I'm a little late to this game, but I figured I'd do a brief rundown of the webcomics I follow and try to say something about them. Some of them are quite popular and well-known, but I'll try to say something about them anyway.
xkcd: I'm pretty sure everybody knows about xkcd, but it's still worth talking about. There are very few people who make a full-time living out of their webcomic, and Randall Munroe is one of them. In addition to being a hallmark of geek culture and fans of graphs, xkcd also does a lot of things that push the technological and conceptual limits of comics, such as xkcloud, the live-updating comic that followed the Rosetta Probe's landing on a comet, pixels, Lorenz, frequency, time, click and drag, and a bunch more that I can't find the link to right now.
Dinosaur Comics: this is an odd one. It's a serial comic where the art and panel layout never change, only the text. Is it a brilliant deconstruction of narrative and temporal perception in static visual media, or is Ryan North just really lazy? We may never know. This comic also inspired the indie-published short story anthology Machine of Death, which is really cool.
PvP: One of the few surviving members of the swarm of early 2000s Comics About Videogames. What's interesting to me about this one is that it began as a pretty classic "nerd" comic, in the sense that the characters were merely an avenue for the writer to make jokes about whatever game they were currently playing, but eventually evolved into a more traditional comedy-drama, with a cast of rich and relatable characters. Games are hardly mentioned these days.
Girls with Slingshots: This one just recently wrapped up (sort of), and is currently in the process of re-releasing its earlier comics in full color, so it's the perfect time for you to pick it up. It's a relationship comedy-drama comic in the style of Dykes to Watch Out For, but with an arguably even more colorful cast.
Penny Arcade: I really don't know how well-known this comic is outside of the "gaming" community, but its gotta be one of the most successful webcomics of all time. Jerry Holkins and Mike Krahulik went from a pair of guys who make funny pictures to being two of the most influential people in the gaming industry. They founded PAX, the largest gaming convention in the world, and Child's Play, a charity that has raised over 33 million dollars to date! In addition to the main Penny Arcade strip, they also have several other projects going, including more serious, story-based, large-format comics, and The Trenches, a collaboration with Scott Kurtz, creator of PvP. What's interesting to me about The Trenches is seeing three guys, who all sort of stumbled their way into professional comics creation, building a brand new comic from the ground up in a much more "professional" manner. It's interesting to see the differences between the sort of natural growth of their original comics, compared to the more planned-out approach seen in the Trenches. It's not better, necessarily, but it's certainly different.
Camp Weedonwantcha: This comic was created by Katie Rice, winner of the Penny Arcade Strip Search competition. I think it sets an interesting precedent for a new kind of "publishing" on the web, where up-and-coming artists have the opportunity to gain from the popularity of established creators. Katie has another comic, Skadi, which I actually haven't read.
Questionable Content: I don't know if I have anything to say about this one, except that it's smart and funny and you should read it.
Manly Guys Doing Manly Things: This is a hilarious comic whose whole schtick is to poke fun at the stereotypical Gruff Muscle Man that's so common in movies and videogames. An interesting thing to note about this one is that the creator (whose name I should know, but I only know her by the handle Coelasquid), is a professional animator. She has a full-time and very demanding job working in television, but still makes it a point to put out a comic every week. You have to admire that kind of dedication. She also has a new project called Platinum Black, which is again a more serious, large-format comic. That one updates.... less regularly.
Awkward Zombie: Katie Tiedrich is the only comic artist I know of who has a degree and a job in a non-art-related field. Those who've been reading the comic long enough have followed her as she went off to college, and then graduated and got a job. Seeing someone so committed to two very different (and, again, very demanding) interests is inspiring. She's also the only comic artist I know of who's still doing hourly comics.
Lackadaisy: A lot has been said about Lackadaisy, I don't need to sing its praises any more... but I'm going to anyway. Tracy Butler brings a greater level of care and attention to detail and historical accuracy than in any other comic I'm aware of. Which is probably why she averages less than a page a month. That she's able to update so rarely and still maintain such an avid readership is a testament to just how good this comic is.
The Abominable Charles Christopher: This, in my opinion, is the most criminally underrated comic out there today. Karl Kerschl (another example of an industry professional, drawing this in his spare time because it's a story he deeply cares about) has crafted an elegant universe where goofy, Pogo-style antics somehow fit seamlessly beside a sprawling mythological epic.
Beret: A comic by a Ringling grad, and yet another working industry professional! The whole schtick of this comic is wonderful. Kent Mudle uses word balloons in a way not quite like any other comic artist. It creates a unique, sort of punctuated tone and style of reading, as though the whole story is happening in slow-motion.
Spinnerette: This is a somewhat bizarre case of a person trying to do a classic superhero comic in a web format. We tend to think of superhero stories as being the sole domain of the Big Two, there's something that's at first almost uncomfortable about reading an indie superhero effort. Of course, the parody factor is strong here, which should be clear enough from the protagonist's name and power set. But I think ultimately this is meant as an honest and serious attempt at a brand new perspective on the superhero genre, and the creator KrazyKrow does it quite well. A female hero identity that's passed down from generation to generation, and ultimately adopted by a man because there were no more female heirs? Genius.
Pictures for Sad Children: this is the last one I want to talk about today. It was one of my favorite comics, before John Campbell (creator Hourly Comic Day), apparently fed up with people complaining about late Kickstarter rewards, and disillusioned with capitalism in general, removed the entirety of the comic from his website, and also burned the remaining kickstarted books. The whole ordeal is terrifying to me, because people jokingly say that "nothing ever gets deleted from the internet", but there are now only a handful of the original comics to be found on stray blogs and image hosting sites. All that art is just... gone. What does that mean for the future of comics?
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Jim Henson's Tale of Sand
Tale of Sand is a graphic novel adapted in 2011 by Ramon K. Perez from an unproduced film script written by Jim Henson and Jerry Juhl.
I've been putting off writing about this book for a while, because I still can't form an opinion about it. On the one hand, it's got all the hallmarks of classic Jim Henson: a whimsical narrative style, a fantastical setting, lighthearted yet subtly twisted humor, all grounded by a lovable protagonist. But on the other hand, the book is a complete clusterfuck of unrelated symbology, strung together through a series of disjointed events. The work is a Mind Screw in the purest sense, and as such is inherently unsatisfying.
The problem, as I see it, is that I can't for the life of me figure out what Tale of Sand is supposed to be about. It's far too surreal to just be a classic adventure story, and too high-concept to be written off as irreverent, Monty Python-esque comedy. Jim Henson doesn't really have a penchant for just doing "weird for the sake of weird." But if there is some deeper allegorical meaning to all the elements of this story, I just can't find it.
In the book's Foreword, a quote from Jerry Juhl ascribes the Tale of Sand script to a sort of cultural paranoia in the late '60s, saying a lot of people were writing stories "...about people trapped in situations and thinking they got out, and then discovering that they didn't." In the Afterword, Lisa Henson suggests that the story is a reflection of the fears and uncertainties that her father felt as an aspiring artist trying to break into Hollywood. Either or both of these interpretations may be true, I suppose. But it still doesn't relieve the itching feeling in the back of my mind that I'm missing something bigger.
...
I've been speaking so far as though Jim Henson was the sole creator of this work, but something certainly should be said of the artist, Ramon Perez. (Jerry Juhl of course was also an important member, but as I am largely unfamiliar with him as an artist, and am less clear on what aspects of the final product are his contribution, I don't have much of anything to say about him.)
Perez breathes life into the story through the graphic novel form. His art dances on the border between cartoonishness and realism, creating the perfect environment for the surreal narrative of Tale of Sand. Perez also cleverly avoids the pitfall of simply creating storyboards for a film. He makes it a point to take full advantage of the comics page, and give Tale of Sand a signature look and feel that lets the book stand as a complete work of art on its own. But at the same time, the book is acting as an elegy for the film that might have been, for a vision that might only have been able to be properly realized in the hands of Henson himself. Pages of the original script are interwoven into the very scenery and landscape of the story, as if to remind you that this book, like all creative works, is only one interpretation, one possible result of the artist's original, pure creative vision.
Maybe that's the point of the whole thing. Maybe Tale of Sand is a story so personal, it only ever really made sense to Jim. Maybe what Tale of Sand is about, is every individual's endless struggle to find what it's about.
... God, that sounds pretentious as fuck.
I've been putting off writing about this book for a while, because I still can't form an opinion about it. On the one hand, it's got all the hallmarks of classic Jim Henson: a whimsical narrative style, a fantastical setting, lighthearted yet subtly twisted humor, all grounded by a lovable protagonist. But on the other hand, the book is a complete clusterfuck of unrelated symbology, strung together through a series of disjointed events. The work is a Mind Screw in the purest sense, and as such is inherently unsatisfying.
The problem, as I see it, is that I can't for the life of me figure out what Tale of Sand is supposed to be about. It's far too surreal to just be a classic adventure story, and too high-concept to be written off as irreverent, Monty Python-esque comedy. Jim Henson doesn't really have a penchant for just doing "weird for the sake of weird." But if there is some deeper allegorical meaning to all the elements of this story, I just can't find it.
In the book's Foreword, a quote from Jerry Juhl ascribes the Tale of Sand script to a sort of cultural paranoia in the late '60s, saying a lot of people were writing stories "...about people trapped in situations and thinking they got out, and then discovering that they didn't." In the Afterword, Lisa Henson suggests that the story is a reflection of the fears and uncertainties that her father felt as an aspiring artist trying to break into Hollywood. Either or both of these interpretations may be true, I suppose. But it still doesn't relieve the itching feeling in the back of my mind that I'm missing something bigger.
...
I've been speaking so far as though Jim Henson was the sole creator of this work, but something certainly should be said of the artist, Ramon Perez. (Jerry Juhl of course was also an important member, but as I am largely unfamiliar with him as an artist, and am less clear on what aspects of the final product are his contribution, I don't have much of anything to say about him.)
Perez breathes life into the story through the graphic novel form. His art dances on the border between cartoonishness and realism, creating the perfect environment for the surreal narrative of Tale of Sand. Perez also cleverly avoids the pitfall of simply creating storyboards for a film. He makes it a point to take full advantage of the comics page, and give Tale of Sand a signature look and feel that lets the book stand as a complete work of art on its own. But at the same time, the book is acting as an elegy for the film that might have been, for a vision that might only have been able to be properly realized in the hands of Henson himself. Pages of the original script are interwoven into the very scenery and landscape of the story, as if to remind you that this book, like all creative works, is only one interpretation, one possible result of the artist's original, pure creative vision.
Maybe that's the point of the whole thing. Maybe Tale of Sand is a story so personal, it only ever really made sense to Jim. Maybe what Tale of Sand is about, is every individual's endless struggle to find what it's about.
... God, that sounds pretentious as fuck.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Deva Zan, by Yoshitaka Amano
Deva Zan is a graphic novel about an ancient Buddhist god, who embarks on a quest, traveling through various alternate dimensions in order to restore his memories and prevent the world from succumbing to Ku, or chaos. The book is composed in the same style Amano employed in Neil Gaiman's The Dream Hunters, with full or double-page illustrations accompanied by short prose passages, more like an illustrated storybook than a traditional comic. It is, as far as I know, the first original work by illustrious illustrator Yoshitaka Amano, which might explain why it feels so juvenile and amateurish. The plot reads something like a cross between Stephen King's The Dark Tower and a rejected Final Fantasy script. I'm inclined to think that at least part of the problem comes from translation difficulties, but that excuse can only go so far.
At one point while writing this blog post, I had planned to say something to the effect that Deva Zan felt more like a rough outline for a movie than a fully-finished literary work in its own right. And then, after a little bit of research, I discovered that that's pretty much exactly what it is. Deva Zan was first revealed to the world as the first project from Amano's newly formed film company, Studio Devaloka. They had a trailer and everything:
The movie was first set to be released in 2012, and its current fate is anybody's guess. But at some point in 2013, Amano apparently decided to bundle up a bunch of the concept illustrations he'd done for the movie, and publish it in a book. The result is a hefty tome full of gorgeous illustrations, juxtaposed with blocks of text that are as awkward to read as Star Wars: The Novelization of the Movie.
But perhaps I'm being unfair. Deva Zan is just one of those comics where the story is meant to be in service to the art, instead of the other way round. And by all accounts the art is gorgeous. I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my time than in sifting through a 300-page collection of Amano illustrations, though I still sometimes have trouble parsing his bizarre blend of fine-art sensibilities and wide-eyed androgynous manga men. Given that Amano played such a big role in developing what's now known as the stereotypical anime look, it seems disingenuous to suggest that his art looks too cliche. But I can't help my own perceptions; It's 2015, and what might once have been an innovative and signature style, now just reminds me of crappy drawings scrawled in the backs of history notebooks by angsty teenagers who just discovered Bleach.
At one point while writing this blog post, I had planned to say something to the effect that Deva Zan felt more like a rough outline for a movie than a fully-finished literary work in its own right. And then, after a little bit of research, I discovered that that's pretty much exactly what it is. Deva Zan was first revealed to the world as the first project from Amano's newly formed film company, Studio Devaloka. They had a trailer and everything:
The movie was first set to be released in 2012, and its current fate is anybody's guess. But at some point in 2013, Amano apparently decided to bundle up a bunch of the concept illustrations he'd done for the movie, and publish it in a book. The result is a hefty tome full of gorgeous illustrations, juxtaposed with blocks of text that are as awkward to read as Star Wars: The Novelization of the Movie.
But perhaps I'm being unfair. Deva Zan is just one of those comics where the story is meant to be in service to the art, instead of the other way round. And by all accounts the art is gorgeous. I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my time than in sifting through a 300-page collection of Amano illustrations, though I still sometimes have trouble parsing his bizarre blend of fine-art sensibilities and wide-eyed androgynous manga men. Given that Amano played such a big role in developing what's now known as the stereotypical anime look, it seems disingenuous to suggest that his art looks too cliche. But I can't help my own perceptions; It's 2015, and what might once have been an innovative and signature style, now just reminds me of crappy drawings scrawled in the backs of history notebooks by angsty teenagers who just discovered Bleach.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Jean "Moebius" Giraud's Heavy Metal comics
"Are you confused? Well why not? This was written by a Frenchman..."
The most impressive thing to me about Moebius is how he is consistently able to do so much with so little, telling complete and thought-provoking stories in as few as two pages. At their best, these stories are a perfectly timed snapshot of a vast universe with a rich and textured history, our brief glimpse of which leaves us with more questions than answers, begging to know more...
And at their worst, they are incomprehensible conglomerations of non sequitur imagery, held together only by the implicit affirmation that the creator must have had some idea of what he was doing, even if nobody else does. And yet, even in these cases I can't help but admire Moebius for his whimsical drawings and charming blend of surrealist fantasy.
Another thing I admire is how easily he appears to be able to jump between different visual styles to suit the tone of the story, finding the perfect point on the spectrum between detailed realism and iconic cartoons. But somehow, no matter what style he settles on, it is still always distinctly Moebius.
So I guess what I'm saying is, I'm a fan.
The most impressive thing to me about Moebius is how he is consistently able to do so much with so little, telling complete and thought-provoking stories in as few as two pages. At their best, these stories are a perfectly timed snapshot of a vast universe with a rich and textured history, our brief glimpse of which leaves us with more questions than answers, begging to know more...
And at their worst, they are incomprehensible conglomerations of non sequitur imagery, held together only by the implicit affirmation that the creator must have had some idea of what he was doing, even if nobody else does. And yet, even in these cases I can't help but admire Moebius for his whimsical drawings and charming blend of surrealist fantasy.
Another thing I admire is how easily he appears to be able to jump between different visual styles to suit the tone of the story, finding the perfect point on the spectrum between detailed realism and iconic cartoons. But somehow, no matter what style he settles on, it is still always distinctly Moebius.
So I guess what I'm saying is, I'm a fan.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Fun Home, by Alison Bechdel
I'd just like to start by saying that I think drawing yourself masturbating must be a really weird experience. This is the second comic I've written about for this blog where the author has done that. (the first being *Blankets*)
Anyway, I'd previously been aware of the name Alison Bechdel in reference to the Bechdel Test, but this was my first experience actually reading any of her work. In preparation for reading this, I also read some Dykes to Watch Out For, since that seems to be the thing she is best known for, and that honestly did not get my hopes up for Fun Home. It just seems to me that the conceit of having a bunch of lesbians with nothing better to do than sit around talking about being lesbians is not particularly compelling. Nor does it seem to really send a message of "Gays are People too" when it's apparently impossible to be gay without also being a radical political activist. Or maybe I just can't relate to the struggles of the Pre-2000-Era gay community.
Homosexuality is a major theme in Fun Home as well, but treats it as just one aspect of its title characters, rather than the singular defining trait. The fact that Alison and her father are gay is not 'meaningful' in its own right, but in the ways in which it affects their interpersonal relationships. And this gets at the heart of what makes Fun Home such a powerful read: It's such a deeply personal story, and told by Bechdel in such a relatable way, that I feel like I really know these characters.
I'm starting to think that comics are a particularly effective medium for autobiography. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because the visual medium allows us a more intimate view of the author's perspective through their drawings; but, unlike with film and animation, which usually take several people working together to produce, the individuality of the story is not lost in the process of creation.
That said, there are some stylistic elements in Fun Home that I can't help but be puzzled at. Bechdel possesses a Brobdingnagian propensity for baroque vocabulary, which sporadically obfuscates the otherwise candorous nature of her intended message. It reminds me of Scott McCloud's parable of the writer and artist, who keep working at mastering their individual craft until they find themselves on opposite ends of a creative gulf, and end up having to work their way back towards each other. The constant literary references can be similarly daunting. I enjoy a good analogy as much as the next guy, but when Bechdel starts comparing her own life to three different classic works in the same chapter, it can get a bit hard to keep up.
One of the more interesting aspects of the book is the nonlinear approach it takes to telling the story. Events are not told in chronological order; rather, each chapter tells a new story that adds up to the greater whole, like adding pieces to a puzzle one by one until you can finally see the bigger picture. A chapter may cover several years, or just one weekend. It strikes me as a clever way to approach an autobiographical story, as our own lives are rarely as neat and tidy as a typical work of fiction.
Anyway, I'd previously been aware of the name Alison Bechdel in reference to the Bechdel Test, but this was my first experience actually reading any of her work. In preparation for reading this, I also read some Dykes to Watch Out For, since that seems to be the thing she is best known for, and that honestly did not get my hopes up for Fun Home. It just seems to me that the conceit of having a bunch of lesbians with nothing better to do than sit around talking about being lesbians is not particularly compelling. Nor does it seem to really send a message of "Gays are People too" when it's apparently impossible to be gay without also being a radical political activist. Or maybe I just can't relate to the struggles of the Pre-2000-Era gay community.
Homosexuality is a major theme in Fun Home as well, but treats it as just one aspect of its title characters, rather than the singular defining trait. The fact that Alison and her father are gay is not 'meaningful' in its own right, but in the ways in which it affects their interpersonal relationships. And this gets at the heart of what makes Fun Home such a powerful read: It's such a deeply personal story, and told by Bechdel in such a relatable way, that I feel like I really know these characters.
I'm starting to think that comics are a particularly effective medium for autobiography. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because the visual medium allows us a more intimate view of the author's perspective through their drawings; but, unlike with film and animation, which usually take several people working together to produce, the individuality of the story is not lost in the process of creation.
That said, there are some stylistic elements in Fun Home that I can't help but be puzzled at. Bechdel possesses a Brobdingnagian propensity for baroque vocabulary, which sporadically obfuscates the otherwise candorous nature of her intended message. It reminds me of Scott McCloud's parable of the writer and artist, who keep working at mastering their individual craft until they find themselves on opposite ends of a creative gulf, and end up having to work their way back towards each other. The constant literary references can be similarly daunting. I enjoy a good analogy as much as the next guy, but when Bechdel starts comparing her own life to three different classic works in the same chapter, it can get a bit hard to keep up.
One of the more interesting aspects of the book is the nonlinear approach it takes to telling the story. Events are not told in chronological order; rather, each chapter tells a new story that adds up to the greater whole, like adding pieces to a puzzle one by one until you can finally see the bigger picture. A chapter may cover several years, or just one weekend. It strikes me as a clever way to approach an autobiographical story, as our own lives are rarely as neat and tidy as a typical work of fiction.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Maus, by Art Spiegelman
There are a lot of factors to consider when looking at the use of caricature and stereotyping in Maus. On the surface it seems to be a pretty harmless visual device, stemming from a simple and compelling metaphor: Nazis and Jews as Cats and Mice, respectively. In this aspect, at least, I think the metaphor is working as intended. It highlights the powerlessness that the Jews would have felt, and even the particular manner of stylization highlights this effect: the Jew-mice all have rounded edges and non-threatening wide eyes, while the Cat-zis are all sharp and pointy and nasty.
But is it a good idea to be depicting the Jews all as an easily identifiable, ethnically distinct, and arguable inferior species, when that's exactly what the Nazis were doing in the first place? Is drawing Jews as a collective Race of Victims an insult to those who struggled through the holocaust, or is Spiegelman simply showing a group of people united against hardship? For that matter, is it fair to draw all Germans as snarling monstrous cats, even those who may themselves have been opposed to the war and the holocaust?
The issue only gets hairier when you factor in the Poles, French and Americans. If the choices of Cats and Mice for Germans and Jews carry deliberate connotations, It's natural to expect that the other animals would as well. But searching for deeper meaning, or hidden offense, where none was intended, may ultimately just be detracting from the overall impact of the novel. Maus doesn't seem like the kind of story that's trying to hide anything with a lot of complex literary layers; all the major themes are right there on the surface. Several chapters feature the author himself explicitly talking about his own desires and concerns about the book.
To me, the issue ultimately boils down to whether Maus would have been as successful had the characters all simply been drawn as humans (successful as a story overall, not in the sense of critically or financially successful). Of course, this is a question that is impossible to answer with any certainty. I know that the intrigue and novelty of a holocaust story about mice was part of what got me to pick up the book the first time I read it. And all of the usual considerations about caricature in comics apply here as well of course; although they could just as easily apply to stylized human characters. And then there's the possibility to consider that using cartoon mice may have caused some readers to write the book off as frivolous, childish, or insulting. Then again, maybe that's part of the point: to surprise people who don't normally read comics. I know a lot of my own family members who've read Maus, but wouldn't be caught dead reading a Superman comic.
All this talking in circles is basically my way of saying that I don't have a fucking clue what any of it "means". All I can say for sure is that I enjoyed the book, I think it treated the historical stuff respectfully, and that it told a more personal and compelling story than most of the other holocaust accounts that I've read (not that I've read all that many).
But is it a good idea to be depicting the Jews all as an easily identifiable, ethnically distinct, and arguable inferior species, when that's exactly what the Nazis were doing in the first place? Is drawing Jews as a collective Race of Victims an insult to those who struggled through the holocaust, or is Spiegelman simply showing a group of people united against hardship? For that matter, is it fair to draw all Germans as snarling monstrous cats, even those who may themselves have been opposed to the war and the holocaust?
The issue only gets hairier when you factor in the Poles, French and Americans. If the choices of Cats and Mice for Germans and Jews carry deliberate connotations, It's natural to expect that the other animals would as well. But searching for deeper meaning, or hidden offense, where none was intended, may ultimately just be detracting from the overall impact of the novel. Maus doesn't seem like the kind of story that's trying to hide anything with a lot of complex literary layers; all the major themes are right there on the surface. Several chapters feature the author himself explicitly talking about his own desires and concerns about the book.
To me, the issue ultimately boils down to whether Maus would have been as successful had the characters all simply been drawn as humans (successful as a story overall, not in the sense of critically or financially successful). Of course, this is a question that is impossible to answer with any certainty. I know that the intrigue and novelty of a holocaust story about mice was part of what got me to pick up the book the first time I read it. And all of the usual considerations about caricature in comics apply here as well of course; although they could just as easily apply to stylized human characters. And then there's the possibility to consider that using cartoon mice may have caused some readers to write the book off as frivolous, childish, or insulting. Then again, maybe that's part of the point: to surprise people who don't normally read comics. I know a lot of my own family members who've read Maus, but wouldn't be caught dead reading a Superman comic.
All this talking in circles is basically my way of saying that I don't have a fucking clue what any of it "means". All I can say for sure is that I enjoyed the book, I think it treated the historical stuff respectfully, and that it told a more personal and compelling story than most of the other holocaust accounts that I've read (not that I've read all that many).
Friday, March 13, 2015
Underground Comix: Zap Comix
It took me a while to get into what I interpreted to be the spirit of underground comics. I'm afraid I've been spoiled by modern sensibilities and internet culture, where there's nothing left that's truly shocking, and censorship is a purely academic concept (well, not really, but that's a whole other discussion). Anyway, from that perspective, it seemed as if these comics didn't really have much to offer me: In general, none of them are particularly funny, sexy, or well-drawn. I also got the distinct impression that these comics weren't really intended to be read sober, which might have been another barrier to my properly appreciating them.
I just didn't "get it", until I finally started to relate it to my own (far tamer) experiences with rebellion and counter-culture: sitting in the back row of the classroom with my friends, sniggering into our textbooks as we passed doodles back and forth of dicks and boobs and non-sequitur cartoons that we thought were absolutely hilarious. I remembered what it felt like to do things just because we weren't allowed to.
These artists aren't trying to push some new-age philosophy, or stand up against oppression, or even fight for freedom of speech and press. They aren't making these comics for anyone but themselves and each-other. They're acting out because they're trapped in a world they don't belong, and they're all just sharing in the big joke that is society. Society, man!
I just didn't "get it", until I finally started to relate it to my own (far tamer) experiences with rebellion and counter-culture: sitting in the back row of the classroom with my friends, sniggering into our textbooks as we passed doodles back and forth of dicks and boobs and non-sequitur cartoons that we thought were absolutely hilarious. I remembered what it felt like to do things just because we weren't allowed to.
These artists aren't trying to push some new-age philosophy, or stand up against oppression, or even fight for freedom of speech and press. They aren't making these comics for anyone but themselves and each-other. They're acting out because they're trapped in a world they don't belong, and they're all just sharing in the big joke that is society. Society, man!
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Blankets, by Craig Thompson
This book is an excellent example of what Scott McCloud talks about in regards to caricature in comics. Certainly the simplified portrayal of the protagonist does help me to empathize with him, and fall into his experiences as he describes them, but I think that there's more going on in Blankets than just that. By keeping his drawings stylized, Thompson allows himself the freedom to move seamlessly back and forth between reality, fantasy, and somewhere in between. Rather than trying to pretend that he's reflecting the world and events as they really happened, his drawings are depicting his memories as he perceives them. The very world around his characters changes to reflect Craig's emotional state. Sometimes it's an obvious symbolic representation, as when Raina's car is shown literally driving off the edge of the world, but sometimes it's more subtle. Simply the weight of the line used or the emphasis of the shadows can alter our perception of the story.
The warping effect of memory is even brought up during the last chapter of the book, in the story about the cave that Craig and Phil found as children - which of course is also alluding to Socrates' Allegory of the Cave, that Thompson brought up earlier. And all of these visual and literary devices emphasize the larger overall themes of the book, about how our experiences shape us, and how our memory of a thing can be more powerful or meaningful than the thing itself. While it's natural to categorize any given panel in Blankets as either depicting reality, or depicting a surreal dream-state, the whole point is that there is no real distinction. Every drawing is showing the moment as he remembers it.
The warping effect of memory is even brought up during the last chapter of the book, in the story about the cave that Craig and Phil found as children - which of course is also alluding to Socrates' Allegory of the Cave, that Thompson brought up earlier. And all of these visual and literary devices emphasize the larger overall themes of the book, about how our experiences shape us, and how our memory of a thing can be more powerful or meaningful than the thing itself. While it's natural to categorize any given panel in Blankets as either depicting reality, or depicting a surreal dream-state, the whole point is that there is no real distinction. Every drawing is showing the moment as he remembers it.
EC Comics: Crime Illustrated No.1
The first thing that you notice about this publication is how desperately they are trying to avoid the label of "comics". Comics at this point have apparently already become characterized as a childish pastime, to such a degree that this magazine would rather refer to itself as "PICTO-FICTION: a new form of Adult Entertainment!" This seems especially odd to me, as I don't normally think of mystery pulps as being a highly respectable literary form in their own right.
On the other hand, the stories themselves are in a different format than what we commonly think of as "comics" today. The text itself is in fact enough to tell the stories on their own, and were probably written that way before someone decided to commission some illustrations for them. In this way they more resemble an illustrated short story than a true comic. There are no word balloons, and dialogue is simply written in the body text and indicated with quotations. There are few, if any, examples of actions or story events that carry from panel to panel; that is to say, the pictures never really tell any part of the story that the words aren't. Seeing the expressions of characters can help to add emotional weight to the events, but they aren't adding anything new. So maybe the publishers simply decided not to call it a comic because they didn't think it was one.
While it is interesting to see this sort of "proto-comic", it sort of pains me to think what could have been done with a little more care for the possibilities that comics afford, especially in the case of the Murder Mystery story. Classic mystery stories are meant to engage the reader by providing a puzzle that the reader could potentially solve, even before the protagonist does, if they're observant. By adding illustrations, the artist could leave visually clues for the savvy reader to discover, that might not even be acknowledged in the text. Of course, this particular mystery story, "Fall Guy for Murder", isn't really meant to be read in that way anyway. But the point still stands. Even showing a silhouette of the figure behind the curtain before the final revelation could have added to the overall effect of the story.
On the other hand, the stories themselves are in a different format than what we commonly think of as "comics" today. The text itself is in fact enough to tell the stories on their own, and were probably written that way before someone decided to commission some illustrations for them. In this way they more resemble an illustrated short story than a true comic. There are no word balloons, and dialogue is simply written in the body text and indicated with quotations. There are few, if any, examples of actions or story events that carry from panel to panel; that is to say, the pictures never really tell any part of the story that the words aren't. Seeing the expressions of characters can help to add emotional weight to the events, but they aren't adding anything new. So maybe the publishers simply decided not to call it a comic because they didn't think it was one.
While it is interesting to see this sort of "proto-comic", it sort of pains me to think what could have been done with a little more care for the possibilities that comics afford, especially in the case of the Murder Mystery story. Classic mystery stories are meant to engage the reader by providing a puzzle that the reader could potentially solve, even before the protagonist does, if they're observant. By adding illustrations, the artist could leave visually clues for the savvy reader to discover, that might not even be acknowledged in the text. Of course, this particular mystery story, "Fall Guy for Murder", isn't really meant to be read in that way anyway. But the point still stands. Even showing a silhouette of the figure behind the curtain before the final revelation could have added to the overall effect of the story.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Little Nemo in Slumberland, by Winsor McCay
Little Nemo is perplexing to me, as it seems odd that a story that's guaranteed to end the same way every week could be so appealing, especially when that ending is "and then he woke up". Then again, I suppose that's part of the charm. The knowledge that "it's only a dream", that there's no danger and everything will be alright in the morning, lets the stories always remain lighthearted and fun, and allows us the readers to indulge ourselves in the gorgeous, fanciful and varied worlds that McCay presents us with. The simple and open-ended premise cleverly allows McCay to present us with a brand new spectacle every week.
The comic is absolutely beautiful. The art holds up even by today's standards, but put next to contemporary comics such as Krazy Kat or The Yellow Kid, there's no comparison. McCay's work is intricate and detailed, while at the same time retaining the simple forms and expressiveness of cartoons. The coloring makes the absolute most of the printing format, and is capable of being both subtle and extravagant as the situation calls for. The result of these combined elements is something that can only be described, quite appropriately, as dreamlike. Reading Little Nemo, it's clear to see the influence it has had on other artist's interpretations of Dream Worlds, from Maurice Sendak's In the Night Kitchen to Neil Gaiman's Sandman.
There is clearly something more going on here than an amusing diversion. Many of the strips have Nemo waking up just before some anticipated event. Often the whole strip will be about Nemo just trying to get to Slumberland (which begs the question: where exactly is he before he gets there?), only to wake up before he can make it there. This repeated motif captures something of the profound mystery and allure of dreams. All of us have at one time or another suffered the frustration of waking up from a dream too soon, had the last images fading away as we struggle to hold onto them, left with the aching feeling that some great secret was waiting just beyond our reach.
One of my favorite devices McCay uses to achieve this effect is the use of a tiered or staircase-like panel layout, with the panels getting progressively taller and then smaller as you move across and down the page. Although used scarcely, maybe so as not to diminish the impact it has, it creates a lovely visual effect that evokes the feeling of falling deeper and deeper into the world, as one falls deeper and deeper into sleep, and then having our vision of the world get narrower and narrower as we slowly start to wake up. Even when not using this tiered layout, McCay seems to have a fondness for tall, narrow panels, which creates this sense of gravity across the whole page, and also makes reading these comics on a computer screen a poor substitute for the real thing.
The comic is absolutely beautiful. The art holds up even by today's standards, but put next to contemporary comics such as Krazy Kat or The Yellow Kid, there's no comparison. McCay's work is intricate and detailed, while at the same time retaining the simple forms and expressiveness of cartoons. The coloring makes the absolute most of the printing format, and is capable of being both subtle and extravagant as the situation calls for. The result of these combined elements is something that can only be described, quite appropriately, as dreamlike. Reading Little Nemo, it's clear to see the influence it has had on other artist's interpretations of Dream Worlds, from Maurice Sendak's In the Night Kitchen to Neil Gaiman's Sandman.
There is clearly something more going on here than an amusing diversion. Many of the strips have Nemo waking up just before some anticipated event. Often the whole strip will be about Nemo just trying to get to Slumberland (which begs the question: where exactly is he before he gets there?), only to wake up before he can make it there. This repeated motif captures something of the profound mystery and allure of dreams. All of us have at one time or another suffered the frustration of waking up from a dream too soon, had the last images fading away as we struggle to hold onto them, left with the aching feeling that some great secret was waiting just beyond our reach.
One of my favorite devices McCay uses to achieve this effect is the use of a tiered or staircase-like panel layout, with the panels getting progressively taller and then smaller as you move across and down the page. Although used scarcely, maybe so as not to diminish the impact it has, it creates a lovely visual effect that evokes the feeling of falling deeper and deeper into the world, as one falls deeper and deeper into sleep, and then having our vision of the world get narrower and narrower as we slowly start to wake up. Even when not using this tiered layout, McCay seems to have a fondness for tall, narrow panels, which creates this sense of gravity across the whole page, and also makes reading these comics on a computer screen a poor substitute for the real thing.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Educational Comics
I came across this by pure happenstance online, and it seemed like the kind of thing I should post about:
https://www.armsroom.com/files/m16.pdf
It's a Vietnam War era M16 rifle handbook, illustrated by none other than Will Eisner!
It's pretty cool, at a time when comics would still largely have been viewed as childish entertainment, to find an official government document making use of comics techniques. Just by perusing the handbook, it's easy to see how the sequential nature of comics, as well as Eisner's clean, simple line-work, is perfect for conveying complicated information in a way that's simple, quick, and easy to understand. And the occasional gag makes reading it less of a chore, and makes it more likely that soldiers actually will read it.
The handbook also takes a cue from this even older example, of a German technical manual for a Panzer Tank:
https://archive.org/details/Der-Generalinspekteur-der-Panzertruppen-Die-Tiger-Fibel
...which is peppered with random drawings of naked women. While the Eisner version is not quite so "on the nose", having an attractive lady as the primary instructor is certainly a good way to make the book more appealing to the enlisted man, and to make him more likely to listen.
https://www.armsroom.com/files/m16.pdf
It's a Vietnam War era M16 rifle handbook, illustrated by none other than Will Eisner!
It's pretty cool, at a time when comics would still largely have been viewed as childish entertainment, to find an official government document making use of comics techniques. Just by perusing the handbook, it's easy to see how the sequential nature of comics, as well as Eisner's clean, simple line-work, is perfect for conveying complicated information in a way that's simple, quick, and easy to understand. And the occasional gag makes reading it less of a chore, and makes it more likely that soldiers actually will read it.
The handbook also takes a cue from this even older example, of a German technical manual for a Panzer Tank:
https://archive.org/details/Der-Generalinspekteur-der-Panzertruppen-Die-Tiger-Fibel
...which is peppered with random drawings of naked women. While the Eisner version is not quite so "on the nose", having an attractive lady as the primary instructor is certainly a good way to make the book more appealing to the enlisted man, and to make him more likely to listen.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Understanding Comics, by Scott McCloud
One thing that struck me on my second reading of Understanding Comics was how much of the concepts presented could be generalized to other forms of visual art. In particular, I find there's an interesting parallel in the discussion of iconography and caricature in comics to the subject of art in video games.
McCloud asserts that depicting characters in a more simplified, cartoony style makes it easier for readers to identify with those characters, and project themselves into the role of that character. I think this is a concept that can be just as effectively applied to games, where it is even more important that players be able to view themselves within the context of the story.
In the early days of video game, the limitations of technology meant that the art pretty much had to be iconic of it was going to be recognizable at all. Clever artists were very deliberate about what they did and didn't describe with the pixels at their disposal, and relied heavily on the players' imaginations to fill in the blanks (another form of closure). These methods, perhaps ironically, led to a slew of colorful and memorable characters, whom players had no trouble identifying with. Characters such as Mario or Link, Guybrush Threepwood or the nameless protagonist of Doom, resonated with audiences in part because of their simple graphical style. And when these characters get modern, hi-definition makeovers, they tend to retain that style, while still making use of the technology of modern systems.
Unfortunately, a lot of people today, both players and developers, seem to think that the only way for a player to identify with a character is the "blank slate" method: that by making these characters as totally bland and generic as possible, this will leave players with a "hole" to fill of sorts. And this philosophy has led to a wealth of game characters rendered in the highest technical fidelity, with not a single memorable character trait, such as Master Chief or Commander Shepherd. Meanwhile, other modern characters such as Minecraft Steve, Darksiders' Death, or the Scythian, continue to demonstrate that the best way to get players to truly project themselves into the world of the game is with simple, iconic characters, with a life and personality all their own.
I guess this didn't really have anything to do with comics. But I suppose it shows how each new art form can feed off of and learn from its predecessors, and that nothing exists in a vacuum.
McCloud asserts that depicting characters in a more simplified, cartoony style makes it easier for readers to identify with those characters, and project themselves into the role of that character. I think this is a concept that can be just as effectively applied to games, where it is even more important that players be able to view themselves within the context of the story.
In the early days of video game, the limitations of technology meant that the art pretty much had to be iconic of it was going to be recognizable at all. Clever artists were very deliberate about what they did and didn't describe with the pixels at their disposal, and relied heavily on the players' imaginations to fill in the blanks (another form of closure). These methods, perhaps ironically, led to a slew of colorful and memorable characters, whom players had no trouble identifying with. Characters such as Mario or Link, Guybrush Threepwood or the nameless protagonist of Doom, resonated with audiences in part because of their simple graphical style. And when these characters get modern, hi-definition makeovers, they tend to retain that style, while still making use of the technology of modern systems.
Unfortunately, a lot of people today, both players and developers, seem to think that the only way for a player to identify with a character is the "blank slate" method: that by making these characters as totally bland and generic as possible, this will leave players with a "hole" to fill of sorts. And this philosophy has led to a wealth of game characters rendered in the highest technical fidelity, with not a single memorable character trait, such as Master Chief or Commander Shepherd. Meanwhile, other modern characters such as Minecraft Steve, Darksiders' Death, or the Scythian, continue to demonstrate that the best way to get players to truly project themselves into the world of the game is with simple, iconic characters, with a life and personality all their own.
I guess this didn't really have anything to do with comics. But I suppose it shows how each new art form can feed off of and learn from its predecessors, and that nothing exists in a vacuum.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
The Arrival, by Shaun Tan
The brilliant thing about The Arrival is that the absence of any dialogue or legible text is not merely an arbitrary limitation by the author, but a deliberate device used to emphasize the sense of finding yourself in a strange and alien world, where you can't speak the language or possibly even read.
Although much of the story is modeled after the sort of archetypical story of an impoverished worker immigrating to America, with imagery that recalls the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, The Arrival is designed as a universal story. The intent is for the work both to resonate with those who have experienced the struggles of traveling to a new world, but also to capture and communicate the experience to those who may never even have left their home country. The fantastical machinery and fanciful flora and fauna evoke a world that is strange and confusing, but also full of wonder and bright promise.
The Arrival is told in a unique format, which fits somewhere in between a traditional comic book and an illustrated story. The book alternates between large full-page illustrations, and pages of small panels laid out on a grid. The full-page illustrations are usually large-scale landscapes, depicting either the grand, sometimes bewildering New World, or else the dark and oppressive Old World. In either case, these large illustrations invite the reader to take their time admiring the drawings closely, to study them as one would a singular drawing, and to soak in the mood and tone of the world.
The smaller panels are used when a bit more clarity of story-telling is needed, either by showing a sequence of events over a short period of time, or creating a montage of small glimpses into an event over a longer period of time. One particularly striking example is when an entire page full of thumbnail sketches of clouds is used to express the protagonist's journey over the ocean to the New World. It is neither needed or expected that these panels would be "read" in linear order, and yet the layout of the images clearly communicates the passage of a long period of time. And although it is clear that nothing very interesting happens during this time, the feeling of looking to the sky day by day reflects the protagonist's hopes and expectations for the New World.
Of course, the smaller panels can also be used simply to convey a mood, as on the very first page. Here, there is no passage of time implied between each of the panels; instead, the focus on small snippets of the room sets the mood for the opening scene, as well as drawing our attention to certain important story points such as the boat ticket, the packed suitcase, the family portrait, and the origami bird. In any case, this alternation between small panels and large drawings is used throughout the book to create contrast. The Juxtaposition of the grand with the mundane, of the colossal with the miniscule show how both perspectives effect our lives. It shows how it may be the big things that we will always remember, but it may be the little things that seem the strangest, or the most familiar, or mean the most to us.
Although much of the story is modeled after the sort of archetypical story of an impoverished worker immigrating to America, with imagery that recalls the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, The Arrival is designed as a universal story. The intent is for the work both to resonate with those who have experienced the struggles of traveling to a new world, but also to capture and communicate the experience to those who may never even have left their home country. The fantastical machinery and fanciful flora and fauna evoke a world that is strange and confusing, but also full of wonder and bright promise.
The Arrival is told in a unique format, which fits somewhere in between a traditional comic book and an illustrated story. The book alternates between large full-page illustrations, and pages of small panels laid out on a grid. The full-page illustrations are usually large-scale landscapes, depicting either the grand, sometimes bewildering New World, or else the dark and oppressive Old World. In either case, these large illustrations invite the reader to take their time admiring the drawings closely, to study them as one would a singular drawing, and to soak in the mood and tone of the world.
The smaller panels are used when a bit more clarity of story-telling is needed, either by showing a sequence of events over a short period of time, or creating a montage of small glimpses into an event over a longer period of time. One particularly striking example is when an entire page full of thumbnail sketches of clouds is used to express the protagonist's journey over the ocean to the New World. It is neither needed or expected that these panels would be "read" in linear order, and yet the layout of the images clearly communicates the passage of a long period of time. And although it is clear that nothing very interesting happens during this time, the feeling of looking to the sky day by day reflects the protagonist's hopes and expectations for the New World.
Of course, the smaller panels can also be used simply to convey a mood, as on the very first page. Here, there is no passage of time implied between each of the panels; instead, the focus on small snippets of the room sets the mood for the opening scene, as well as drawing our attention to certain important story points such as the boat ticket, the packed suitcase, the family portrait, and the origami bird. In any case, this alternation between small panels and large drawings is used throughout the book to create contrast. The Juxtaposition of the grand with the mundane, of the colossal with the miniscule show how both perspectives effect our lives. It shows how it may be the big things that we will always remember, but it may be the little things that seem the strangest, or the most familiar, or mean the most to us.
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