When the graphic novel format was let out of the bag (helped along by the first major (1985) article on Art Spiegelman’s Maus in The New York Times Book Review), it did not take long for a robust commercial industry to arise around it, as well as an industry within an industry—graphic biography and autobiography.
The six books below are just a few recent fiction and nonfiction projects that have captured my interest over the past few months. There are others … but too many books and too little time to appreciate them as they deserve.
Reading Brian Blomerth’s Lilly Wave (Anthology Editions) was something of a flashback for me. I did not know Blomerth’s work and was unaware of John Cunningham Lilly, a leading psychedelic researcher from the 1950s through the ’70s. But the explosive power and the hallucinatory essence of the art and narrative presented by Blomerth was not lost on this child of the ’60s. Lilly Wave is a biographical deep dive into Lilly’s life and covers the generational shift from his scientific neurological research to the mind-expanding visionary (and recreational) impact of psychedelics on a battalion of inner-mind-out-of-body explorers.
Although I was not able to maintain enough energy to absorb the entire Blomerth experience, I am extremely impressed by his own graphic stamina and narrative gymnastics. What I was able to follow gave me new insights into a dimension of neuro-pathological discovery that has united popular culture and serious science.
This was produced for an audience that can better appreciate the cognitive anomalies that are described. I’m of the old prude school. Never having taken acid or psychedelics of any kind, I have nothing to base my opinions on, but I was turned on by Victor Moscoso’s ZAP comics. Blomerth’s work is possibly the next level to the fantastic work that Moscoso and his cohort of psychedelic artists invented in the ’60s.
The graphic novel and zine genres, like the underground comix that preceded them, have grown with incredible speed and brilliant imaginative power. The titles themselves have also evolved beyond familiar formats into the realm of more precious artist books. Raw Sewage Science Fiction (Drawn & Quarterly) by Marc Bell, another artist (and designer) previously unknown to me, has pieced together from eccentric self-published and small press booklets a distinctly eclectic mix of sci-fi, hi-brut, low-art manifestations. He draws as he writes, with an eye and ear toward the past and future of his personal realm of the absurd. The book feels in design and physical presence as though a diary/scrapbook/catalog of personal graphic tropes, which on the surface seem anarchic but are nonetheless very deliberate.
I wonder whether there is any symbolism in the large “RAW” on the cover. There is a certain suggestion of the original RAW magazine, famous for its band of first-generation experimental comix artists. And I don’t mean that this is derivative, but rather just as exciting.
Like Blomerth’s book, this is a feast that will go half-consumed, but I will keep it by my nightstand for those periods of increased insomnia when I wish I were able to create my own Raw Sewage.
The cover of Edward Steed’s Forces of Nature (Drawn & Quarterly) is as curiously ornamented as it is decoratively appealing. It reminds me a little of Edward Gorey’s eerily, ironically, comically neo-gothic/Victorian short tales (even Steed’s title page resembles lettering done by Gorey). But this work is not fashioned in Gorey’s contiguous narrative manner. Steed is a “gag” cartoonist of decidedly refreshing humor; he is skilled with the single-panel captioned joke—the mainstay of The New Yorker, where his comedy often appears.
Steed’s drawing line is loose and expressive, simple and inherently hilarious. Combine that with his absurd captions and he excels at making commonplace situations ridiculous. Take the cartoon directly below: The fireman on the ladder is calmly explaining to the woman he’s about to rescue from a burning apartment that the hook and ladder lying on its side below, next to two bodies, “hardly ever” tips over.
Steed’s wordless humor is just as precise. With his few scrunchy lines he evokes an emotional satisfaction that few gag artists achieve so consistently. He may not be that other Edward, but Steed has similar witty deviousness and, from what I can assume, a lot of fun doing it.
Distant Ruptures by CF (aka Christopher Forgues), edited by Sammy Harkham (New York Review Books), is another welcome discovery. CF’s most-known book, Powr Mastrs, is glowingly referred to by the publisher as genre-defying punk. After spending time with Distant Ruptures, I agree with the assessment … but I can’t quite get a Gary Panter deja vu out of my head. I know that CF’s comic world is different and his ecosystem of characters and creatures profoundly varies, but the spirit is a nagging reference to Panter’s variegated view.
Distant Ruptures is a collection of rough sketches and notes. Of most interest are the unfinished strips, like “Hearing Loss,” “Wolf Problem” and “Sex Comic,” which live as one-offs of ideas that CF appears to be trying out. I’m also seduced by the simple complexity of “Wizard Acorn,” and where this storyline is headed.
Like Raw Sewage, Distant Ruptures fits well into the comic/art book genre outgrowth of the zine scene and is well worth delving into further.
I am forced to admit that my ignorance of Japanese comics is woefully extensive. I’ve read some manga books and have obtained a few wartime collections. But I’m currently reading as much as possible to catch up—a goal that eludes me as time speeds by. Oba Electroplating Factory by Yoshiharu Tsuge (Drawn & Quarterly) is one book that I had previously put aside, believing from a superficial once-over that it was a lesser Gary Panter. I was dead wrong.
I’ve since learned that Ysuge is a pioneer of the form, from his first comics in the mid 1950s through to his opus entry into surrealism with Nejishiki. Oba was published in 1973, and it was the first time he created manga that, per editor Ryan Holmberg’s introduction, “aspired to a realistic representation of his personal past”—a bleak one, indeed, having grown up after the war in the midst of American occupation.
It is always enlightening to see what cultural traits influence comics, and my mistaken attribution to Panter was admittedly me looking out when I should have looked into the window of Oba Electroplating Factory.
Although not a comic, this small book is, in a delightfully inspiring interview-style format, the voice of one of my favorite illustrators/comics artists. Q & A (Drawn & Quarterly) by Adrian Tomine is an ersatz memoir constructed using questions from fans that he has dutifully answered during free time on Sundays. He writes in the introduction: “From 1995 to 2015, I published what I considered the most interesting of the incoming mail in each issue of my comic book series Optic Nerve, but also made an effort to respond to people directly, usually with a handwritten postcard.”
Times have changed. Tomine “might not do so again,” so this book is a substitution. In it he has selected some FAQs about technique and technical issues but keeps things lively with answers to queries on how to pronounce his name to such questions as, “Do you ever do sketches for fans?” (His answer: “I’m terrible at off-the-cuff drawing, especially while people are watching, but I’m happy to do a little unimpressive sketch for anyone at a book signing event.”)
The book is like being at just such an event. It is a comfortable pocket-sized volume, generously illustrated with sketches, progressives and finishes, and is a pleasant read for those boring rides on the Metro North after the end of Daylight Savings Time.
