Scott "SINC" Sinclair
Ralph Bakshi's The Hobbit, Gary Gygax, and Monty Python's the Holy Grail were the gateway for my addiction to high fantasy. I learned to play Dungeons and Dragons when I was 12. I blame character sheets and the original monster manual for my impetus to be an artist, and Games Workshop and Warhammer 40k for my unhealthy obsession with plate armor, melee, mecha, and orcs.
I had Watchmen snatched from my hands and torn to shreds by a Sunday School teacher in front of the class.
The only television my parents allowed us to watch as children was BBC. Our daily regiment consisted of Doctor Who, All Creatures Great and Small, Faulty Towers, Monty Python, Star Trek or Nature on PBS. The television miniseries Shogun was considered “family movie night.”
The first video game I played was Wasteland on a Tandy PC. I blame that game for my unhealthy obsession with open world RPGs. I blame Skate or Die, Crystal Castles, and Dragons Lair for fanning the flames of gaming in general.
I sold my comic book collection from a table I rented during a Florida Comic-Con because I needed cash to buy Herzog Zwei for the Sega Master System.
My cassette player was stuck on Agent Orange’s Bite the Hand That Feeds.
I used to discover new bands by cherishing the free mixtapes packed inside of Thrasher Magazine.
I blame a specific issue of Transworld Skateboarding featuring “The Art of Natas Kaupas” for the direction of my lens.
I've been covered in blood from hand-rail bails on rough pavement, feebly attempting to emulate some semblance of Jason Lee's style, War’s Lowrider providing the backdrop. I would film my own skate videos and try so hard to make them beautiful pieces of art. Yes, Jason Lee was the worlds best skater, not Earl.
I can no longer skateboard because of a horrific accident. While attempting a tail Blunt to Fakie, one of my legs missed the board upon reentering the transition, and my right knee completely folded sideways. It was not only the worst physical pain I've experienced in my entire life, but an unholy position to see your leg in. To this day, balance and weight intensive sports can cause my leg to pop out of its socket with little effort. I would have been skating until the day I died. /PTSD
I made the mistake of asking my Father, "Is it cool if I get a tattoo?," after already having the tattoo.
I love to fish. I am a graduate of the Orvis School of Fly Fishing in Vermont. I can tie a fisherman's knot in my sleep.
I have been bumped by a shark nearly the size of a surfboard while paddling in tropical storm breaks, which has developed into a crippling fear of ocean water. I have not been in the ocean since that moment. I was eighteen.
I've eaten Shepard's Pie at Churchill's in Miami as a consolation prize for helping break up a fight during one of Fugazi's very first shows.
I've played at CBGB's; I've smelled that bathroom. I've played at The Ratt in Boston; I've choked on the kitty litter dust from that pit.
I have a deep seeded fear of flying, yet I have walked the thin plank from ass-to-nose over the open bomb bay of a B-24, three thousand feet above Boston.
I graduated from Ringling School of Art and Design, class of 1996. The professors were god-like professionals.
My senior thesis mentor was the late, great Mr. Alan E. Cober. He was someone who kept close watch over me post-graduation/early days, and was directly responsible for kick-starting my editorial career. He opened a massive door for me by dropping me front and center with Steven Heller at The New York Times. /singletear
I gravitated towards the NYC/New Haven hardcore scene, fell madly in love with Quicksand album art, and always envisioned a painters life in Gotham.
I've printed and dried layers of ink on tour shirts using a home brew silk screen graphic and an open apartment oven—a desperate process for scoring white ink on a black shirt. Panic filling a box, band in a van trying to leave on schedule, merchandise equals food.
I've attempted to run my own Indie record label, SINCaudio. Crash and burn.
I've worked as an AP Attendant for the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston—a great job as far as paying rent is concerned. I worked this by day and focused on self-promotion for editorial by night.
I've painted illustrations for Playboy, Ray-gun, the New York Times, Atlantic Monthly, Transworld Skate and Surf, album covers for hundreds of bands, shown in several illustration annuals, and hold awards from both Communication Arts and American Illustration for excellence in traditional media.
The opportunity to be a featured, recurring illustrator for the Progressive is, to this day, a highlight of my career.
Rolling Stone was the one trophy client I could never land during my career as an editorial illustrator. I actually tried sneaking up to the Art Director’s office with my portfolio and promo cards. Security on the Avenue of America's is extremely tight. Mission Impossible.
I've designed interactive flash kiosks to commemorate the career of Alfred Hitchcock and Clint Eastwood for the MoMA.
I have been lucky enough to gain private access to the flat files in the photojournalism archives of the United Nations headquarters in New York City, with, “Anything you find relevant or interesting, feel free to use," as my only direction in what appeared to be the real life equivalent of an Indiana Jones parting shot. There, I saw photos of history most people will never see.
I apologize for the god awful Looking Glass Studios logo. /slapsforehead
Over a decade ago, my father purchased six hundred acres of deforested, oil soaked land in New Hampshire. Today it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. My father’s life-work has been devoted to the restoration of environments through the direct contribution of sweat and blood.
I have helped birth both the Guitar Hero and Bioshock franchises, granting me amazing opportunities to learn in a broad range of culture and process alongside the greatest assortment of the most talented people from a million walks of life.
I have been the lesser half of a two-man gallery show with the fabulous Mr. Tim Biskup.
My name is on display at the Smithsonian for a video game. Something is not right with this.
I like to believe the documentary Beauty Is Embarrassing is a one-for-one telling of my own story. I would kill to meet Wayne White. He is my hero.