Andrew Wales, Cartoonist

Every so often, an idea arrives that refuses to sit still until it’s drawn. This latest piece—a tribute to M.C. Escher’s Relativity —came from exactly that kind of persistent nudge. Escher’s world of impossible staircases has always fascinated me: people moving in different directions, following their own gravitational logic, completely unaware that someone else’s “up” is their “sideways.” It’s strange. It’s playful. And it’s the perfect metaphor for the messy, multi-layered work of Developmental Evaluation . In Halcolm’s book, we’re wrestling with questions of adaptation, innovation, and learning in real time. There’s no single path forward. There’s no clean blueprint to follow. Instead, there are many people—each with their own roles, assumptions, and vantage points—trying to make sense of a dynamic landscape. Progress is rarely linear… and sometimes it feels like the staircase just flipped again. That’s the energy I wanted to capture. Why Halcolm Keeps Appearing In the illustra...

Whether we’re teachers trying to understand what actually worked in a lesson, parents sorting out what helps our kids grow, coaches adapting to real-time feedback, or leaders navigating unpredictable projects— we’re all evaluators . Every day we judge what we’re doing, how it’s working, and what needs to change. And more often than not, the path forward is far less straightforward than we hoped. Halcolm’s Inferno is my creative, tongue-in-cheek reflection on that universal journey. Inspired by Michael Quinn Patton’s ideas in Developmental Evaluation , the comic imagines an underworld of nine “circles,” each representing a familiar challenge we face when trying to understand our efforts and make better decisions. It’s not a retelling of Dante, and it’s not a literal guide—it’s a playful exploration of how real life refuses to fit neatly inside our plans. Across these circles, Halcolm encounters the traps we all fall into: craving simple answers for complicated problems, trying to con...

  Today’s comic brings back Halcolm—this time wrestling with the classic “Starfish” idea. It’s a reminder that in the world of evaluation, the work doesn’t always look grand or sweeping. Sometimes it’s one small act, one small insight, one small shift that feels like a drop in the bucket. But drops accumulate. Patterns emerge. Change—real change—often starts with the quiet, faithful work of paying attention, asking questions, and learning from what’s right in front of us. Evaluators know this better than anyone: impact isn’t always flashy. Sometimes it’s just one starfish at a time.

  Does this comic sound too absurd to be true? It’s actually based on a real story.   In 1980, a World Bank report on the campaign to end river blindness concluded the effort’s benefits were “inherently unmeasurable” — because the people whose sight was saved were too poor to make an impact on GDP.  Should we add a column for "compassion" on the spreadsheet? 

  In this Halcolm strip, a simple chore — cleaning a shared office — turns into a contest of cleverness. As Halcolm and a young professor try to outdo each other with ever-loftier “wise sayings,” their sweeping gets faster, louder, and more dramatic. By the end, the office is spotless… but the air is a choking cloud of dust. It’s a perfect metaphor for what happens when ego sneaks into collaborative work. In evaluation, teaching, or any shared endeavor, we can be so eager to sound insightful that we stir up more confusion than clarity. Instead of helping the situation, we cloud the room — and our relationships — with unnecessary dust. Sometimes the wisest move isn’t offering the smartest statement. Sometimes it’s simply working together, gently, without the need to outperform. Clean spaces are good. Clear air is better.

  In developmental evaluation, as Michael Q. Patton reminds us, you often have to fire before you fully aim. The point isn’t to get it perfect on the first shot — it’s to learn from what happens. Halcolm’s barrage of questions captures the heart of this approach: targets move, contexts shift, and what you learn from each “miss” helps you discover what the real target is becoming. Evaluation goals evolve as the system evolves. Insight emerges not from standing still and planning endlessly, but from noticing where the arrows actually land — and adjusting your aim accordingly. In other words: missing isn’t failure. Missing without learning is.