Samuel Ferri

Samuel Ferri is at the point in life where when he sits down to write out his bio for a magazine, a lot of itchy questions start to come up. It’s like the man from the Talking Heads song screaming “how did I get here,” into the ether while already sort of knowing the answer. He loves his lady and his two-year-old son, but they all moved to Connecticut during the pandemic, and after a lifelong stint as a New Yorker, he wonders if he’s lost some essential piece of grit in the transition to suburban dad. What does that make him? A Conneticuctucken? Connetikite? He should probably mention something about past work, writing and drawing comics for MAD Magazine, The NY Observer, The NYpress and other types of spots, but it just further reminds him of the terrifying constant flux of the universe, of how some of those publications and relationships with editors no longer exist, how what’s relevant feels so difficult to pinpoint in the even quicker churn of the hashtag era, of how he tried to slow it down after years of being a college dropout, an identity he’d perfected and even taken pride in, went back to college in his 30s for lack of a better answer, where he took, amongst psychology classes he’ll probably never make much use of, a Fritz Lang class where he drew a comic essay that appears in Everybody Press Review but that he wonders if it makes sense without further context, if black and white comic essays about an early 20th century German director’s Freudian inclinations in making a film most living people have never seen is really the solution to uncertain relevancy in the aforementioned hashtag era… Wait… Where were we? Oh yeah, more of Sam’s work can be seen at assuming it’s been updated by the time you see this. He keeps promising to finish the update but things keep coming up.