5 Comics

Robert Boyd

In the lead up to Comics: Works from the Collection of Robert Boyd (March 14 to April 11 in the EMERGEncy Room at Rice University), I want to spend a little time thinking about and writing about comics. I'm always reading new comics and at any given time have a stack of not-yet-read comics (sharing space with not-yet-read novels and not-yet-read art books). Despite my looming tower of unread books, I have actually managed to finish a few, including some which were excellent.

Now most of these comics were published last year. You see, I tend to take a long time to get around to reading my comics, and once I do, I take a long time to review them. Nonetheless, I hope these reviews will be useful.


The Song of Roland by Michel Rabagliati (Conundrum Press, 2012). This is the fifth volume of autobiographical comics by Michel Rabagliati. Rabagliati came to comics through his illustration career (apparently he was hired to create a logo for Drawn & Quarterly, the art comics publisher, in 1990 when it was just beginning, and this gig sparked an renewed interest in comics on his behalf). Perhaps because he doesn't come to comics via underground/alternative comics, his conception of autobiography is quite distinct from the unflinching self-examination that characterizes the work of, say, Chester Brown. In fact, even though he is usually the main character, he has plenty of time for everyone else in who he comes in contact with in his stories. And in The Song of Roland, he turns the camera mostly away from himself and on his father-in-law, Roland, as he slowly dies of pancreatic cancer. It's a moving story, all the more powerful for being so familiar for persons of a certain age (Rabagliati is three years older than I am).

His drawing stye is stylized and fairly slick, and his storytelling is mostly pretty conventional. It reads easily, eschewing experimentation and formal trickery. Each of the books centers around one important passage in his life--losing his virginity, moving away from home, the death of a parent, but they are pleasingly discursive. Even in The Song of Roland, which deals with such a serious topic, Rabagliati throws in some slapstick about adjusting to the internet (necessary for his illustration career) and moving into his first house with his wife and daughter. And that works, because these important passages (such as a death of a close family member) always happen while you're living your life. Rabagliati is a very warm-hearted cartoonist.


Roughhouse edited by William Kauber and featuring William Cardini, Aaron Whitiker, Brendan Keifer, Gillian Rhodes, Katie Rose Pipkin, Colin Zelinski, Tyler Sudor, Alex Webb, Sophie Roach, Douglas Pollard, Connor Shea, Blake Bohls, Baylor Estes and Matt Rebholz (Raw Paw, 2013). This squarebound anthology is the newest item in this review; I picked it up on March 2 at Staple! in Austin, and they told me they had just picked it up from the bindery that morning. The book was printed by "risograph," a digital printing technique that apparently combines elements of xerography and mimeographs. It allows them to do two and occasionally three-color printing, but the quality is fairly crude. But in Roughhouse, that works. These are impolite comics, not quite housebroken. They come out of the tradition of Weirdo, the great 80s anthology edited by Robert Crumb, Peter Bagge and Aline Kominsky-Crumb. The quality of the stories varies wildly, and many of them eschew such bourgeois values as "endings" and "having a point." But a lot of them are really good, and on balance I liked Roughhouse a lot.

Standout stories included "The Disappearing Food Truck" by Aaron Whitaker, which takes the old EC horror story structure and wittily recontextualizes it for present-day Austin; "The Thing That Was Trying to Hide" by Brendan Kiefer, in which the train of the story keeps getting interrupted in a manner that recalls If on a Winter's Night a Traveler; Sophie Roach's almost completely abstract untitled comic story; and Douglas Pollard's bizarre "Output," a story that perfectly recaptures the Weirdo vibe.

Now where you get this comic, I don't know. If you're in Austin, you can try Austin Books and Comics--they seem pretty good about carrying this kind of thing. Otherwise, email Raw Paw at rawpawzine@gmail.com and hope for the best. UPDATE: I'm told that Roughhouse will have its official launch at Farewell Books in Austin on March 6 at 6 pm. If you're in Austin, swing by and check it out!


New York Drawings by Adrian Tomine (Drawn & Quarterly, 2012). It's a bit of a cheat to include New York Drawings in this list. It's mostly an art book with a total of seven pages of comics in it. But Tomine is best known for his comics--he's been a star of the alternative comics scene for decades. (I reviewed his minicomic Optic Nerve for The Comics Journal in 1991 or 1992, when Tomine was still a teenager). Most of the art in here is work he did for The New Yorker--quite a few covers, but primarily illustrations for the listings and for reviews. Naturally he draws some very familiar faces--movie stars, musicians, etc. These are the least interesting of the work here. Best are his illustrations that try to capture a bit of life in New York City. He prettifies things quite a lot--his New York doesn't seem to be very dirty and is filled with attractive people. This may not be the most honest depiction of New York, but it's one that we can fantasize about.

A friend of mine once called Tomine the Sal Buscema of alternative comics, and coming from a comics nerd, that is not a compliment. His drawing style is blandly realistic and deadpan. But I've always been drawn to it, and here he adds an additional element beyond what we see in his comics--color. He uses a flat, Tintin-like coloring style, and his choice of colors is subtle and beautiful. The drawings here are lovely, but they make me long for a full-color comic from Tomine. That would be magnificent.


The Infinite Wait and Other Stories by Julia Wertz (Koyama Press, 2012). This is my first Julie Wertz book, even though she has done others. The drawing is a bit awkward. It's functional but not much more. But her comics are really very funny, which makes up for less-than-dazzling artwork. Wertz has a sarcastic, funny quip for every situation she finds herself in. There used to be a feature in MAD Magazine when I was a kid called "Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions." The Infinite Wait reads like "Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions" with a plot. As I read it, I kept thinking that comics was just going to be a stop along her career--she'd end up writing for television or movies eventually. Obviously words are where her talents lie. But she apparently anticipated this--her first story, "Industry," includes a section when Wertz is unable to write a script even though she has interest from a major film studio. At the end of the story, which catalogs her work history from childhood to the present, her character says the least sarcastic thing in the whole book, "I mean, when I found comics, I knew instantly that it was what I wanted to do. It just felt right. And now that I'm actually a cartoonist and it's working, I want to ride it out as long as I can."

Even though Wertz is a comic writer (comic in the sense of "funny"), she's not shy about revealing painful things--her alcoholism (and how it resulted in her losing three jobs in a row), her lupus, etc. In this way she is part and parcel with the tradition of confessional autobiographical comics started by Justin Green with Binky Brown Meets the Holy Virgin Mary (1972) and continued in the work of Chester Brown and Joe Matt in the 1980s and 90s.



Are You My Mother?: A Comic Drama by Alison Bechdel (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012). Alison Bechdel's work sneaks up on me. The subject matter often seems designed to make me lose interest, and yet I get sucked in. Her comic strip, Dykes to Watch Out For, was about the lives of a group of friends, politically active left-wing lesbians. When I first looked at it, it felt overwhelmingly politically correct. But as I read, it became clear that she was depicting individuals within a subculture, and their complex negotiation of that particular subculture was shown with good deal of humor and irony. And I ended up loving these characters! (Except Mo, who remained irritating to the end.)

The same is true with Are You My Mother?, a memoir about Bechdel's fraught relationship with her mother. She deals with this relationship through psychoanalysis (which strikes me as boring), she draws (and interprets) lots of her dreams (and there is nothing less interesting than other people's dreams), with lengthy digressions into the life and work of English psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott (wha--?) and the novels of Virginia Woolf. It sounds like a recipe for disaster! But by the end of it, I felt like I was right there on the couch with Bechdel, was utterly fascinated by Winnicott, and was ready to reread Woolf (whose books I like anyway, so that's not so bad). This book won me over completely.

I think a lot of people in the alternative comics world have a problem with Bechdel--too wordy, too political, they don't like her drawing. She has a level of erudition that many comics fans might be threatened by or feel is pretentious. I think some of this attitude toward her work happens because she came to comics out of a completely different soil than that of the usual alternative comics fan or reader. She didn't grow up reading underground comics or Love & Rockets and isn't steeped in that particular history. But I think that if these skeptical readers view it this way, even unconsciously, they will be denying themselves the pleasure of reading a brilliant cartoonist.

The Return of the Cosmic Techno-Gods from Space

by Robert Boyd

Within the comics community, Jack Kirby is revered. I have mixed feelings about his work. There is something inherently juvenile about it. It doesn't have the richness, the multivalence I look for in art. There is not a sense of deep humanity in the work, nor irony. But at the same time, it has a vigor--the vigor of certain folk art or of expressionist painting. He was no folk artist, but he was the industrial age's equivalent--an artist whose training and early career lead him to be a journeyman artist toiling within the commercial entertainment industry. But within this field, which has a tendency towards uniformity, he stood out drastically. One can think of certain respected comics artists who were his peers--John Romita, John Buscema, Neal Adams--and although each of these artists had a distinct style, compared to Kirby they were virtually the same artist.

Kirby, on the other hand, was unique. No one really imitated his style--not until much later, when such imitations were the results of deliberately post-modern strategies. If I had to describe Kirby figures, particularly from his work in the sixties and seventies, I would say they look like a rough-hewn wood carvings of figures that have somehow been coated with multi-color chrome. His work was simultaneously crude and futuristic.

And he created a genre, a type of character, that was unique. These are cosmic techno-gods. The first he created was Thor and his fellow Asgardians, which were created in 1962. Stan Lee was the co-creator of these characters. I won't try to parse the credit more finely than that. Of course, anonymous Norse holy men created this mythology. But Kirby and Lee turned these eternal myths into technological creatures. The technology was not ever really explained, but you could see it in the way that Asgard was portrayed--as a gleaming, high-tech megalopolis in space.


Jack Kirby, Galactus

I think the next cosmic techno-god was Galactus, the planet-devouring giant whose herald was the Silver Surfer. He was a bit more impressive as a god--much larger than humans, Galactus seems to be the embodiment of some elemental force of nature. But despite that, he also is a technological being. He has a space station and he must use equipment that he constructs to consume planets.


Jack Kirby, Galactus' space station

Kirby (sometimes with Lee and sometimes alone) created any number of techno-gods in the 60s and 70s to menace or mystify his super-hero characters--the Watcher, the High Evolutionary, Ego the Living Planet (who for obvious reasons is quite hostile to Galactus), Darkseid and the inhabitants of Apokolips, the Highfather and the inhabitants of New Genesis, the Eternals, and so on. It is my understanding that these characters and more are discussed at length in a new book called Hand of Fire: The Comics Art of Jack Kirby by Charles Hatfield, but I haven't read it yet. (It's on my to-read list.)


Jack Kirby, The Eternals

The reason I bring up Kirby and his creation of this type of character is that I've recently come across three comics that seem directly influenced by Kirby, but which come out of the world of art comics. These are Vortex by William Cardini (The Gold County Paper Mill), By This Shall You Know Him by Jesse Jacobs (Koyama Press), and Forming by Jesse Moynihan (Nobrow Press). As I mentioned in a review of the latest Kramer's Ergot, there seems to be a movement in art comics away from the quotidian, the realistic, the autobiographical. This is a big deal. Since the mid-70s, the default position for comics-as-art has been to tell narratives of ordinary lives. It was an extreme reaction to the continued reliance of "mainstream" comics on juvenile fantasy as its primary subject matter. In some ways, the realism of such comics as American Splendor or Palookaville could be said to be a reaction to the work of Jack Kirby. While there have always been exceptions to the realism trend (for example, Jim Woodring), around 2000 there was a major swing away from realism as an artistic ideal towards a use of the motifs of children's genre comics. (To clarify, when I say realism, I am not discussing the drawings style. Sometimes the drawing is quite expressionistic. I refer instead to the content of the stories.)

If the motifs of children's comics are fair game for art cartoonists, then Jack Kirby is likewise an acceptable source. In each of these comics, the basic ideas of Kirby's techno-gods are reused. Each artist picks and chooses what aspect of Kirby's project he will employ. And they also feel free to call on other sources and also to subvert Kirby's approach. The results are varied but fascinating.


William Cardini, cover to Vortex #1

There have been two issues of Vortex so far. I have discussed Cardini's work before here (an exhibit at Domy). That review from a year and a half ago contained this confession:

If it sounds like I haven't fully digested this art movement (and it is a movement), you are right. I've known the Fort Thunder artists for over a decade and I'm still trying to understand them--to devise a framework or theory that makes sense of their work. I feel I am about halfway there.

This is still true. Maybe I'm 2/3rds there now.  Vortex continues Cardini's project of creating a universe of techno-gods.

Welcome to the psychedelic space fantasy cosmos of the Hyperverse, a realm filled with immensely powerful beings who battle over worlds with strange geologies, and hoard advanced technologies left by ancient starfarers.

Mountains shift from molten to crystal in moments, and clumps of rock are inhabited by malevolent intelligences ready to hurl face-melting spells. [from the introduction to Vortex #1]

 William Cardini, Vortex #1 page 3

Vortex tells the story of Miizard. He is lured to a world where he does combat with an extremely powerful alien creature. The battle, which takes up the entirety of the first issue, recalls mythologies. Miizzard is sliced into bits by his adversary, but the bits are alive and become multiple Miizzards, like Krishna. He defeats his opponent by devouring him, as Cronus devoured his children to prevent the prophecy of his being defeated them to come true.


William Cardini, Vortex #1, page 32

Cardini draws with a thick, watery line and fills the spaces between with a variety of patterns. His work recalls Kirby's in a way-both use thick black lines and black shapes in a non-chiaroscuro way (which reinforces their lack of realism). But Kirby's techno-gods had a connection to the human world. They looked like people and engaged with human beings. Cardini creates a pitiless, inhuman universe. The motives of the characters may not be "evil" (they include curiosity and a desire to be released from bondage), but all the characters are violent and selfish. I believe Cardini is thinking of these characters in terms of natural forces--erosion, volcanism, planet formation, novas, etc. Forces that shape worlds but are vast and impersonal. But I think by making his characters so venal, he weakens this metaphor.


Jesse Jacobs, By This Shall You Know Him, cover

Jesse Jacobs plays homage to Kirby on the cover of his book By This Shall You Know Him. The technological structure open to space appears to be made of wood, and in this is similar to the way Kirby often drew such structures (Kirby's were shinier, though). If Kirby had drawn this cover, all the crenulations would appear to be inexplicable technological apparatuses. Here they seem to be a remarkably complex piece of carpentry--made of purple wood.

The story here is about a group of techno-gods Ablavar, Blorax, Zantek and their teacher, who is unnamed. Their relationship to their teacher is much like art students to their professors. They work on projects that they show the teacher in a critique session (aka a "crit"). The other students are permitted to comment on the work as part of the crit. (In my review of Kramer's Ergot, I proposed an admittedly vague theory about artists who I called "The Art School Generation" and their willingness to dive into genre. This "crit" undertaken by techno-gods weirdly confirms this theory.) One of the gods, Ablavar, creates the Earth (populated by dinosaurs) as his project. Zantek criticizes it harshly and Ablavar decides to destroy the dinosaurs with a a meteor storm and start over.


Jesse Jacobs, By This Shall You Know Him, cover p. 18

Ablavar then creates mammals, birds and non-dinosaur reptiles, which his teacher and Blorax appreciate highly in the crit. Even the "exalted one," a techno-god who seems to be the superior to the teacher, appreciates them. Only Zantek disdains them, but his dislike for them appears to be the result of jealousy. He comes up with a plan for revenge--he creates humans. His Adam and Eve are like cave-men, with Eve being the smarter of the two.


Jesse Jacobs, By This Shall You Know Him, cover p.47

Zantek seduces Adam by teaching him to eat animals. Eve decides that Zantek is a bad influence and forbids Cain and Abel from associating with him. (It should be said that Jacobs never names these first humans, but the seem to be acting out a version of the Genesis story, so I am using the Biblical names.)


 Jesse Jacobs, By This Shall You Know Him, cover p.73

And as in Genesis, Cain commits the first murder--because Abel, under the influence of Zantek, has been killing Ablavar's animals. Once Ablavar learns how Zantek has been subverting his world, he begins to fight with him. Like Kirby's Eternals or Galactus, Ablavar and Zantek are giants. The Earth and its inhabitants are usually depicted in shades of purple, while the techno-gods are mostly blue. So even when they are on Earth, they seem separate from the Earth. And as Ablavar and Zantek battle, civilization appears around them. Their fight, which is appears to be completely physical (punches thrown, stuff hurled), apparently takes place over millenia.


Jesse Jacobs, By This Shall You Know Him, cover p.80

A key difference between Kirby and Jacobs is that Jacobs is willing to make his techno-gods into actual gods--they create the Earth and populate it with animals and humans, just as most of the gods of myth and religion did. Kirby was working in a context of commercial comic books aimed at children.  He wasn't in a position to supplant established religions with his own mythology--it might have caused controversy, And controversy might keep the Red Ryder BB gun manufacturer from buying ads in Thor or The Fantastic Four. Jacobs is free to explore religious ideas more directly than Kirby. He can posit Genesis as an art school crit, and no one will be too bothered.


Jesse Moynihan, Forming, cover

Forming by Jesse Moynihan likewise is willing to take on actual religions and myths, suggesting a creation of the Universe and of Earth that is similar to but distinct from the origins told in various world religions. His characters come from Greek mythology (including late Graeco-Egyption fusion), the Torah and Kabbalah, Zoroastrianism, medieval folklore, Dogon myth, and maybe a few I have missed.


Jesse Moynihan, Forming, page 6 bottom panels

The story begins in 10,000 BC (although it flashes back to a much earlier time later on). Mithras has been sent to Earth to exploit it in the classic colonial way. Humans on Earth, at this stage, have a telepathic oneness with nature. Mithras lands in Atlantis and immediately starts creating a crappy mining colony with  giant slaves. To placate the humans, he marries one, Gaia.


Jesse Moynihan, Gaia and her offspring

This leads to one of the most bizarre aspects of the story, the mixture of myths. Noah and Gaia secretly have two children, Iapetus and Themis (who are two of the Titans in Greek mythology). In the meantime, the androgyne Serapis lands in Africa with the intention of setting up his own outlaw mining colony. His first encounter with humans, Adam and Eve, doesn't go well.


Jesse Moynihan, Forming, page 29 bottom panels

But Adam is eventually co-opted  by Serapis. Just to complicate matters, we see a flashback in which a battle between Lucifer and Michael (who with his blue skin looks very Krishna-like) causes the universe to come into existence. Lucifer is punished by being placed in the center of the Earth.


Jesse Moynihan, Forming, page 24 bottom panels

Lucifer influences things by communicating with people on the surface. Likewise Ain Soph (the Kabbalah's word for God prior to his self-manifestation) is influencing Noah through visions.


Jesse Moynihan, Forming, page 39 top panels

And the gnome king Ghob is trying to undo the mess that Mithras has made. He communicates secretly with Mithras and Gaia's children (various Titans), influencing them to revolt against Mithras.


Jesse Moynihan, Forming, page 51 top panels

The number of characters in Forming is huge, and their motivations are complex. And this is just volume 1. The story is serialized on Moynihans' website--you can follow the continued story there. But despite the complex plot and numerous characters,  the basic story is one of colonialism and the problems that persist after the colonial power has been driven out. Ghob is outraged that Cronus starts building cities after overthrowing Mithras. He wants things to go back to the way they were before. But this is a new age. As one character puts it, "You will wake at the end of the Third Age: the Age of Total Bullshit, to save us."

That is one thing that distinguishes Forming (and By This Shall You Know Him and other related art comics) is the language of the characters. Instead of using the elevated speech that Kirby and Stan Lee gave to Thor and Galactus, these characters use a vernacular that sounds decidedly un-god-like.

Moynihan's art doesn't try to blow your mind the way Kirby's often did. In fact, despite its subject matter, it has a kind of matter-of-fact quality. (This quality is reinforced by the unvarying grid pattern of the panels.)  And yet the cumulative effect of it is powerful. The book is printed in an over-sized format, which helps you see just how beautiful it is. Moynihan's water-coloring deserves special mention.

It is impossible for me to imagine these comics existing without the example of Jack Kirby. And like Kirby, we don't have any complex, realistic human characters here. None of these artists are trying to create, say, a story like Jaime Hernandez's "Browntown" (from Love and Rockets: New Stories vol. 3), a powerful, realistic family story. But using techno-gods permits the artists to deal with subjects in interesting, metaphorical ways (art school, colonialism). It also acknowledges the history of comics, finding a way to be in dialogue with the past without replicating it endlessly, as most modern mainstream comics do. Forming, Vortex, and By This Shall You Know Him are also valuable as exemplars of a current practice in the world of art comics that doesn't have a particular name, but which definitely exists. I wish I had a clever word or phrase for it. Post-realism? Something like that.