‘There’s so much I’ll never be able to understand or visualize. I mean, reality is too complex for comics… So much has to be left out or distorted.’[1]

-Art Spiegelman, Maus

‘”La-la-la,” said Cruso, and motioned to Friday to repeat. “Ha-ha-ha,” said Friday from the back of his throat.’[2]

-J.M. Coetzee, Foe

I believe this to be a suitable way to begin this discussion of survival, storytelling, and silence. The question is how does contemporary literature cope in describing that which is beyond description? In Maus, Art Spiegelman creates what is essentially a Holocaust comic, yet despite the cultural implications of the form, his art is both distressing and beautiful. I intend to argue that he achieves his success through a process of visual defamiliarisation, which locates the historical and literary tensions in this sensitive issue, and then finds an aesthetic milieu at the centre at which to present what I believe can be seen as true sight. I intend to conclude with the character of Friday in Coetzee’s Foe to hopefully give weight to any discussion of silence, power and narrative that might arise from analysis of these tensions.

In Murder in our Midst, Omer Bartov discusses the problems of teaching students about the Holocaust: ‘Nor for that matter anyone who had experienced it or studied it from some geographical or chronological distance could quite grasp the essence…or make it understandable to others.’[3] If one aspect the Holocaust can be verbalised, it is the cliché that those events will remain one atrocity that is beyond our human power of description. As Omer Bartov digresses: ‘Somehow fiction and imagination seem to be unable to confront… Auschwitz, a place even those who had been there, both victims and perpetrators, kept describing as unimaginable.’[4] A secondary and rather sardonic cliché might be consideration of how history could have unfolded slightly differently had Adolf Hitler been successful in his goal of being an artist, rather than a politician. This link is often stated implicitly, for example in Glamorama, a postmodern satire on the image and destruction, Bret Easton Ellis begins his tale with a quote directly from Hitler: ‘You make a mistake if you see what we do as merely political.’[5] Indeed, it is impossible to study this period without considering the successful use of aesthetics in tyranny; the legacy of Nazi propaganda all the way from the Second World War to contemporary pop culture. Spiegelman also begins by merging the political and the aesthetic by taking Hitler’s view that ‘The Jews are undoubtedly a race but they are not human’[6] and manipulating the concept into something subversive to that ideology. The first tension provided to us is between the aesthetic power of Nazi Germany, and the void of representation it left behind through genocide. Spiegelman’s first success is retelling the story through his own images and those of his Father, highlighting both the success and failure of the image and its implicit work in politics of representation, both past and present.

Bartov also presents us with our second example of tension: Should the Holocaust be seen as the most important event of the epoch, or merely as a distraction which ‘obscures our perception and prevents us from a more vivid understanding of the real issues and cardinal problems’[7]? Indeed, the Holocaust may resist representation because it is being pulled apart from two opposing perspectives and cannot remain stable. All representations are also subject to varying motives, be they to achieve catharsis, or to promote a moral rhetoric. This myriad of tensions does create a problem for art. However, as Bartov relates, there is one solution: ‘Perhaps we can remember the unimaginable, but we can’t imagine it by definition.’[8] Although ultimately fragile, the personal memory seems to be the key in Maus, which is able to aim between the dichotomies, and strike ever so poignantly where prose would just remain ‘contrived.’[9]

However, this raises the question of whether Maus should be viewed as fiction or nonfiction. Despite critical acclaim upon release, it was initially relegated to the fiction section of The New York Times’ Bestseller List, until an acerbic letter was sent by a less than impressed Spiegelman and it changed category. Although the artist may not have approved of this error in journalism, he could surely have taken solace in the larger symbol of Maus moving freely between fiction and nonfiction so effortlessly, both artistically and inside the text, as well as outside in reproduction and consumption. As a piece of genre transcending art, Maus does achieve an almost ethereal status. Part of this is due to the fact that with its chosen subject matter, ‘poetic license and tolerant forbearance are not granted automatically’[10]; the Holocaust aesthetic means that Maus cannot be subjugated to regular media. Indeed, as Thomas Doherty also notes: ‘Maus redrew the contractual terms for depictions of the Holocaust in popular art.’ Of course, Maus is no regular text, as it has movement both in genre and through the tensions which complicate representation of the Holocaust.

The primary technique being used in Maus is what Viktor Shklovsky might label defamiliarisation. As Doherty observed, where the Holocaust is concerned, there are slightly different rules for attempts at media representation. Being a sensitive subject, there have to be boundaries constructed so that it is never treated flippantly. In this respect it can never become overly familiar because access is not so easily granted. However, with such fixed status, it could always remain static in perception. The result therefore requires a more spherical view of Shklovsky’s concept that ‘as perception becomes habitual, it becomes automatic.’[11] Indeed, he notes that ‘art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stoney.’[12] Maus is certainly an exposition of the latter parts of this statement, but its true success is not in recovering the sensation of life, but rather in penetrating the void and also recovering either the truth of loss, or perhaps the essence of death. A very subjective version of defamiliarisation is in effect in here, where Maus approaches the concept from both angles, once again manipulating tensions. Ironically, the idea seems reluctant to be articulated, but perhaps the best example of a similar interpretation can be found in the world of graffiti. On the website of urban artist Banksy, a manifesto is provided. This is an extract from a military man’s diary, and his recollections upon liberating a concentration camp. He can give ‘no adequate description’ of the terrors he saw, but one event stands out; when the Red Cross distributed lipstick. I believe this result to be very close to the visual defamiliarisation employed in Maus:

This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don’t know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.[13]

By recovering both life and death as sensation and art, Maus finds a true sight that can only be described as human.

Much like the subversive effect of graffiti, defamiliarisation in Maus is enhanced by its style of illustration. The use of the comic form allows many techniques to flourish where in prose they may not be possible, or may also appear ‘contrived’ as stated earlier. In many places, Maus uses a dual technique of speech and symbolic imagery to add further metaphor to a point. For example, early in the story, Vladek is waylaid and nearly caught in an ambush by violent German officials. The frame captures him in a spotlight and is captioned ‘will I walk slowly, they will take me… will I run they can shoot me.’[14] The spotlight itself is shaped as the Star of David, matching the mandatory badge Vladek is forced to wear, which in turn creates a spotlight of race and difference in a crowd. It also points him out as a literal target to be shot, with the startled animal expression made more effective by Spiegelman’s use of actual creatures. Vladek is caught in the beam of something far worse than a car headlight, but the danger is equally imminent. An equivalent device is also employed much later in a frame captioned ‘Anja and I didn’t have where to go. We walked in the direction of Sosnowiec- but where to go?!’[15] Their sense of hopelessness and the futility of their journey can be brought right down to the terrain in this format, as they follow a road shaped like a Swastika. This further emphasises that all paths available to them lead to the same fate, as well as the fact that their world is under the control of a malevolent force; from the horizon to the ground under their feet. In prose this could certainly appear a spurious sentiment, but it is deadly effective in Maus.

As well as reinforcing larger themes, the comic format also encourages repetition as a device in a way language could not mirror so subtly. For example, as tension builds and Vladek is conversing about hiding his son with another family, the angle of the frame emphasises the young mice on the floor playing with a train set.[16] Their innocent play pre-empts a more sinister use of transport later in the narrative during Vladek’s train journeys to and away from Auschwitz. In the next frame, as the adults grow troubled and insistent (shown by the now straight angle) the children curiously dismantle the train. They won’t find what Vladek sees later on surrounded by corpses in a packed carriage. Another such repetition would be Anja’s hysterical expression upon realising the likely fate of her family and her own isolation: ‘Why are you pulling me, Vladek? Let me alone! I don’t want to live!’[17] Her expression seems purposefully identical to that of Vladek’s girlfriend Lucia when he informs her that he is leaving her for Anja much earlier in the memoir.[18] Instead, Lucia begs him to stay with her, whereas in the more traumatic circumstances Anja is begging to be left to die. This shows the effect of different levels of crisis on personal relationships. With Lucia, Vladek can be irresponsible, but his carelessness here intensifies his responsibility with his wife when their lives are threatened much later on. It also gives a human ambivalence to the mice, as Vladek is presented in both examples of a masculine role (carefree and restless, then later fiercely protective) showing that he is far from a faultless individual, but very much a human model.

In fact, Spiegelman’s primary mode of defamiliarisation is the use of animal characters in place of human facial features. Presumably, each species reflects either the stereotype or common misconception of each race or nationality as Spiegelman illustrates when he reflects on how to draw his wife. Her suggestion of a ‘bunny rabbit’ would be too cute to represent the French; ‘let’s not forget the years of anti-Semitism.’[19] However, Francoise appears as a mouse like her Jewish husband, showing that although the representation is a satire of generalisations its conditions are purely on personal experience level. This malleability is further highlighted when a supposed German war hero steps out from the captive Jews, begging for his life and a new definition. Mirroring his oppressor’s perceptions, he is drawn as a mouse, but in the next frame a shadow of the character (as well as his speech) appears with a feline form. German or Jew; cat or mouse, the character was still ‘dragged away’ by a guard who ‘jumped hard on his neck…’[20] Katalin Orbán suggests that the purpose of this device is to ‘prompt viewers to mobilize their imagination.’[21] Without wishing to compare Maus to a child’s colouring book, but the black and white figures often beg for definition and non-literal colour from the reader to fill in the gaps. Once again Spiegelman finds a true visuality, here by creating an absence of representation as a form of defamiliarisation.

There are also many connotations of using mice in particular to represent the Jews. As well as belonging to a food chain of prey (we could say: dogs, cats, mice), rodents are known to be quiet. This could mean in terms of storytelling; their perspective is silent. This could also play on derogatory perceptions of rodents as vermin, or pests which live quietly under the nose of society and unnerve the public when they reveal their malevolent presence. This generalisation is manipulated by Spiegelman to its full potential. One chapter begins with the illustration and the title ‘Mouse Holes’[22], but instead of lurking in society’s architecture waiting to sneak around, the mice are huddled for shelter, starving. This symbol is taken further as Vladek describes how his friends and family were forced to hide from their German oppressors. He draws Arty a picture of his ‘Mouse Hole’, which is a bunker in a coal cellar. The following three frames are structured around the diagram[23], as the comic form hides its characters in its own illustration, yet another method that prose could not articulate. It appears that Spiegelman’s methods of defamiliarisation often focus on absence as well as presence; silences and what remains unsaid (perhaps hidden, or in death) alongside the narrative that is actually explained to us.

Another technique employed in Maus is the framing device of the relationship between Vladek and Arty, as the narrative is structured through Vladek’s recollections which are recorded by his son. Memory is shown to be a painful process as Vladek mounts his exercise bike layered over three frames, and essentially begins pedalling into the past.[24] The number tattooed on his arm is clearly visible as a picture of his younger self appears in a circular frame where the wheel of the bike would be, presumably spinning to show a portal between past and present. Vladek cycles through a lot of his story until the exertion, either physically or mentally causes him to need rest.[25] Here we see Spiegelman assault the tension between past and present. Historians often assume that History benefits from a detached perspective, so to pierce the perceptions of his audience even more, Spiegelman uses an amalgamation of past and present to literally bring the effects of the Holocaust home: to introduce part two of Maus, we see a close up map of Auschwitz juxtaposed with a road map of New York State.[26] In the illustration of Birkenau we can see in personal detail the barracks where Vladek survived, whereas the road map merely shows impersonal interstates, and the location of Rego Park, where Vladek now resides. This contrasts Vladek’s two forms of survival; as a prisoner of race, but also as a prisoner of memory in his old age. Ironically, it is the modern map which appears akin to the detached historian’s perspective of History, simply added to the more immediate image of the concentration camp which consumes the page and our view of chronology in the tale.

As past and present are merged, Arty and Vladek’s relationship is shown to be complicated by the horrors we see conjured in the story. Their confrontations add a layer of struggle and legacy to the narrative, contributing to the tensions inherent in the idea of true sight. They argue over many things, which contrast the image of Vladek as a resourceful victim to his modern persona of utmost Jewish stereotype. Out of all things, it is Arty’s new tape recorder (the method of retelling Vladek’s story) that proves the stereotype to be correct, as Vladek criticises his son’s financial decision, saying he could have got the product cheaper elsewhere.[27] Also, whereas warmth and security are important in the Auschwitz narrative, Vladek is not averse to throwing out his son’s coat and replacing it with one of his own that he has no further use for.[28] It is important to note that later when Arty returns, he is wearing a different coat to the one his father gave him[29], rejecting part of his influence. Here we see how survival in the past has designed family life in the present. It is evident that Spiegelman’s true sight has a keen grasp on the layers of human relationships.

This humanity is continually shown through ambiguous representations of the characters. Vladek may be a hero by default because he survived, but as well as being a stereotype who collects wire from the street[30] and returns half eaten groceries[31], he is also a serious racist. When Francoise picks up a black hitchhiker, Vladek is quick to make similar negative generalisations to the prejudices which ultimately allowed the Holocaust to occur: ‘I thought really you are more smart than this, Francoise… It’s not even to compare the shvartsers and the Jews!’[32] Vladek’s ignorance helps dispel any notion of Maus being a didactic moral sermon. We see that once again it presents two contrasting points of tension, and finds a middle ground which best captures humanity, however hypocritical it might sometimes be.

To illustrate true sight and the contradictory nature of humanity, Spiegelman occasionally has his characters wear masks. When Vladek and Anja are forced to hide their race they appear drawn with pig masks to blend with the Poles, but the most notable example of masked behaviour is when Spiegelman deals with the subject of survivor’s guilt, through the character of himself. In the chapter ‘Time Flies’ the artist appears at his desk with a mouse mask over his human head, observing how quickly time has passed since events he is writing about occurred, whilst also surrounded by actual flies.[33] These flies are the pestilence of Auschwitz being summoned back by memory, although not his own. The mouse mask may symbolise his reluctance to adapt a story of his own race, or perhaps his sense of being an imposter for succeeding commercially with a personal narrative. As the frames continue, we see the bodies pile up underneath his desk, a watchtower appears outside the window, and an anonymous voice announce that they are ready to ‘shoot’[34]; either in media or military terms. Whereas the past and present had merely been juxtaposed before, here they literally return to plague the artist. The tensions in his relationship with his father gave Maus the middle ground of true sight, but his narrative also draws absence as much as it does presence, and here the ghosts of what hasn’t been said choose to surface.

Previously, Arty has tried to explain to Francoise the impossible task before him: ‘I feel so inadequate trying to reconstruct a reality that was worse than my darkest dreams.’[35] Her only advice is to be honest. Due to the fact that Arty can never comprehend some of the images he must present, he begins to be haunted, ironically by an image; that of his lost brother. Richieu’s death relegated him to a photograph; something Arty’s parents never needed of him because was alive. He therefore developed a ‘sibling rivalry with a snapshot!’[36] Arty is attempting to create an immortal image, yet the only which he finds is that of Richieu, who had he survived would have a grasp of the horrors he lived through in a way Arty can never have. Arty begins to develop a strange sense of guilt because his story (Part One of Maus) was a commercial success, yet he believes his brother’s story would have been closer to the truth. This gives Arty’s character the body of a child while Spiegelman meditates on his thought process with this difficult issue. In fact, Arty has the true sight because he includes both the presence of his father’s tale, and the absence of his brother’s ghost narrative which must remain as a silence.

The result this brings is another aspect of the defamiliarisation in Maus; recovering not life, but death. As both the narrative and Arty’s shrink suggest, there was a tension between luck and skill as a means of survival. The shrink suggests that Arty is the true ‘survivor’[37], and in many ways he has experienced the impact of the Holocaust through his relationship with Vladek. In terms of survival, the theme which is important is silence: ‘it’s as if life equals winning so death equals losing… the victims who died can never tell their side of the story.’[38] As Arty grasps this concept he regains his human form (but retains the rodent mask) and relocates his muse. By the end of the chapter Arty has realised that describing the indescribable is a dual form of defamiliarisation; regaining the sensation and poignancy by also including noted absences and untold narratives, such as his brother’s. The last frames end with a symbolic silence of speech disturbed only by Vladek, whose nightmares cause him to moan in his sleep (proving him to be the opposite of silence in the tale). The flies from the beginning of the chapter return to gnaw at the artist’s body and subjectivity—‘damn bugs are eating me alive’[39] – but they can be dispelled into silence also as Arty now holds an insect spray. The dead time flies fall outside the frame as the question of the indescribable has been answered in Maus. The answer is silence.

The first of these silences is that of Anja’s diaries which Vladek destroyed. Although they would have benefitted the memoir, their absence serves the larger symbol; Arty calls his Father a ‘murderer’[40] but this death is also vital. The other is of course Richieu’s ghost; an aesthetic (photographic) silence. This perhaps best explained by the inclusion of a real photo of Vladek towards the conclusion of the text. Posing in a camp uniform after the event makes this ‘souvenir photo’[41] looks decidedly unrealistic compared to the two hundred and ninety three pages of mouse comic which precede it. An aspect of realism is certainly lost when Maus chooses to borrow visually from reality. This photo also serves as a double form of defamiliarisation, reminding us of the relationships and tensions Maus has employed until this point that have only come as close as they can to what really happened. It also proposes that was has happened with the mice is the actual true sight, and that reality ultimately fails next to art in this task of representation.

Perhaps this is because reality relies on presence and life, whereas art can also include absence and death. Maus concludes with Vladek in poor health, and he ends his tale as such: ‘more I don’t need to tell you. We were both very happy and lived happy, happy ever after.’[42] Of course, we know from earlier that this is a fallacy; Anja committed suicide and Vladek becomes nothing but frustrated with his new partner Mala. Before the frames cease and the lives of the characters thereby end, Vladek’s final address is not to Arty, but to Richieu. Here, all the tensions previously mentioned meet in the middle and the last aspect of true sight cements its creation. The two narratives of life and death, of presence and absence, of voice and silence have met and created this space. The story belongs to the ghost of Richieu as much as Arty. This is unsettlingly effective both in its literary technique, and its poignancy.

Katalin Orbán reaches a similar conclusion about the text. This critic believes that as time passes (or perhaps ‘flies’) the Holocaust slowly becomes de-sanctified and reduced to melodrama as generations end and culture changes. The success of Maus is how it models these changes by finding a middle ground: ‘it cancels and yet authorizes its own visuality and thereby seems to validate both sides of the conflict in an ambivalent and dynamic way.’[43] This is much like Bartov describing the conflicting social and historical tensions which capture the Holocaust in a difficult web. Orbán describes how Maus has ‘an ability to see inwardly, without the eyes, cancelling the visual image’ creating ‘blindness as true sight’.[44] With the Holocaust as a web of representation, Maus manages to locate an aesthetic milieu in the centre of the numerous tensions, and uses the numerous opposing forces to capture that which cannot be described.

If we are discussing the concept of visual silence, we should at least mention Foucault and the relationship between silence and power: ‘There is not one but many silences, and they are an integral part of the strategies that underlie and permeate discourses.’[45] Here, we see that ‘for Foucault discourse is always inseparable from power, because discourse is the governing and ordering medium of every institution.’[46] In many ways Maus can be seen as a power struggle between Arty and Vladek; both in terms of their relationship, and in terms of the life and death narratives. Indeed, Arty comments that he only became an artist because his father would not threaten him in that field.[47] If we are probing the depths of Maus, power and discourse must be relevant. Our model for this conclusion is the theoretical labyrinth of Foe.

Initially, Foe can be seen as a text which also deals with race, in this case, contemporary South African racial politics. Brian Macaskill and Jeanne Colleran suggest that the eponymous ‘foe’ will be ‘those who design, uphold, live amidst, fail to dismantle, or fail to detach themselves from systematic racial dominance.’[48] Indeed, the character of Friday remains a silence throughout, as those who struggle to extract his story believe he ‘has no command of words and therefore no defence against being reshaped day by day in conformity with the desires of others.’[49] Susan Barton does find Friday’s presence (or perhaps absence) to be quite vexing at times, as she finds herself wiping ‘the utensils which his hands had touched’[50]. Presumably because these may have entered the mouth she is frightened to examine, and touched the neutered stump where a tongue once existed to promise a story she cannot control by herself. If we consider these racial terms alongside Maus, the story itself is both an object of power and oppression, leaving Friday as ‘helpless’[51] as a mouse shivering in its bunker.

There are many examples in Maus however where Vladek uses language as a means of survival[52]. Coetzee also painted a response to a reversal of power in the depths of the critical Foe. Lewis Macleod proposes that Friday may in fact have a tongue, and his silence is therefore ‘an epic gesture of defiance’[53].  This is certainly a possibility, as on the island we learn that Crusoe’s teeth have become rotten, yet Friday’s have remained ‘white as ivory’[54]. The contents of his mouth may be pure out of his choice to resist the seduction of storytelling offered by Barton: ‘unlike Susan, he refuses to put the story… of his life into anyone else’s hands and as a result he seems to avoid the kind of narrative conscription that troubles his more ambitious caretaker… he avoids becoming source material.’[55] If we see the tensions that Maus manipulates represented by Barton and Foe, each struggling for discourse and power, Friday’s silence is another example of what we can now more confidently label true sight.

Friday also represents the exhibition of death and absence in a story, as Barton recalls ‘townsfolk pay us no heed’[56] because they move like ghosts. There are several ways to interpret the almost incongruous final chapter of Foe, but if we are using it as a theoretical explanation of Maus we can see the endings of both texts as very similar. The now anonymous narrator informs us that ‘this is a place where bodies are their own signs. It is the home of Friday’[57]. It is a place of death that concludes Maus, where all the stories not told can exist, both Friday’s, and Richieu’s. As the speaker opens Friday’s mouth, his side of events flow forth, ‘up through his body and out upon me… soft and cold, dark and unending, it beats against my eyelids, against the skin of my face.’[58] These are all the tensions and contradictions, historical, cultural, even personal, and all the complications that give Maus a true sight. Of course, this is where the text ends, so the silent story remains untold, to us at least. Both texts have located the space that exists between the tensions, and successfully found a way to capture the indescribable in contemporary literature. As Holocaust survivor Primo Levi states: ‘Silence, the absence of signals, is in its turn a signal, but it is ambiguous, and ambiguity generates anxiety and suspicion. To say that it is impossible to communicate is false; one always can.’[59] Describing the indescribable is possible through true visuality, an aspect of which will always include silence.

Let us conclude simply with Katalin Orbán saying that Maus ‘alerts one to the artificiality of visual representation.’[60] If discourse and storytelling is a power struggle, then Maus is a warning of this. The true sight that it achieves is reclamation of the power through its various techniques of anti realism and defamiliarisation. The type of power it has is its invitation to think about the holocaust in light of contemporary media[61] and therefore question political discourse as well as the power of the image in general. This purpose is illustrated with a certain grace through Foe’s Friday, who responds with a mocking ‘ha-ha-ha’ when asked to repeat after Crusoe’s inane ‘la-la-la’. Perhaps he is laughing because ‘real power is executed through discourse, and… this power has real effects’[62] or because like many readers he did not envision a Holocaust comic about mice to be so delicate and powerful, until he also fell under its spell.

5225 words

Bibliography:

http://www.banksy.co.uk/manifesto/index.html (last checked 8/01/08)

Bartov, Omer, Murder in Our Midst: The Holocaust, Industrial Killing, and Representation, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996)

Coetzee, J.M., Foe, (London: Penguin, 1987)

Doherty, Thomas, ‘Art Spiegelman’s Maus: Graphic Art and the Holocaust’, Write Now: American Literature in the 1980s and 1990s, March 1996, Volume 68, No. 1

Easton Ellis, Bret, Glamorama, (London: Picador, 2006)

Foucault, Michael, The History of Sexuality Volume 1: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley, (London: Penguin 1979)

Levi, Primo, The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, (London: Michael Joseph, 1988)

Macaskill, Brian, and Jeanne Colleran, ‘Reading History, Writing Heresy: The Resistance of Representation and the Representation of Resistance in J. M. Coetzee’s Foe’, Contemporary Literature, Autumn 1992, Volume 33, No. 3

MacLeod, Lewis, ‘’Do we of necessity become puppets in a story?’; or, Narrating the world: on speech, silence, and discourse in J. M. Coetzee’s Foe’, Modern Fiction Studies, Spring 2006, Volume 52, Issue 1

Orbán, Katalin, ‘Trauma and Visuality: Art Spiegelman’s Maus and In the Shadow of No Towers’, Representations, Winter 2007, Issue 97

Selden, Raman and Peter Widdowson eds. A Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory, 3^rd Edition, (Hertfordshire: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1993)

Shklovsky, Viktor, ‘Art as Technique’, in Literary Theory: An Anthology, Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan eds. 2^nd Edition, (Cornwall: Blackwell, 2004)

Spiegelman, Art, The Complete Maus, (London: Penguin, 2003)

[2] J.M. Coetzee, Foe, (London: Penguin, 1987) p.22

[3] Omer Bartov, Murder in Our Midst: The Holocaust, Industrial Killing, and Representation, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996) p.115

[4] Murder in Our Midst p.129

[5] Bret Easton Ellis, Glamorama, (London: Picador, 2006) p.3

[6] Maus p.10

[7] Murder in Our Midst p.117

[8] Murder in Our Midst p.129

[9] Murder in Our Midst p.129

[10] Thomas Doherty, ‘Art Spiegelman’s Maus: Graphic Art and the Holocaust’, Write Now: American Literature in the 1980s and 1990s, March 1996, Volume 68, No. 1

[11] Viktor Shklovsky, ‘Art as Technique’, in Literary Theory: An Anthology, Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan eds. 2^nd Edition, (Cornwall: Blackwell, 2004) p.15

[12] Art as Technique p.16

[13] http://www.banksy.co.uk/manifesto/index.html

[14] Maus p.82

[15] Maus p.127

[16] Maus p.83

[17] Maus p.124

[18] Maus p.22

[19] Maus p.171

[20] Maus p.210

[21] Katalin Orbán, ‘Trauma and Visuality: Art Spiegelman’s Maus and In the Shadow of No Towers’,  Representations, Winter 2007, Issue 97

[22] Maus p.97

[23] Maus pp.112-113

[24] Maus p.14

[25] Maus p.93

[26] Maus p.166

[27] Maus p.75

[28] Maus p.71

[29] Maus p.108

[30] Maus p.118

[31] Maus p.249

[32] Maus p.259

[33] Maus p.199

[34] Maus p.201

[35] Maus p.176

[36] Maus p.175

[37] Maus p.204

[38] Maus p.205

[39] Maus p.234

[40] Maus p.161

[41] Maus p.294

[42] Maus p.296

[43] Trauma and Visuality

[44] Trauma and visuality

[45] Michael Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 1: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley, (London: Penguin 1979) p.27

[46] Raman Selden and Peter Widdowson eds. A Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory, 3^rd Edition, (Hertfordshire: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1993) p.127

[47] Maus p.99

[48]Brian Macaskill and Jeanne Colleran, ‘Reading History, Writing Heresy: The Resistance of Representation and the Representation of Resistance in J. M. Coetzee’s Foe’, Contemporary Literature, Autumn 1992, Volume 33, No. 3

[49] Foe p.121

[50] Foe p.24

[51] Foe p.121

[52] For example, Vladek teaches his Kapo to speak English, and is treated less harshly as a result, Maus p.192

[53]Lewis MacLeod, ‘’Do we of necessity become puppets in a story?’; or, Narrating the world: on speech, silence, and discourse in J. M. Coetzee’s Foe’, Modern Fiction Studies, Spring 2006, Volume 52, Issue 1

[54] Foe p.22

[55] Narrating the world: on speech, silence, and discourse in J. M. Coetzee’s Foe

[56] Foe p.87

[57] Foe p.157

[58] Foe p.157

[59] Primo Levi, The Drowned and the Saved, trans. Raymond Rosenthal, (London: Michael Joseph, 1988) p.69

[60] Trauma and Visuality

[61] Trauma and Visuality

[62] Reader’s Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory p.158

Never read a graphic novel before? Haven’t read a comic book in years?

Here’s some brand new stuff that came out the week of November 4 that I think is worth a look-see for someone with little to no history with comics. That means you should be able to pick any of these up cold without having read anything else. So take a look and see if something doesn’t grab your fancy. If so, follow the publisher links or Amazon.com links to buy yourself a copy. Or, head to your local friendly comic book shop.

Disclaimer: For the most part, I have not read these yet, so I can’t vouch for their quality. But, from what I’ve heard and seen, odds are good they just might appeal to you.

The TOON Treasury of Classic Children’s Comics – $40.00
Edited by Art Spiegelman & Françoise Mouly
352 pages; published by Abrams ComicArts; available at Amazon.com

The TOON Treasury of Classic Children’s Comics is an unprecedented collection of the greatest comics for children, artfully compiled by two of the best-known creators in publishing and the field of comics–Art Spiegelman and Francoise Mouly.

This treasury created for young readers focuses on comic books, not strips, and contains humorous stories that range from a single-page to eight or even twenty-two pages, each complete and self-contained. The comics have been culled from the Golden Age of comic books, roughly the 1940s through the early 1960s, and feature the best examples of works by such renowned artists and writers as Carl Barks, John Stanley, Sheldon Mayer, Walt Kelly, Basil Wolverton, and George Carlson, among many, many others.

Organizing the book into five categories (Hey, Kids!; Funny Animals; Fantasyland; Story Time!; and Wacky & Weird), Spiegelman and Mouly use their expertise in the area of comics to frame each category with an introductory essay, and provide brief biographies of the artists. The TOON Treasury of Classic Children’s Comics is essential reading for kids of all ages.

Great for kids, and the supplemental essays and historical context should make this entertaining for parents, too. The artists mentioned in the blurb were masters and are still huge influences to modern comic and graphic artists. And it’s sturdy enough for repeated reading. The publisher link above includes a great preview that shows just how charming and delightful this stuff will be to experience. Lots of fun!

Donald Duck and Friends #347 – $2.99
By Fausto Vitaliano & Andrea Freccero
32 pages; published by Boom! Kids

The Quack is back in this first BOOM! Kids issue! He’s no double “o” seven, he’s Double Duck! Donald shows us his dashing, adventurous side as a secret agent on a mission to stop a dangerous ice-melting machine and save the world from rising oceans! This is a Donald Duck like you’ve never seen! A brand new start at a brand new company for one of the world’s most iconic characters and longest-lived, most-published comic book series!

Speaking of those influential artists, you can pretty much draw a direct line from Carl Barks to this new issue (translated from the original Italian edition). Another great comic for kids. Here’s a 5-page preview.

Sherlock Holmes, Vol. 1: The Trial of Sherlock Holmes – $24.99
By Leah Moore, John Reppion & Aaron Campbell
168 pages; published by Dynamite Entertainment; available at Amazon.com

Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic detective Sherlock Holmes returns in all-new adventures! Sherlock finds himself involved in a mystery that has him fighting for his very life and Watson putting the pieces together to either save his friend or condemn him! Written by Leah Moore and John Reppion with reverence and a modern edge, artist Aaron Campbell completes the Victorian mood under the striking and iconic John Cassaday covers. Also contains bonus material such as script pages, annotations, a cover gallery, and a complete Sherlock Holmes short story by Arthur Conan Doyle with new illustrations.

I’ve been looking forward to this. It’s supposed to be a pretty faithful take on Sherlock Holmes. There’s a 10-page preview at the publisher link above.

Like A Dog – $22.99
By Zak Sally
128 pages; published by Fantagraphics Books; available at Amazon.com

One man’s heartfelt and irreverent record of his time on this rock, Zak Sally’s unflinchingly veracious book, Like a Dog, is both direct and oblique, which we find rather miraculous considering the messy and murky waters of human experience it manages to navigate. Like a Dog is among the few comic book testimonials burdened by the yen to understand and articulate the mundane and the magnificent. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself laughing and crying as you claw your way through each hard fought page!

Of all of Sally’s creative pursuits (including a career in music spanning 15+ years), Like a Dog is the one he’s been working a lifetime toward. This hardcover book collects the best of his acclaimed short stories from the past 15 years, created in between band tours and recording sessions, published in his Eisner-nominated self-published seriesRecidivist (the first 2 issues of which are reprinted here in their entirety) and in publications like Mome, The Drama, Your Flesh, Dirty Stories, and more.

Like a Dog spotlights Sally’s uncanny ability to create emotional havoc out of claustrophobic images, situations and dialogue. Stories like “Don’t Move,” “The War Back Home,” and “Two Idiot Brothers” share little in common on the surface but are united by Sally’s forbidding style, creating a sense of dread that permeates almost every page.

Sally also turns his eye towards nonfiction in Like a Dog, including “At the Scaffold,” the story of the imprisonment and trial of Fyodor Dostoyevsky for allegedly subversive behavior, and “The Man Who Killed Wally Wood,” a story about Sally’s brush with a former publisher of the legendary comic artist (who, contrary to the title of this strip, took his own life after a long battle with alcoholism). It also includes two collaborations: “Dread,” written by NEA Fellowship recipient, Edgar Award finalist, and O. Henry Award winning author Brian Evenson (Altmann’s Tongue); and “River Deep, Mountain High,” co-created with fellow cartoonist Chris Cilla.

Like a Dog also includes extensive “liner notes” by the artist, previously unpublished material, an introduction by John Porcellino (King Cat), and other surprises.

I really loved Zak Sally’s Sammy The Mouse, so it sounds like I have a good reason to buy this. And so do you. To give you an idea of what’s in store, there’s a neat Flickr video of someone flipping through the book, which serves as a de facto preview of sorts, and there’s also a 10-page preview as a PDF file.

Stumptown #1 – $3.99
By Greg Rucka & Matthew Southworth
40 pages; published by Oni Press

Superstar writer Greg Rucka (WHITEOUT, DETECTIVE COMICS) embarks on his first creator-owned series since the Eisner Award-winning QUEEN & COUNTRY!

Dex is the proprietor of Stumptown Investigations, and a fairly talented P.I. Unfortunately, she’s less adept at throwing dice than solving cases. Her recent streak has left her beyond broke—she’s into the Confederated Tribes of the Wind Coast for 18 large. But maybe Dex’s luck is about to change. Sue-Lynne, head of the Wind Coast’s casino operation, will clear Dex’ debt if she can locate Sue-Lynne’s missing granddaughter. But is this job Dex’s way out of the hole or a shove down one much much deeper?

I’ve been seeing some good reviews for this. Looks like really nice work! Here’s a 4-page preview. And while it hasn’t officially launched yet, here’s a website for the series.

Burn – $9.99
By Camilla D’Errico & Scott Sanders
160 pages; published by Simon & Schuster’s Simon Pulse; available at Amazon.com

Burn was once human.

He also had a family and friends, until a metallic angel of death took everything from him. This mechanical monster, Shoftiel, was one of many living machines made to help humanity that revolted and declared war on their creators. It tore through Burn’s home and wreaked havoc on his city until the buildings collapsed, crashing down upon them.

Emerging from the rubble, Burn and Shoftiel discover their once separate bodies have become one — neither human nor machine, but a freak union of both. Internally their minds are caught in a raging battle for control. Just as mankind must struggle against the sentients for survival, Burn must find the strength to overcome Shoftiel’s genocidal programming to retain whatever’s left of his humanity.

Here’s a 5-page preview (you have to click through a bunch of “who cares” before you get to the actual story).

Hi everyone

Book club no.31 took place yesterday at Flemming’s place in Fulham. A small but perfectly formed group of Flemming, Pete, Andy and Camilla dined on roast duck, roast potatoes and red cabbage and found time between delicious mouthfuls to discuss Art Spiegelman’s Pulitzer Prize-winning “The Complete Maus”, the first graphic novel the book club has considered.

The issue of the relationship between words and pictures, and how a graphic novel can represent the action normally found in a literary novel – let alone something as complex as the Holocaust – was the focus of our discussion. Camilla kicked off a close ‘reading’ of Spiegelman’s pictures by noting how the mice – representing the Jews – do not have mouths except in images of them in pain, and how this suggested their essential ‘voicelessness’. The group discussed the use of different animals to represent the different nationalities and to what extend this was a successful or distracting conceit.

Andy’s interest was in the use of time and how the format of the comic allowed the representation of time to be more fluid, so the narration could flit back and forth between the 1940s and 1980s in a way that, he felt, would have been much harder for a literary novel to achieve.

Pete highlighted how the portrayal of a Jewish father from that generation mirrorred similar stories by other Jewish writers, including memoirs by Philip Roth. Flemming pointed out that the book’s long gestation period (it was written while the author’s father was alive but not published till after his death) suggests Spiegelman struggled to escape his father’s presence. Pete noted the Freudian resonances that echoed throughout the book. Andy – as is required in every book club – discussed the presence of the mouse’s ego, superego and id in the narrative.

The group also discussed whether the book demeaned or suitably comemmorated Holocaust victims, whether it worked as fiction or biography, the effect of using real photos at different points in the book, the reason for the absence of the mother’s suicide, and the impact of the ‘interchapter’ of Spiegelman’s previous comic.

Overall, prejudices about graphic novels were successfully challenged and the group agreed that the experience of reading “Maus” had been overwhelmingly positive.

Having looked at the list I think it’s Sophie’s turn next.

Pete

Today’s the last day of my twenties. Tomorrow, I am old, as depicted in the following synopsis-of-my-life Spiegelman comic that was given to me by Amalle when I passed my exams:

Now entering panel four. Banana peel approaching. Abandon all hope.

Today I am able to post only the beginning of a new section of my draft of a chapter–”Representation and Trauma I:  The Sovereignty of the Image”–for a book I am planning on trauma and philosophy.  In my next post, I hope to finish the section begun below, on “Images of Avoidance.”

* * * * *

“Nothing like commemorating an event to make you forget it.”

Graphic-artist Art Spiegelman makes that remark in Plate 10 of In the Shadow of No Towers (New York:  Pantheon Books, 2004), his graphic-novel on September 11, 2001.  Spiegelman, the son of Holocaust survivors, earlier won the Pulitzer Prise for  Maus, his two-volume graphic novel of the Holocaust and its aftermath in the lives not only of survivors themselves but also of their offspring.  A native of New York who has lived there all his life, he and his wife and children were in the city when the attacks on the Twin Towers occurred.

In a two page essay that begins In the Shadow of No Towers Spiegelman tells the reader that in the first few days after 9/11 he “got lost constructing conspiracy theories about [the American] government’s complicity in what had happened.”  Then he writes: “Only when I heard paranoid Arabs and Americans blaming it all on the Jews did I reel myself back in, deciding it wasn’t essential to know precisely how much my ‘leaders’ knew about the hijackings in advance–it was sufficient that they immediately instrumentalized the attack for their own agenda.”

What is at issue in cases such as the second one Spiegelman mentions, involving something such as a governmental co-optation of trauma for its own purposes, fits generally within the category of what, for one, Dominick LaCapra, a contemporary American historian with special expertise in trauma studies, especially as it pertains to the Holocaust, calls “founding traumas.”  That is, what is at issue is the use of a trauma for the purposes of justifying and then repeatedly reinforcing some institution or institutionalized behavior, as the Holocaust itself is used to justify the foundation of the state of Israel after World War II, and then extended to justify Israel’s ongoing policies toward the Palestinians and toward neighboring Arab states into the present.  Similarly, the Bush administration used “9/11” as a “founding trauma” to justify the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, passage and implementation of the Patriot Act, holding “enemy combatants” indefinitely without trial in Guantanamo, “rendition” of prisoners to countries practicing torture, and so forth.

The other case Spiegelman mentions, that of his “paranoid Arabs and Americans blaming it [9/11] all on the Jews,” fits a different category that LaCapra also addresses.  As an example of this second category LaCapra also uses the figure of “the Jew,” only in his case is it the use of that figure by the Nazis to justify the “final solution” of “extermination” of millions in the Holocaust.  Concerning this category of what, following Spiegelman, we can appropriately call the instrumentalization of trauma, LaCapra writes (in History and Memory after Auschwitz, p. 187):  “Particularly when one avoids recognizing the sources of anxiety in oneself (including elusive sources that are not purely empirical or historical in nature), one may be prone to project all anxiety-producing forces onto a discreet other who becomes a scapegoat or even an object of quasi-sacrificial behavior in specific historical circumstances.”

At any rate, although Spiegelman himself in the lines cited above–about “paranoid Arabs and Americans blaming it all on the Jews,” on the one hand, and the official American governmental response of using the attack to further its “own agenda,” on the other–may conflate the two kinds of cases, there are important distinctions that need to be drawn between the two categories of such instrumentalization involved.  In the next chapter (“Representation and Trauma II:  The Image of Sovereignty”) I will discuss the crucial differences between the two in greater detail.  For my purposes in this present chapter, however, what interests me is not how the two cases differ from one another.  Rather, it is the similarity between the two, such that they can come to be coupled as Spiegelman couples them.  What is it about the two, such that reflecting on one can yield insight into the other?

Apparently, what connects them for Spiegelman is simply that both do indeed involve an “instrumentalization” of the attacks on 9/11.  Both involve treating the attacks as mere means for achieving prior, independent ends—that is, ends prior to and independent of the response that the attacks themselves demand of us.  Both deflect the impulse to respond to the attacks themselves, directing it into preset channels, and distorting it in the process.

What is at issue in both cases, then, would be literally a making-use of the attacks, a giving usage to them.  Thereby, the attacks are forced to make sense, rather than allowed to stand there in their full awfulness as the horrifyingly senseless catastrophe that they truly are.

Such shanghaiing of trauma to do service for some outside agenda has about it the same air of offense, even of obscenity that for so many observers accompanied the incessant media loop of images of the attacks on Manhattan’s Twin Towers, especially the images of men and women, sometimes hand in hand, jumping to their deaths rather than suffering immolation.  Spiegelman himself is not unaware of the connection, as he demonstrates by writing, on the second page of the same opening essay on the first page of which he remarks on the two cases of “instrumentalizing” 9/11, that he “wanted to sort out the fragments of what I’d experienced from the media images that threatened to engulf what I actually saw.”  Indeed, the instrumentalization of the 9/11 attacks and the flood of images of them in the mass media worked together, each feeding and reinforcing the other, to increase the threat of such inundation, in which the events themselves would be buried beneath the waves, at risk of sinking so deep into the sea of images as eventually to be beyond all possibility of salvage and recall.

En uno de los comentarios que habéis hecho, se ha hablado de música,  y he pensado que podría estar bien hablaros de un grupo musical que a mí me parece genial y que además me permite hacer indirectamente un par de recomendaciones literarias.

Ahí va la primera canción:

Esta canción es del primer álbum de Franz Ferdinand, editado en 2004.

A ver qué os parece la siguiente:

Los dibujos de este vídeo me recuerdan mucho a los de un cómic que me parece fascinante, tanto por el tema que trata, como por lo bien relatado que está. Se trata de una novela gráfica que me impactó mucho y que seguro que os encantará; si os atrevéis a leerla. Se trata de Maus, de Art Spiegelman.

Y cómo recomendación final, el primer sencillo del último disco, publicado en 2008.

En este caso es el título de la canción el que nos lleva a conocer a uno de los personajes clásicos más antiguo de la historia de la literatura: Ulises.
En esta canción se utiliza el tópico de la imposibilidad de volver a casa, y la necesidad de encontrar nuevos caminos. La mujer de Ulises esperó veinte años a que su amado regresara, pero el viaje de vuelta a casa no pudo ser más tortuoso. El protagonista tendrá que escapar del acoso de diosas, sirenas, gigantes, …
Así que si queréis saber si Penélope esperó a su marido, si Ulises superó todos los obstáculos, o si su hijo Telémaco consiguió encontrar a su padre, sólo tenéis que leer La Odissea, de Homero.

Sometimes I, when I am not being made crazy by his third-grader shenanigans, think I should be sitting at my youngest son’s feet learning the secrets of life and the wisdom of the world. You have already been made privy to his theological opining. Now listen to an example of the kind of things he says while reading the comics in the morning paper:

Youngest Son: Who’s Ken Burns?

Yiddishe Mamme: He’s a documentary filmmaker. He’s made film series about things like baseball and the Civil War. He just made one about the National Parks.

YS: What do you call a person who makes movies? A book writer is an author and a painter is an artist. So what do you call a person who makes movies?

YM: A filmmaker.

YS: Oh. Authors, artists and filmmakers are important people.

YM: What do they do that is important?

YS: They entertain us.

YM: How do they do that?

YS: You know – artists make pictures we can gaze [his word] at, authors make books we can read, and filmmakers make movies we can watch.

YM: So why is that so important?

YS: Because otherwise we would just be running up and down the sidewalks with nothing to do.

Now, that’s an image to ponder. Just like the ones cartoonists and animators put in their work for us to think about. I am a big fan of these artists, because I think that cartoons, comics, animated films and graphic novels (aside from their being amusing) provide access to learning for those of us who are less verbally inclined, while concurrently helping the rest of us strengthen our visual literacy skills.

New and surprising subject matter for R. Crumb

We are all bombarded with images these days, but how many of us ever take the time to really look at something? Sure, we get the basic information we need to from the big picture, but we often miss out on gaining a nuanced understanding. In our fast paced world, we often forget that in many cases it is, as the saying goes, all in the details.

There are those who would think that an illustrated version amounts to a dumbing down of a text, that a cartoon or animated work is a complicated idea made simple for either young children or the lesser literates among us. On the contrary, many highly talented and intellectual authors, visual artists and filmmakers are opting for graphic novels and animated films as vehicles for expressing their own complex and layered thoughts, or to interpret classic or ancient narratives.

A page from JT Waldman's Megillat Esther

True, not every ouevre in this genre rises to the level of which I speak. Superhero, Archie or Pokémon comic books would not cut it. The works which I am lauding here are ones like JT Waldman’s Megillat Esther, a very sophisticated and knowledgeable depiction of the Book of Esther which visually intertwines multiple midrashic and Rabbinic commentaries with the biblical text, presenting them through illustrations that are at the same time delicately detailed and boldly raw. The Rabbi’s Cat, by Joann Sfar, although illustrated in a very different style (and in color rather than black and white), made its narrative – a clever and creative story of Jewish life in Algeria – similarly come alive.

A page from Joann Sfar's The Rabbi's Cat

Some graphic novels are meant to be less metaphorical and intend to simply illustrate an historic event or an experience from the author’s life. R. Crumb, in a recent interview on NPR, said that his work on his newly released The Book of Genesis was a “straight illustration job.”  I cannot comment on this new book by Crumb, since I have not yet had a chance to read it. However, I would say that in the case of Art Spiegelman’s Maus (the first graphic novel I read) or Will Eisner’s The Plot, both of which appear on the surface to be “straight illustration jobs,” are to a certain degree interpretive by nature of their genre.

Will Eisner explicates the origins and history of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion in The Plot

Sometimes even those of us with supposedly strong verbal intelligence just don’t “get it,” until someone draws us a picture. That was what happened for me with The Plot by Will Eisner.  I can’t tell you how many times I had read about the Protocols of the Elders of Zion during the course of my studies and as a teacher. It wan’t until I came across Eisner’s organized, methodical and detailed rendition of the long, convoluted and sordid history of this dangerous hoax that I finally fully grasped it.

Graphic novels, comics and cartoons vary widely in style and purpose. But at the core of this genre is the concept of the visual metaphor. That is what makes it so powerful and so useful not only for enjoyment by adults, but also for the education of children. In a curriculum I authored quite a number of years ago on the use of maxims and proverbs to teach morality, I included a lot of cartoons and comic strips. My high school students’ familiarity and ease with the comics’ metaphoric nature helped ease them into an in-depth study of the metaphoric imagery of classic Jewish and American maxims.

The first Palestinian animated film is the biography of a young woman who died because of the stigma of breast cancer in her culture and the political-military realities of the Middle East.

The box office popularity and critical acclaim of recent animated autobiographical films like Waltz With Bashir and Persepolis show that the animated graphic novel is catching on with an adult audience. I am eager to see a new film, the first animated one to come out of the Palestinian Territories. It is called Fatenah and tells the real and tragic tale of a young Palestinian woman’s struggle to have her breast cancer properly diagnosed and treated.

Even Disney’s The Prince of Egypt, which on the surface appears to be merely an animated feature length children’s movie, can be analyzed for its midrashic content and usage of visual metaphors to deepen the sparse biblical pshat narrative. Just ask my former students (who were also subjected to my using Waldman’s Megillat Esther as our main text for studying that book).

Sarah Lefton, a young Jewish educational entrepreneur, clearly apprehends the power of the cartoon, the visual metaphor and the art of animation. She, in her G-dcast project, has combined all three in an ingenious way to teach children – and all interested parties of any age – the weekly Torah portion. She has enlisted talented artists and writers, primarily the voices of the new Jewish generation, to show kids that comics are not just for laughs…but that that, in no way, should stop you from having a lot of fun with them.

© 2009 Renee Ghert-Zand. All rights reserved.

I finally read Maus. It’s a graphic novel split into two books, although you can find them in one, in which the comic artist portrays himself as trying to understand his father’s past.  His father was a Polish Jew who survived the concentration camps during World War II.  This book is not just about his father’s experience, but also about the artist’s experience with his father. 

The graphic novel is truly a survivor’s tale: the father’s and the son’s.  If you think comics are just for kids or the child at heart think again and read this semi autobiographically comic. Spielgelman uses the art form of comics to the fullest.  The Germans are depicted as cats while the Jews are mice.  There are also a few times in which the people are depicted in human form to separate to reality of making the comic and the comic itself.  The use of exaggeration available to comics also helps with the storyline.  The art is the basic black and white with square boxes that many comics have and its easy to follow. 

If you’ve read Maus what do you think about it?

Kagehime

During Dewey’s 24 hour Read-a-Thon I read Neil Gaiman’s book Coraline as a graphic novel (adapted by P. Craig Russell). Technically it might not have been the first graphic novel I’ve read, but it certainly was the first one I bought myself, knowing it to be one!

About 15 years ago, shortly after I had met Mr Gnoe, I read the Pulitzer Prize winning work by Art Spiegelman: Maus, a Survivor’s Tale — an autobiographical story about Jews (depicted as mouses) surviving the World War II Holocaust. At that time I also got acquainted with the (just as grim) comic books of Tardi. Both I did not consider to be graphic novels at the time, because the term seems to be in in vogue only since the last few years.

So what is a graphic novel exactly? Well, there’s no real consensus about that Some consider it to be a posh term for all kinds of comic books provided they’re bound in a durable format like printed books, others believe there’s a distinction in artistic quality (which of course is a subjective matter).

Neil Gaiman himself — yes, I will get back to Coraline in a short while — considers it to be nothing more than a marketing term, a sales category.

[..] there’s no meaningful difference. For some reason the term “big thick collected or original comic published in book form” has never really caught on, while “Graphic Novel” did.

Myself, I am still in doubt whether or not to distinguish graphic novels from ‘ordinary’ comics. It just doesn’t feel right to call the collected Best of Mutts (Patrick McDonnell), that I bought along with Coraline, a graphic novel as well — even though it is a beautiful hardcover ‘coffee table book‘. I think I would like to hold on to the idea that a graphic novel is a story or collection of short stories in comic format (a balanced combination of narrative art and dialog or explanatory text), that holds something more than plain, popular entertainment. Like: could it be a novel without the image art? Does the story have some sustenance? I know I’m walking on thin ice here

Do you have an opinion about graphic novels?

Back to Coraline now. It’s the fantasy/horror story of a girl moving with her family to a huge house that’s divided into four apartments. Exploring the house, Coraline finds a door into an ‘other world’, where her ‘other mother and father’ live. These parents tempt her with things that are all better than at her real home, because they want her to stay.

Doesn’t that immediately make you think of Alice in Wonderland? It does even more when you read about the neighbours persisting in mispronouncing Coraline’s name as Caroline in the first pages (think Lewis Caroll). It’s been too long since I read about Alice’s adventures (I must have been a child of about 9), but it would be fun to compare the stories.

Another book Coraline reminded me of is the classic Japanese novel I was reading for the read-a-thon as well: I Am a Cat, by Natsume Sōseki (from 1905). It begins as follows:

“I am a cat. As yet I have no name.” (p.5)

And here’s when Coraline meets a cat at the new property (p.41):

And it explains to us on the same page:

“Now, you people have names because you don’t know who you are. We know who we are, so we don’t need names.”

Or, when Coraline first sees the cat on ‘the other side’ (p.39):

Cats naturally being wise, it has a theory about it on the next page (p.40):

“You people are spread all over the place. Cats on the other hand, keep ourselves together. If you see what I mean.”

Back to I Am a Cat:

“Cats are truly simple. If we want to eat, we eat; if we want to sleep, we sleep;” (p.26)

Reading synchronisity!

I guess the fact that Coraline reminded me of these classics helps in making it more of a reading experience than simple entertainment. Although it was also just plain fun to read Coraline

Like Maus, the graphic adaptation of Coraline by Russell has won an important prize: the 2009 Eisner Award (an ‘Oscar’ for comics) in the category of Best Publication for T(w)eens. Er.. that’s not my age group! And since I’ve grown up I don’t really like reading YA or children’s books. But it didn’t bother me now At least it’s obvious that a targeted audience of adults is not a condition for being called a graphic novel (as some argue).

Russell, who’s some sort of god in the graphic novel world, says about his adaptations:

“The appeal of an adaptation is in starting a piece secure that there’s literary worth in the source material. If it fails, I can’t blame it on that. I’ve always been fascinated by the challenge , the puzzle-solving challenge of taking a piece apart line by line and reassembling it into an entirely different art form.

[..] It’s the beautiful writing. It also helps that Neil has a huge following so I know all the effort I put into the work will actually be seen. I’ve done plenty of work that left me feeling I’d thrown it down a well. Doesn’t happen with Neil’s stories.”

I bought my comics for the read-a-thon following advice from veteran participants. Next to Coraline and The Best of Mutts I ended up with Persepolis and Persepolis 2 by Marjane Satrapi. But during my 24 hours of reading I only got to read Coraline! Which indeed made a nice change of palate. And as you notice I’ve come to learn some things about the graphic novel world at the same time

Now that I’ve crawled out of my familiar reading nook I might also try one of Gaiman’s actual fantasy books — next year. For the rest of 2009 there’s something else to consider: with my other graphic books on Mt. TBR I might join the Graphic Novels Challenge… I would only need to decide on two more before December 31st to make the minor level of six books. Why not reread Maus volumes I & II?

I’ve been having a hard time with Ryan’s dismissal of the image as a ‘weak and subordinated’ mode of story telling.

He assigns it a secondary role of evoking the story. Steiner’s analysis of Gozzoli’s The Dance of Salome and Beheading of St. John the Baptist makes the case well. It shows how the imagery adds texture and depth to the story but unless you know the story the painting looks merely mysterious. There’s a sophisticated relationship across time between the three story elements that the observer uninformed by text would miss. Without Steiner’s notes I would not have known that Herodias is both the seated figure in center and the standing women in a different hair covering to the right.

But to me the text is often the secondary element and the picture carries the narration.  I pulled out a book of Associated Press photos to look an uncredited black and white photo of a black man hanging from a tree taken in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in 1935. The caption tells us it’s 32-year-old Rubin Stacy who was lynched by a mob of masked men. Staring at Stacy are four white men in white shirts leaning nonchalantly against trees, one in straw hat.

In the lower left hand foreground of the picture is a young blonde girl staring gravely into the camera and next to her another child holding up a white cloth over his face.  They show sadness and shame that is a strong counter point to the adults. The words in the caption play a secondary role in telling a horrifying story about racism and indifference to violence.

What can we learn about using the image in web-based storytelling from these readings? The sophisticated viewer during the Renaissance may have had the ability to decode the complex relationships between the elements of Gozzoli’s painting but today we’re immersed in visual representations on TV, newspaper and magazine ads, billboards etc.  The average viewer doesn’t have the context to ‘read’ Gozzoli’s work without help. Instead of evoking a story, it requires a lot of text to understand how the picture connects to the story.

Ewert’s chapter on Art Spiegelman’s Maus suggests more useful ways we can consider bringing pictures in to web based story telling. We get comics because we grow up with them so we’re better able appreciate, perhaps unconsciously, the way Spiegelman adds meaning to the story by the image. For example in the picture of Vladek at the concentration camp remembering how he always stood in the second line – ‘I didn’t want them to see me much’ – the faces of all the prisoners are drawn the same with diagonal lies showing their need to blend into the crowd so as to not be called out by the Nazi guards. This visual metaphor of the Vladek’s fear connects.

Dr. Kristiaan Versluys, a professor of English at the University of Ghent, takes a close look at a handful of 9/11-themed works of fiction in his new book, Out of the Blue: September 11 and the Novel. Perhaps the best thing I can say about it is that it prompted me to rethink my reactions to the novels he discusses—I may never be a great admirer of Don DeLillo’s Falling Man, but the book reveals how carefully DeLillo worked to mimic the ways that traumatic events unsettle our ability to tell stories. Dr. Versluys does much the same for the other books he covers in-depth, including Art Spiegelman’s graphic memoir In the Shadow of No Towers, Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and Frédéric Beigbeder’s Windows on the World. Out of the Blue is an academic book, but it’s low on jargon, and provides some useful context for the debates about 9/11 fiction that are bound to emerge in the future.

Dr. Versluys answered questions about Out of the Blue via e-mail.

Much of Out of the Blue discusses 9/11 fiction in relation to trauma studies. Did you have an interest in the relationship between trauma and literature before writing the essays in this book? What led you to look at trauma as one of the main prisms you use to study this literature—as opposed to, say, through the prism of politics?

When I spent a sabbatical year at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Studies in 2004-5, the idea was to write a book on recent New York fiction. I have taught many courses on that topic both at Ghent University, my home university in Belgium, and as a guest professor in the Columbia summer school program. The way I had planned it, the last chapter would be devoted to 9/11 fiction. For reasons too intricate to explain I started with the last chapter, only to realize that in the short time since the terrorist attacks had taken place, a body of work had come out that was substantial enough to be the subject of a separate book.

The first text I studied in depth was Art Spiegelman’s In the Shadow of No Towers. Spiegelman looks upon the events of September 11 through the conceptual screen of the Holocaust. That led me to take a closer look at trauma studies in general and Holocaust-studies in particular. I have always treated post-structuralist approaches to literature with a great deal of skepticism. But especially the writings of Dominick LaCapra (rather than the canonical Cathy Caruth) made me aware of the fact that in trauma studies post-structuralism – so often abstract and theoretical in its orientation – touches ground and provides a tool to talk with respect and deference about things that remain essentially unsayable. Nonetheless, I feel that, at bottom, I remain an old-fashioned humanist. I prefer to read novels in the grain, rather than against the grain. And while I am indebted to post-structuralism for its attention to language and though I take into account that language introduces fissures and ruptures, I also perceive it to be an instrument of healing and restoration.

You write that the 9/11-themed works you discuss “testify to the shattering of certainties and the laborious recovery of balance.” I imagine that novelists writing on subjects such as war, or totalitarianism, or even domestic abuse, might feel they’re doing the same kind of testifying. What, if anything, distinguishes 9/11 novels from fiction about those other kinds of traumatic experiences?

As a traumatic event, September 11 is comparable to other traumatic events. Paradoxically, though, one of the characteristics it shares with similar events, is that it is singular and irreducible. In the first place this is the case, of course, for the victims, their families and friends. No analogy is capable of capturing what it means to be trapped in a burning tower or to lose one’s parent, spouse or close friend.

In addition, 9/11 is arguably the first instance of what one could call global trauma. It was witnessed not only by the people in the direct vicinity of the WTC-towers on that bright Tuesday morning. It was also witnessed by millions and presumably hundreds of millions on TV, either live or in the many repetitions of the iconic images that everybody remembers. It is possible that in order to talk about this new kind of trauma, we will need a new vocabulary, a new or at least a modified conceptual framework. We know a lot already about indirect witnessing and secondary trauma, esp. with regard to second- and third-generation Holocaust survivors. We also know that a whole culture can undergo a sense of shock so severe that its collective assumptions are profoundly disrupted and that a catastophe can “create ‘problems of identity’ for individuals and communities well beyond its circumference of material destruction” (Gray and Oliver). So there is a lot of theory to go on already. Yet it seems to me we are dealing here with something that is different from what preceded. Notions such as those of authenticy or inauthenticity, the traumatic sublime, postmemory, trauma transference, empty empathy etc. – all notions that are current in trauma theory – may have to be adapted or revised to fit the new category of global trauma. Televised indirect experience raises new questions as to what is genuine and what is hype and it establishes new conditions for making memorializing into an act of approximation and not an act of appropriation.

You note that there are about 30 literary novels available currently about 9/11. Were there other 9/11 books that you considered writing about at length? I suspect you’ve already heard from people wondering why the book doesn’t mention, say, Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland or Ken Kalfus’ A Disorder Peculiar to the Country.

In order to keep the study manageable, I made the decision early on to deal only with novels in which 9/11 is not just a background event, but in which it plays an essential role in the plot development. Apart from the two novels you mention, there are more novels of merit in which 9/11 is part of the background: Claire Messud’s The Emperor’s Children and Jay McInerney’s The Good Life, to mention only a few. I deal with two such novels (Anita Shreve’s A Wedding in December and Ian McEwan’s Saturday) in the epilogue to indicate that, as time goes by and the first shock wears off, 9/11 is bound to become “spectralized.” Its presence will become less and less visible, but for that reason all the more haunting. The direct treatment of the events on September 11 is bound to be replaced in the collective imagination by the indirect treatment. To study that phenomenon requires another book.

Your chapter on Falling Man ends with a provocative statement: Because the novel “allows for no proper mourning or working through,” you write, there’s a danger that “it can serve as a prelude to, or be used as an excuse for, wholesale, reactionary and even totalitarian movements of redress and moral restoration.” Can you elaborate on how these movements might manifest themselves?

I borrow this idea from Dominick LaCapra. The point he makes is that a condition of collective grief that is considered irredeemable might be the breeding ground for a revanchist logic. If the nation does not learn to deal with loss, it might be tempted to restore normalcy “through the elimination or victimization of those to whom blame is imputed” (LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma, 65). This line of reasoning is related to the distinction between true and false witnessing, made by the psycho-analysist R.J. Lifton. False witnessing, according to Lifton, occurs when death anxiety is converted directly into killing. The example he cites is the massacre at My Lai. But it could easily be applied to the way the Bush administration reacted to September 11 and in fact to the ultra-conservative backlash that lasted till the election of President Obama. The novels I discuss argue for an ethics of responsibility, in which the complexity of the situation is fully presented and the simple binary logic of “us versus them” – so cleverly exploited by the Bush administration – is avoided.

Critics have been largely (though not uniformly) unkind to the books you discuss, and you elaborate on some of the reasons why. Writing about Falling Man, you note that “the characters are so thin that their whole existence boils down to mere nomenclature” and that “no narrative momentum is allowed to develop.” You note the “flatness” of Grandpa’s character in Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and the “soppy happy ending” of Terrorist. But you also point out many rewarding characteristics of these novels that you believe critics missed. Do you feel the negative critical reaction to these books is related more to their unconventional structures and approaches, or more to the way they are, as you write, “subversive of nationalistic imperatives”?

Let’s be clear about one point: the great September 11 novel has not been written yet and maybe it never will. To a point, the negative critical reactions are justified and understandable. No writer has yet been able to capture the magnitude of the event or the shock it produced. The unsayable remains unsaid. The negative critical reactions might, therefore, be understood as the result of disappointment. Here is an event that cries out for a definitive reading and it is not forthcoming. Nonetheless, there is much more to these books than some reviewers have spotted. My study is a tribute to the few writers who have been courageous enough to tackle an impossible topic. Even though they succeeded only partially, there is much insight to be gained from their efforts.

You note that nearly all the books under discussion have been written by white American men, and write that it’s an open question whether future 9/11 fiction will be “marked by more gender and ethic diversity or acquire a more outspoken international dimension.” What do think has made 9/11 the province of such a singular kind of writer thus far?

The answer to this question can only be pure guess work. Minority writers might have no need to deal with 9/11, as long as they are dealing with the traumas in their collective pasts. As to women, Anita Shreve and Claire Messud have been prominent in recording the dispersion of 9/11 in the culture at large as a spectral presence, a vestige, palpable but invisible.

Esta semana me he dedicado a un género que no frecuento; la historieta seria. O la novela gráfica o relato gráfico que llaman algunos. Allá por mis veintipocos compraba con frecuencia revistas de comics.

Nunca me ha gustado mucho la palabra comic. Su etimología que nos dirige directamente a la comedia hace que mucha gente no sea consciente de que se pueden contar historias serias, dramas o tragedias utilizando este medio. A mucha gente le quita seriedad esa apelación. En España, se ha utilizado mucho, y de hecho está recogido en el diccionario de la RAE, el término tebeo cuyo origen estaba en la revista TBO, que yo leí ocasionalmente en mi infancia y que creo que era una pequeña joya no suficientemente reconocida. Pero este término, por asociación con su origen nos remite más a las revistas de historietas infantiles más que a otra cosa. A un niño se le compran tebeos, pero ningún adulto aficionado al género reconoce leer tebeos. En algunas ocasiones, con la intención de darle carta de respetabilidad y seriedad, para las historietas largas y con un contenido dramático, se utiliza el término de novela gráfica. Aunque parece ser que algunos consideran el término un poco presuntuoso. Entonces, a pesar de que el término historieta, a pesar de ser un diminutivo de historia con las connotaciones que ello conlleva es el término más adecuado.

Retomo la cuestión. Allá por mis ventipocos compraba con frecuencia revistas de historietas, pero lo dejé porque… no sé,… nunca he sido lo suficientemente friqui para engancharme a la mayor parte de las historias que contaban aquellas revistas. Algunas cosas estaban bien,… el Torpedo de Abuli y Bernett lo recuerdo con cariño,… y otras cosillas. Pero durante muchos años, mi único contacto con el género fue mi colección íntegra de Astérix en su idioma original, el francés, que siempre he disfrutado, especialmente mientras la escritura estuvo a cargo del fallecido y difunto Goscinny. Por cierto que tengo que hablar algún día del 50º aniversario del personaje. Posteriormente, por la mala influencia de un buen amigo, me hice también con la colección completa de las historietas de Tintin, también en su idioma original. Pero nada más.

Y he aquí que me he animado a leer lo que algunos llaman un “novela gráfica”. Os lo cuento.

Maus: Relato de un superviviente
Art Spiegelman
Ramdon House Mondadori, Reservoir Books
7ª edición, Barcelona 2009
ISBN: 978-84-397-2071-3

El autor, Art Spiegelman, nos lleva a través de sus dibujos a la historia de como su padre, un judío polaco, sobrevivió al holocausto después de pasar por una terrorífica odisea donde de puso en juego constantemente una mezcla de capacidad personal y suerte. Es una narración de la historia real de la familia del autor, pero el tema real del relato, más que una reflexión sobre el propio holocausto es el sentimiento de culpa del superviviente. Un sentido de culpa que en esta ocasión se transfiere de alguna forma del padre al hijo, aunque este nació tras la guerra, por la sombra que sobre su vida proyecta la muerte de su hermano mayor en uno de los guetos de la Polonia ocupada por los alemanes. La historia se cuenta en forma de flashbacks, en los cuales el padre del autor, ya anciano y residiendo en los EE.UU., va relatándole a lo largo de un cierto tiempo sus vivencias durante la guerra. Mientras tanto, asistimos también a los problemas familiares que como consecuencia de aquellas vivencias, sufren en el tiempo actual (años setenta y principios de los ochenta) los protagonistas de la historia.

Uno de los aspectos más curiosos e importantes de la historia es que el autor dibuja a las personas como animales diversos según su nacionalidad o etnia. Los judíos, sea cual sea su nacionalidad, son ratones. Los alemanes, consecuentemente, son gatos. Los polacos no judíos son dibujados como cerdos; lo cual nos habla también de los sentimientos de los protagonistas hacia sus anteriores compatriotas no judíos. No olvidemos que para los judíos el cerdo es un animal impuro. El relato permite comprender un poco mejor el porqué de esto. Otras nacionalidades aparecen eventualmente representadas. Los norteamericanos son perros, un francés aparece representado como una rana (hay una cierta explicación al respecto, ya que la esposa del autor es una francesa, que sin embargo es representada como ratón al estar convertida al judaísmo; pero hay una cierta discusión al respecto en la propia historia), los suecos son renos. Cuando un judío en la Polonia ocupada oculta su condición y se hace pasar por polaco étnico, aparece dibujado con una careta de cerdo. Creo que en su conjunto el recurso es de una potencia tremenda, e influye poderosamente en cómo se va siguiendo y sintiendo el relato.

No me siento muy cualificado en comentar los aspectos estilísticos del dibujo, más allá de lo dicho en el párrafo anterior. No tengo experiencia ni conocimientos suficientes para ello. En cualquier caso, lo que me ha sucedido a mí es que me he metido de lleno en el relato que me ha parecido interesantísimo, y he disfrutado a pesar del dramatismo notablemente de las andanzas de la familia Spiegelman. No me queda por lo tanto otra conclusión que animar a todo el mundo a que se adentren en esta forma literaria y lean este relato de indudable calidad.

La foto de hoy no podía ser de otro sitio…

Cambio de agujas en las vías de acceso al campo de Auschwitz II - Birkenau, Polonia - Canon EOS 40D, EF 24-105/4L IS USM

Notre coup de cœur de ce vendredi nous plonge dans l’univers de la Bande Dessinée… avec « Maus, un survivant raconte », une œuvre d’Art Spiegelman, une bande dessinée pas toute récente, mais qui mérite d’être redécouverte. Considérée comme un monument de l’histoire de la BD, Maus a valu le prix Pulitzer à son auteur en 1992.

Art Spiegelman est un grand dessinateur de bandes dessinées. Il vit actuellement à New-York.  C’est aussi le fils d’un survivant de la Shoah.

Dans « mon père saigne l’histoire » et « Et c’est là que mes ennuis ont commencé », les deux tomes de Maus, Spiegelman nous raconte comment son père a traversé la guerre. L’histoire est prenante, cocasse parfois et bien sur, dramatique. Le ton est vif. Il évite avec brio tout misérabilisme et le règlement de compte. Le dispositif narratif choisi est très touchant, puisque la bande dessinée s’élabore au fur et à mesure des visites que l’auteur rend à son père.

C’est donc une sorte de récit deux en un. D’un côté, l’auteur dépeint la relation qu’il a avec son père et l’élaboration de son projet de bande dessinée  et d’un autre, il illustre les souvenirs de son père. Spiegelman parvient ainsi à mêler le passé et le présent, les doutes du fils et les malheurs du père.

L’originalité de Maus, souris en allemand, est de représenter les personnages avec des visages d’animaux. Les juifs sont des souris, menacés par des chats, les allemands. Des dessins d’animaux qui font référence aux images de propagande nazie. Cette analogie est un peu simpliste, mais non moins efficace. Elle a surtout pour avantage de nous détacher de la réalité, pour nous y replonger de façon plus brutale encore.

Tout au long de Maus, le lecteur suit les malheurs de Vladek, une petite souris polonaise. Ses mésaventures lui paraissent tristes, mais dérisoires. Ce n’est qu’à la fin du deuxième tome que la réalité rattrape le lecteur et le frappe de plein fouet : lorsqu’il tombe nez à nez avec le vrai Vladek, photographié dans son pyjama à rayures.

Spiegelman réussi un pari de taille : il nous rafraichit la mémoire sur un épisode noire de notre histoire, et cela de manière captivante et originale.

]]> http://oyvindholen.wordpress.com/2009/10/23/en-av-tidenes-beste-tegneserier/ Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:00:09 +0000 oyvindholen http://oyvindholen.wordpress.com/2009/10/23/en-av-tidenes-beste-tegneserier/

I et anfall av svimmelhet utropte Vinduet tidligere i år Watchmen skråsikkert til tidenes beste tegneserie. Art Spiegelmans Maus, som nå kommer i ny norsk utgave, er en av mange verdige konkurrenter til den tittelen.

Alan Moore og Dave Gibbons’ Watchmen er riktig nok en gjenganger på lister over tidenes beste tegneserie, men der mange kan være enige om at den er tidenes beste superhelttegneserie, er det ikke vanskelig å finne sterke konkurrenter hvis vi beveger oss utenfor den trikotkledde sjangeren. Første del av Art Spiegelmans Maus, hans biografi over faren som overlevde Auschwitz, ble utgitt på norsk av Cappelen i 1987 – samtidig som Semic ga ut Watchmen (eller Vektere som den het da).

Dessverre trøblet det seg til mellom forlaget og Spiegelman, som ikke var fornøyd med den norske utgaven. Derfor kom del to aldri ut i egen oversettelse på norsk, men vi måtte vente helt til 1993 – da Cappelen ga ut del en og to i samme bok. Nå slipper Cappelen Damm denne klassikeren på ny, og her er mine anmeldelser av den amerikanske Maus II og den norske 1993-utgaven.

Art Spiegelman
Maus – A Survivor’s Tale II: And Here My Troubles Began
Pantheon 1991

I 1987 kom den amerikanske tegneserien Maus ut på norsk. I disse dager kommer endelig fortsettelsen på serien ut i samlet utgave, foreløpig bare på engelsk.

Maus er skrevet og tegnet av Art Spiegelman. Han begynte med serien i 1978, og den ble ferdig i år. Serien er en autentisk beskrivelse av opplevelsene til Spiegelmans far, Vladek, under 2. verdenskrig. Første bok beskrev Vladeks liv i Polen før krigen, jødehatet mot ham og familien, hans opplevelser som krigsfange hos tyskerne og de desperate forsøkene på å unngå nazistenes konsentrasjonsleirer. Boken slutter med at han og konen, Anja, kommer til Auschwitz.

Andre bok handler i hovedsak om Auschwitz. Samtidig er serien en beskrivelse av forholdet mellom Art og faren, mens tegneserien ble laget.

Det som gjør Maus unik er i første rekke at det er en av de få tegneseriebiografier som er blitt laget. Den beviser også at tegneseriemediet kan fortelle en historie like godt som for eksempel en film eller bok. Men det som virkelig gjør Maus til noe spesielt, er et virkemiddel bare tegneserien kan gjøre bruk av .

Tegneserien er nemlig utført i den såkalte “funny animal” – formen, som i serier som Donald, Bamse og en rekke andre. I Maus er jødene fremstilt som mus, tyskere som katter, polakker som griser, amerikanere som hunder osv. (I siste kapittel dukker også noen svensker opp, som elger.)

Alle som har lest første bok av Maus og likte den, vil utvilsomt ha lyst til å lese slutten. Foreløpig har de siste kapitlene vært trykket i bladet Raw, og de har også kommet i en luksusutgave til 180 kroner. En billigere utgave vil komme, og man kan håpe på en norsk oversettelse.

Art Spiegelman
Maus
Cappelen 1993

Da Art Spiegelman tok fatt på å lage sin fars biografi i tegneserieform i 1978, kunne ingen forestille seg hvilken milepæl det skulle bli innen sjangeren. Maus, som han kalte serien, har blitt bejublet fra alle mulige og umulige kanter. Den har nå endelig kommet ut på norsk i en samlet utgave.

Maus forteller Vladek Spiegelmans historie. Han var polsk jøde, og etter fortvilte forsøk på å slippe unna nazistene under 2. verdenskrig, ble han og kona, Anja, sendt til Auschwitz i 1944. Parallelt med Vladeks historie fra krigen forteller Maus om sønnen Arts problematiske forhold til faren under arbeidet med serien. Art synes faren er smålig, egoistisk og gjerrig. Etter hvert skjønner han at de egenskapene hos faren som han misliker, er de samme som hjalp ham å overleve i konsentrasjonsleiren.

Spiegelman har valgt et fortellerteknisk trekk som er spesielt for tegneserien. Personene i serien er tegnet som dyr, og basert på nazistenes raseideologi. I andre serier blir dyr brukt for å understreke personligheter” en rev er lur for eksempel. I Maus representerer dyrene raser: jødene er tegnet som mus, tyskerne som katter, polakkene som griser og så videre. På den måten får serien et uvirkelig og distansert preg, samtidig som du virkelig føler med personene i serien.

Samtidig manipulerer formen leserens fordommer. Jødene er blitt en egen rase, som det er mulig å skille ut kun fra utseendet. Og når Spiegelman bryter illusjonen helt på slutten av boka gjennom å trykke et fotografi av faren i fangedrakt, kollapser, hele rasebildet fullstendig. “Han ser jo helt normal ut” er den umiddelbare reaksjonen. Leseren har ubevisst latt seg fange av de inngrodde stereotypene av jødene, og blir overrasket over at faren ser ut som en hvilken som helst mann. Man innser hvor lite som skal til for å gi grobunn for fordommer.

Maus er en triumf for tegneserien som medium. Vi får være takknemlig overfor Cappelen, som har gitt ut serien i en praktutgave. Det negative med seriens suksess, er paradoksalt nok, de overstrømmende kritikkene den har fått. Mange kritikere i “seriøse” amerikanske aviser synes at Maus var så god at den sipelthen ikke kunne være en tegneserie, men en helt ny form for “tegnet litteratur”. Maus er en tegneserie, og uten tvil en av tidenes beste. Årets julepresang!

Anmeldelsene er opprinnelig publisert i Bergens Tidende.

This week my English class finished reading Maus by Art Spiegelman. It is a graphic novel depicting the story of Speigleman’s father, during his time spent in Nazi occupied Poland and Auschwitz. This is my favorite piece so far, it incorporates visual depictions of the war but also the feelings about the war as well.

How does Maus tie to the theme of masculinity? Well besides the relationship between Anja and Vladek, where he is the provider and protector; and competitive relationship with father-son.  Not to mention the extreme drive for power, domination and conquering the Nazi regime was exuding. However, I want to focus on the powerlessness of men at this time.

More importantly being male equates one with holding power but in Vladek’s case he had very little power over if he lived or if he died. Granted he was a very clever man and saved himself and others many times but he did not feel the power of his gender as an individual. Most men don’t feel this power on an individual bases. In most cases males are the powerful figures over women, children, and other men; those men that are powerless feel emasculated and feminized, as discussed in an earlier post.

Unlike Vladek who accepted his circumstance and tried to go about things the right way; many people did not do the same. This is the main focus, to look at the several men that betrayed Vladek or asked for something in return for their help. Why would someone feel this need to betray someone in times of war? Audre Lorde, a feminist, discusses the danger in white women allying themselves with white men against minorities. These women are…

“being seduced into joining the oppressor under the pretense of sharing power.*”

Although Lorde is speaking about white women I feel this very statement can be used to describe the many people that allied themselves with the Nazi’s, i.e. the Jewish police, the man that gives Vladek away in the attic (p. 113). These people were seduced into thinking that the Nazi’s would spare them because they sided with them. Yet, many that did this didn’t live long and lost respect from their group. Is it just saving one’s own skin or is it more than that? Is it more about being part of that power the Nazi’s had. Men that feel powerless want to feel powerful, men experience power in a group and Nazi regime was the only powerful group accessible to these men.

Although this has nothing to do with my post I was checking out some graphic novels and I stumbled upon one that is related to war that maybe someone would be interested in.

The Shooting War

“The year is 2011. The global war on terror is raging out of control. The American economy is deep in recession. The president is popping Prozac. When a suicide bomber blows a Brooklyn Starbucks to bits, hipster video blogger Jimmy Burns is in the right place at the right time. His dramatic footage is picked up by Global News (“Your home for 24-hour terror coverage”) and Burns is transformed into an overnight media sensation. The next thing he knows he’s on a Black Hawk flying low and fast towards war-ravaged Baghdad. But Burns’ greatest dream – to become a war correspondent – quickly becomes his greatest nightmare. Everyone from his ratings-ravenous bosses, to a renegade squad of U.S. Army commandos, to a tech-savvy band of murderous jihadists all try to make him their pawn. But Burns has other ideas.”

*AudreLorde. Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference. Boston: McGraw Hill, 2005.

Okay so we all know that I have a tendency to go overboard when it comes to books. Whether it’s my library loot, buying binges, or signing up for reading challenges, it always seems to be all or nothing. My current reading pool for the read-a-thon encompasses almost every genre and ranges from a mere 32 pages for many of my picture books to almost 500 pages for Margo Lanagan’s Tender Morsels. Maybe instead of thinking of this stack as just my read-a-thon picks, we should also think of it as my October/November even possibly December reads.

Plays I started reading plays during last year’s read-a-thon. I found so many wonderful playwrights that I’ve started slowly reading as many as I can especially Pulitzer prize-winning plays. Plays are usually no more than a hundred pages long and contain memorable characters and great settings. For the upcoming read-a-thon, here are a few plays I plan on reading that won the Pulitzer for Drama.

I Am My Own Wife by Doug Wright. 2004 Pulitzer.
Wit by Margaret Edson. 1999 Pulitzer.
Angels in America by Tony Kushner. 1993 Pulitzer

not shown: August: Osage County by Tracy Letts.

Short Stories The great thing about reading short stories during the read-a-thon is that you can dip in and out of collections and still feel as though you’re accomplishing something.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie.
Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories by Sandra Cisneros. I read this collection years ago and I think it’s really time for a re-read.
Dedicate Edible Birds by Lauren Groff.

Graphic Novels

Britten and Brulightly by Hannah Berry.
Amulet 2: The Stonkeeper’s Curse by Kazu Kabuishi.
Maus by Art Spiegelman

Not shown: The Professor’s Daughter by Joann Sfar and Emmanuel Guibert

Fantasy

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle
Tigerheart by Peter David
The Strain by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan

Other Notables

Peter and Max: A Fables Novel by Bill Willingham
Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby
The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau
A Fine and Private Place by Peter S. Beagle
A Wish After Midnight by Zetta Elliot

Books not shown:

Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith
Tender Morsels by Margo Lanagan
B.P.R.D. series by Mike Mignola
Sprout by Dale Peck
Uglies by Scott Westerfield
The Year the Swallows Came Early by Kathryn Fitzmaurice
Little Brother by Cory Doctrow

You see how crazy I went? This is why I’m calling this pile my October-November-and-possibly-December pile. I have a ton of books on hold at the library that will be coming in sometime next week. I can’t wait for the read-a-thon to start but I’m not going to wait to start reading some of these great books.

Have you read any of these graet books? Which ones do you think I should save for the read-a-thon? Are there any that you think I should move to the top of the pile? Have you thought about what books you’re going to read for the big event?

Never read a graphic novel before? Haven’t read a comic book in years?

Here’s some brand new stuff that came out the week of September 30 that I think is worth a look-see for someone with little to no history with comics. That means you should be able to pick any of these up cold without having read anything else. So take a look and see if something doesn’t grab your fancy. If so, follow the publisher links or Amazon.com links to buy yourself a copy. Or, head to your local friendly comic book shop.

Disclaimer: For the most part, I have not read these yet, so I can’t vouch for their quality. But, from what I’ve heard and seen, odds are good they just might appeal to you.

Johnny Cash: I See A Darkness – $17.95
By Reinhard Kleist
224 pages; published by Abrams ComicArts; available at Amazon.com

The first and only illustrated biography of “The Man in Black”, Johnny Cash, the most famous country singer of all time.

Cash was a 17-time Grammy winner who sold more than 90 million albums in his lifetime and became an icon of American music in the 20th century. Graphic novelist Reinhard Kleist depicts Johnny Cash’s eventful life from his early sessions with Elvis Presley (1956), through the concert in Folsom Prison (1968), his spectacular comeback in the 1990s, and the final years before his death on September 12, 2003.

The author’s site has a preview (although the final lettering is missing). I love that image of Cash in the recording studio.

Logicomix: An Epic Search for Truth – $22.95
By Apostolos Doxiadis, Christos H. Papadimitriou & Alecos Papadatos
352 pages; published by Bloomsbury; available at Amazon.com

The innovative, dramatic graphic novel based on the life of the philosopher and mathematician Bertrand Russell.

This brilliantly illustrated tale of reason, insanity, love and truth recounts the story of Bertrand Russell’s life. Raised by his paternal grandparents, young Russell was never told the whereabouts of his parents. Driven by a desire for knowledge of his own history, he attempted to force the world to yield to his yearnings: for truth, clarity and resolve.

As he grew older, and increasingly sophisticated as a philosopher and mathematician, Russell strove to create an objective language with which to describe the world – one free of the biases and slippages of the written word. At the same time, he began courting his first wife, teasing her with riddles and leaning on her during the darker days, when his quest was bogged down by paradoxes, frustrations and the ghosts of his family’s secrets. Ultimately, he found considerable success – but his career was stalled when he was outmatched by an intellectual rival: his young, strident, brilliantly original student, Ludwig Wittgenstein.

An insightful and complexly layered narrative, Logicomix reveals both Russell’s inner struggle and the quest for the foundations of logic. Narration by an older, wiser Russell, as well as asides from the author himself, make sense of the story’s heady and powerful ideas. At its heart, Logicomix is a story about the conflict between pure reason and the persistent flaws of reality, a narrative populated by great and august thinkers, young lovers, ghosts and insanity.

The Amazon.com link above has previews and the Bloomsbury link above has three-part making-of video series on YouTube, but there’s also an excellent website at Logicomix.com with behind-the-scenes info, a preview trailer and lots of other info. This debuted at #1 on the New York Times Best Seller List and is getting excellent reviews.

Mickey Mouse & Friends #296 – $2.99
By Stefano Ambrosio & Lorenzo Pastrovicchio
32 pages; published by Boom! Kids

First BOOM! Kids issue! One of the longest-lived, most-successful comic book series in the industry’s history comes to BOOM! and brings a little magic — presenting Wizards of Mickey! Student of the great wizard Grandalf, Mickey Mouse hails from the humble village of Miceland. Allying himself with Donald Duck (who has a pet dragon named Fafnir) and team mate Goofy, Mickey’s come to the great tournament to get his revenge on Peg Leg Pete, who has stolen the Rain Crystal from Miceland! Join Mickey Mouse and his friends on an epic tale of magic and wonder! Join BOOM! Kids for a whole new epoch in Disney publishing!

Disney comic books have been missing from the market place for about a year now. This is an imported story, which has been a pretty standard practice for previous publishers of Disney comics. It was originally done in Italy but from the looks of this preview, the translation holds up pretty nicely.

High Moon Vol. 1 – $14.99
By David Gallaher & Steve Ellis
192 pages; published by DC Comics’ Zuda Comics; available at Amazon.com

The first winner of Zuda Comics’ monthly online competition, HIGH MOON is a horror adventure of cowboys and werewolves in the Old West. HIGH MOON begins with a gruff bounty hunter, Matthew Macgregor, investigating a series of strange happenings in the dusty town of Blest, Texas. While Macgregor seeks to uncover the town’s dark secrets, he tries desperately to keep his own hidden. 

The horrors of Blest ripple out to the mountainous town of Ragged Rock, Oklahoma, where another detective investigates a series of murders following a bizarre train robbery. Uncovering an age-old vendetta, this mysterious lawman is forced to do battle with a steam-driven monstrosity.

Macgregor’s tale concludes as a young woman’s dire call for assistance leads him through the Black Hills of South Dakota and into devastating battle between two warring factions. Macgregor must face down the United States government – only to discover a secret ritual that spells the destruction of the American frontier.

It’s such a relief when someone you personally know releases something, and you can be genuinely complimentary of what they’ve produced. While David Gallaher and I have “virtually” known each other for years, I’m happy to say that his web-comic holds up nicely as a thrilling horror/western mash-up. You can read it for yourself right here. And then there’s this production blog for good behind-the-scenes goodies.

Power & Glory – $19.99
By Howard Chaykin
128 pages; published by Dynamite Entertainment; available at Amazon.com

A crime fighter is genetically engineered to be a super-hero – but when the test goes awry and he doesn’t have the super-hero qualities needed, he has to be teamed up with a former CIA agent who is the brains behind the duo. One gets all the glory while one has all the power.

I’ve always thought that it was a bit weird that every super-hero just instantly has what it takes, mentally and emotionally, to actually be a superhero. I guess I’m not alone. Probably not one for the kiddies.

The Dynamite link above has a 9-page preview so you have a better idea of just what you’re getting into by entering one of Howard Chaykin’s worlds.

Prison Pit: Book One – $12.99
By Johnny Ryan
120 pages; published by Fantagraphics Books; available at Amazon.com

Prison Pit is an original graphic novel from the pen of Johnny Ryan, best known for his humor comic, Angry Youth Comix. Prison Pit represents a marked departure from AYC or his Blecky Yuckerella weekly comic strip, combining his love for WWE wrestling, Gary Panter’s “Jimbo” comics, and Kentaro Miura’s “Berserk” Manga into a brutal showcase of violence, survival and revenge. Imagine a blend of old-fashioned role playing fantasy games like Dungeons & Dragons crossed with contemporary adult video games like Grand Theft Auto, filtered through Ryan’s sense of humor.

The book begins with C.F. (his full-name would be too horrifying to reveal here) being thrown into the Prison Pit, a barren negative-zone populated by intergalactic, violent monster criminals. In this first volume, C.F. gets into a bloody slorge war (a slorge is a giant slug that excretes a steroid-like drug called “fecid” that all the monster men are addicted to) with ultraprisoner Rottweiler Herpes and his henchmen Rabies Bloodbath and Assrat. The ensuing bloodbath is an over-the-top, hyperviolent yet hilarious farce worthy of Ryan’s inspiration, Kentaro Miura.

If Howard Chaykin is too much for you, you’ll never be able to handle Johnny Ryan, who is maniacally funny in the absurdly over-the-top violence. Here’s a PDF file preview.

Ball Peen Hammer – $17.99
By Adam Rapp & George O’Connor
144 pages; published by First Second Books; available at Amazon.com

The world is dying.  After most of the city succumbed to the plague, Welton’s staying inside — permanently.  But hiding in his claustrophobic basement room — the only place he knows is safe — exacts a gruesome price, and he becomes part of a collective that’s killing children.  Infected with the plague himself, with no way to find the woman he loves, Welton takes refuge in apathy — until someone knocks on his door.

Ball Peen Hammer gives us a window into life in a half-deserted apartment building in a time of raw love, sacrifice, fear, and death.

This one is a bit more serious but also not for the weak at heart. Here’s a 13-page preview.

Refresh, Refresh – $17.99
By James Ponsoldt, Danica Novgorodoff & Benjamin Percy
144 pages; published by First Second Books; available at Amazon.com

Fathers, sons, and the war that comes between them.

There’s nothing Josh, Cody, and Gordon want more than their fathers home safely from the war in Iraq — unless it’s to get out of their dead-end town.  Refresh, Refresh is the story of three teenagers on the cusp of high school graduation and their struggle to make hard decisions with no role models to follow; to discover the possibilities for the future when all the doors are slamming in their faces; and to believe their fathers will come home alive so they can be boys again.

The above says enough to get me hooked. But for more, here’s an 11-page preview.

Trotsky: A Graphic Biography – $16.95
By Rick Geary
112 pages; published by Hill & Wang; available at Amazon.com

Trotsky was a hero to some, a ruthless demon to others. To Stalin, he was such a threat that he warranted murder by pickax. This polarizing figure set up a world conflict that lasted through the twentieth century, and in Trotsky: A Graphic Biography, the renowned comic artist Rick Geary uses his distinct style to depict the stark reality of the man and his times. Trotsky’s life becomes a guide to the creation of the Soviet Union, the horrors of World War I, and the establishment of international communism as he, Lenin, and their fellow Bolsheviks rise from persecution and a life underground to the height of political power. Ranging from his boyhood in the Ukraine to his fallout with Stalin and his moonlight romance with Frida Kahlo, Trotsky is a stunning look at one of the twentieth century’s most important thinkers and the far-reaching political trends that he launched.

Rick Geary does excellent work. Unfortunately I can’t find a preview but just imagine looking at something really impressive that compels you to buy it.

The Best American Comics 2009 – $22.00
Edited by Charles Burns
352 pages; published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; available at Amazon.com

Now in its fourth year, Best American Comics showcases the work of both established and up-and-coming contributers. Editor Charles Burns—cartoonist, illustrator, and official cover artist of the Believer—has culled the best stories from graphic novels, pamphlet comics, newspapers, magazines, mini-comics, and the web to create this cutting-edge collection. Featuring the work of such luminaries as Chris Ware, KAZ, and Robert Crumb, this volume is “a genuine salute to comics” (Houston Chronicle).

This is a highly acclaimed yearly anthology that provides a great sampling of the depth and art of comics. Here’s the book’s official site which has more information.

The Book of Genesis – $24.95
By R. Crumb
published by W.W. Norton; available at Amazon.com

From Creation to the death of Joseph, here are all 50 chapters of the Book of Genesis, revealingly illustrated as never before.

Envisioning the first book of the bible like no one before him, R. Crumb, the legendary illustrator, reveals here the story of Genesis in a profoundly honest and deeply moving way. Originally thinking that we would do a take off of Adam and Eve, Crumb became so fascinated by the Bible’s language, “a text so great and so strange that it lends itself readily to graphic depictions,” that he decided instead to do a literal interpretation using the text word for word in a version primarily assembled from the translations of Robert Alter and the King James bible.

Now, readers of every persuasion—Crumb fans, comic book lovers, and believers—can gain astonishing new insights from these harrowing, tragic, and even juicy stories. Crumb’s Book of Genesis reintroduces us to the bountiful tree lined garden of Adam and Eve, the massive ark of Noah with beasts of every kind, the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah destroyed by brimstone and fire that rained from the heavens, and the Egypt of the Pharaoh, where Joseph’s embalmed body is carried in a coffin, in a scene as elegiac as any in Genesis. Using clues from the text and peeling away the theological and scholarly interpretation that have often obscured the Bible’s most dramatic stories, Crumb fleshes out a parade of Biblical originals: from the serpent in Eden, the humanoid reptile appearing like an alien out of a science fiction movie, to Jacob, a “kind’ve depressed guy who doesn’t strike you as physically courageous,” and his bother, Esau, “a rough and kick ass guy,” to Abraham’s wife Sarah, more fetching than most woman at 90, to God himself, “a standard Charlton Heston-like figure with long white hair and a flowing beard.”

As Crumb writes in his introduction, “the stories of these people, the Hebrews, were something more than just stories. They were the foundation, the source, in writing of religious and political power, handed down by God himself.” Crumb’s Book of Genesis, the culmination of 5 years of painstaking work, is a tapestry of masterly detail and storytelling which celebrates the astonishing diversity of the one of our greatest artistic geniuses.

A surprisingly reverential and straight adaptation from one of comics’ most influential humorists. Here’s a preview of chapter 19.

Pretty big week for comics. Lots of good stuff to check out.

in my research studio class, my teacher wanted us to pick an artist and work based on their work.

my artist was Art Spiegelman who is amazing cartoonist and published this amazing graphic novel called Maus.

I read his work when I was 13 years old and I was really fascinated by his narrative story about holocaust.

our first assignment was pick one of his work and draw three images.

first one has to be coppy of his original work,

and second one has to be abstract one based on the first one,

and third one has to be non-representative work.

so.. I picked the cover of Maus 2nd vol.

and copied it.. but not really.

I drew this more like a realistic because I did not want to just copy the cartoonic version of drawing

abstract one.

non-representative work.

one thing about this one is this piece went back to beginning and did not continued from the abstract one.

I should have made this piece more cubism and avoid drawing straight lines to make my works perfect for the assignments.. .

from FYP Research Studio

]]> http://jasonlikes.wordpress.com/2009/10/03/comic-books-not-just-for-adults-anymore/ Sun, 04 Oct 2009 02:00:20 +0000 jasonleesmith http://jasonlikes.wordpress.com/2009/10/03/comic-books-not-just-for-adults-anymore/

I just go finished reading the AMAZING book, “Classic Children’s Comics.” Its a huge volume of old children’s comics, edited by none other than Art Spiegelman. If you’re not familiar with Spiegelman’s work, he wrote “Maus,” a comic about his family’s experiences during the Holocaust, and one of the first comic books to ever gather serious critical acclaim.

Spiegelman is something of a comic book historian, and in “Classic Children’s Comics,” he, and many other leaders in the industry, choose their favorite children’s comics from their youth, and they are presented in anthology form.

It is truly a wonder to behold. The comics they have chosen hold up incredibly well, and are as fresh and entertaining as I’m sure they were when they were published. I am reprinting an illustration from it below. It is by Sheldon Mayer, an incredibly prolific comic creator, who was responsible for many of the “funny animal” comics which DC produced in the 40s and 50s.

This comic appeared on the racks for a couple of months, and then any that were left unsold were pulped. No one probably gave it a second glance. Really, though, its a minor masterpiece. The way the huge moon frames the scene. The great sense of contrast between the moon and the dark night sky, really grabs your attention. Even the details like the baby birds in the nest registering surprise, and the random assortment of “ye olde cartoon car parts” scattered on the hill. Just a minor work. One of many that Mayer probably worked on that month, but he really hit it out of the park.

Great book, great illustration!

Historieta genial bastante antigua. Al parecer ha aparecido un nuevo libro editado por Art Spiegelman y Françoise Mouly que reúne en una nueva reedición de esta y muchas más historietas de años atrás. Lleva por título “Toon Treasury of Classic Children’s Comics”. Dudo que sea sencillo encontrárselo por ahi, pero en fin, who knows…

Imagen obtenida del blog Ciudadano Pop

Silent Pictures
Through October 11, 2009

“Silent Pictures” is inspired by artist Art Spiegelman’s collection of wordless books – mostly black and white artist books from the 1930s. The exhibition features these books, as well as more recent “abstract comics,” and a related film program, which investigates essential qualities and aesthetics of this hugely popular medium.

The abstract comics, compiled by Andrei Molotiu for Abstract Comics, Fantagraphics Books, 2009, call attention to formal mechanisms that underlie all comics. Where the earlier art collected by Spiegelman retains a narrative thrust, the comics gathered by Molotiu emphasize dynamic graphics that lead the eye and mind from panel to panel, suggesting that these structural elements are fundamental to the emotional register of the medium.

The exhibition includes a wall drawing by Renee French, an animation by Rachel Cattle and Steve Richards, and a project for the Fifth Avenue lobby windows by Gail Fitzgerald and Carl Ostendarp. “Comic-Film-Strips,” a related film program featuring mostly wordless, animated, historic films, is curated by Columbia University art historian Noam Elcott.

Book Signing

Thursday September 10, 5–6 PM
Jim Hanley’s Universe, 4 West 33rd Street, New York, NY
Editor Andrei Molotiu and some of the contributing artists will sign copies of Abstract Comics: The Anthology.

Curator Walk-through

Friday September 11, 6 PM
With Andrei Molotiu

Abstract Comics: A Panel Discussion

Saturday September 12, 4 PM
Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art
594 Broadway, Suite 401, New York

Comic-Film-Strips: Noam Elcott in Conversation

Friday September 25, 6–7:30 PM
The Graduate Center Skylight Lounge (9th Floor)
Art historian Noam Elcott will discuss the exhibition’s animated film program, which he curated as part of the “Silent Pictures” exhibition, in the context of twentieth-century avant-garde cinema.