantine is no time to spiral into the bottle with selfish desperation. Brick by brick is my preferred method of construction. Patient mental and physical self-care has to be my contribution to global upheaval. Take control of destiny, find clarity in these cacophonous caverns of the mind, and nurture the love of my little family.
The rest of this calendar year is doomed to utter chaos so I have to believe my loneliness is communal. If that can be shared, so can reconstruction. If you're reading this, I await the day I can hug you and tell you I miss you. The virus may be enough to change the fabric of global life but not enough to keep me away from you.
Daniel Herrera resume