Throwing the Book at Cartoonists …

                              Throwing the Book at Cartoonists



                "I respect the hell out of cartoonists, because they have to be good at two entirely

        different art forms, each of which takes a lifetime to master."



                                                                    -Novelist Myla Goldberg



        In the world of alternative comics almost everyone is an auteur, who both writes

and draws his or her work, and most of those people come from backgrounds in art. It's a

much more plausible scenario for a student at the School of Visual Arts to pick up a copy

of Optic Nerve and start thinking about the possibilities of comics as an art form than it is

for anyone to drop out of the Iowa Writer's Workshop after reading V for Vendetta,

shaking his fist and saying, "Fuck this literary bullshit--I'm gonna be a cartoonist!"

Maybe this is just because everybody in the world likes to think he could write if he just

gave it a try, whereas pretty much anyone can tell you at a glance whether or not you can

draw. Or it may have to do with status; it is still much less prestigious to write comic

books than to write short stories or novels, mostly because your career choices as a writer

of comics are to write either 1.) stories you'll probably have to publish yourself that no

one but your friends will ever read or 2.) stories about Thor. Perhaps for this reason, the

writing in comics is still subjected to far less stringent critical scrutiny than the art, even

though it is the more indispensable element of the work. Ultimately comics are a

narrative art; a great story with inadequate illustrations can still be considered a flawed
masterpiece, but a bad story beautifully illustrated is a waste of everyone's time and

talents.



           Of course drawing is essential to a good comic, but "drawing" in comics doesn't

necessarily mean naturalistic rendering. The fetishistic admiration for competent drawing

among fans and critics--"chops"--has blinded a lot of them to real artistry. Thus Frank

Cho can be considered a "better" artist than, say, Tom Hart or Sam Henderson simply

because he is technically the more accomplished draftsman. But look at Tom Hart's

blobby little guys, full of rage and pathos, or Henderson's spastic, pop-eyed figures

flailing their wiggly arms in hysteria or exasperation. Contrast these characters, imbued

with such personality and life, to Cho's exquisitely rendered women, gorgeous as

centerfolds, expressionless and empty-eyed, cartoon Olympias without humor or

character. This fixation on "drawing" is a little as though the New York Times Book

Review was praising authors' faultless spelling and grammar. Which is not to say that

crude drawing is by definition better than polished; there is a difference between

unconventionality and incompetence (although artists in all media strive to disguise the

latter as the former). Roberta Gregory's drawings are crude because they're

expressionistic, the whiplash scrawls of crude emotions like humiliation, bitterness, and

lust; Aline Kominsky-Crumb's drawings are crude because that's the best she can do.



           The standards for writing in comics, on the other hand, are far lower than in the

mainstream literary world. Comics authors are too often rewarded with critical acclaim as

much for their ambitions as for their achievements, congratulated just for trying to
produce "serious" work--even if that work is the kind of clichéd, derivative fiction,

abstruse academic exercise, or warmed-over journal material that would get more or less

diplomatically beaten out of apprentice fictionists in any undergraduate writing

workshop. Adrian Tomine is an excellent cartoonist, but if he were working in prose

instead of panels he would be regarded as a minor minimalist, a footnote to that trend's

vogue twenty years ago. Craig Thompson's Blankets, much overpraised on its release, is

an unexceptional bildungsroman with narration that seems transcribed verbatim from

high-school journals. Many of Harvey Pekar's stories are not true stories but the sorts of

anecdotes, observations, and snippets of dialogue that a writer might jot down in his

notebook for later use in finished work. And there are a surprising number of cartoonists

who seem ignorant of basic, Comp-101 lessons that ought to be second nature to anyone

who writes for a living--Show, Don't Tell, Omit Needless Words, the rules of

Aristotlean dramaturgy. Chester Brown, one of the best writers in comics, during a period

of artistic floundering between the Ed and Playboy stories, inexcusably foisted off on his

readers a story about the writing of his last story, a lameassed metafictional dodge that

many a novice has tried and failed to get away with. He simply didn't know any better.

Seth once drew a great short story about coming across an electronic birthday card still

tinnily signing "Happy Birthday" from inside a garbage bag on the street, but ruined it

and insulted his readers by explaining, "It was both hilarious and poignant." Wow!

You're right! Gosh, thanks, Mr. Sensitive Artist dude!



       Of course it's not fair to talk about "writing" in comics only in terms of

storytelling, dialogue, or prose style; writing in comics is more than a matter of words.
It's easy to show that Alan Moore or Lynda Barry are great writers simply by quoting

their prose, but less easy to explain why Jason or Brian Ralph, whose comics are

wordless, are too. (Although, interestingly, even Rorschach's or Maybonne's monologues

look too fulsome printed out on the page, divorced from their accompanying illustrations.

The catalytic effect of imagery on text seems to be similar to that of music, which can

make song lyrics that would look trite on paper pierce the heart or soar.) Decisions like

composition, panel size, and pacing all constitute the "writing" of a comic; Alan Moore's

match cuts and Chris Ware's excruciating longueurs are as integral to their work as the

jarring metaphors and wildly varying tone of postmodern literature. And there are some

things that can be more deftly and beautifully done in comics than in any other medium.

In John Porcellino's Perfect Example (arguably the best novel about adolescence ever

written, period) the main character goes into the garage to get out the lawn mower, where

the words "garage smell," hang in the air, evocative of a long paragraph's worth of

subtle, nostalgic odors. The elegance of this takes my breath away.



       Nonetheless, at the risk of sounding like a snobby smartypants, I'll insist that

comic writers still need to learn the craft of writing and immerse themselves in book

books as well as comic books. An education in writing and the liberal arts is not just a

bonus, good for getting literary references and recognizing artistic allusions. It's not

really necessary to know that Dr. Manhattan's perception of time in Watchmen is similar

to Billy Pilgrim's in Slaughterhouse-Five, or that Page 14 of the first issue of Ivan

Brunetti's Schizo is an updating of "Suburb" from Georg Grosz's Ecce Homo; this is

really no more than a game of Bachelor-of-Arts Trivia. The point is to have read enough
to know the difference between good writing and bad, and to know enough about art,

philosophy, history, religion, politics, psychology, biology--in short, about the

world--that you to have something to say. Walter Bagehot wrote that "the reason why so

few good books are written is that so few people who can write know anything." Hence

the disproportionate number of comic books about twentysomething slackers with

troubled relationships as opposed to the number about, say, Palestine, Weimar Berlin, or

Louis Riel. This is not to advocate that anyone who writes comics should hit their parents

up for $100,000 to buy an English degree.1 But if comics are ever going to be taken

seriously as a literary medium, comic book writers ought to know Dickens as least as

well as they do Ditko, just as comic artists should study Gray's anatomy as well as

Kirby's.



         Of course once you've mastered all the technical aspects of your craft, there still

remains the larger problem of becoming an artist, someone whose perceptions are

truthful and interesting and worth sharing. In his academic novel Straight Man, Rick

Russo speaks a taboo truth known to anyone who's ever been in a writing workshop:

"very often the flaws in a story are directly traceable to flaws in the author." Joe Matt's

issue of Peepshow about making a porn video mix tape isn't embarrassing because it's

about making a porn video mix tape; it's embarrassing because he shows no insight into

his own behavior--he simply records the process as obsessively as he mixes the tape.

(The most revealing moment in the issue is when Joe fawns over his cat, who flees, and

his cloying affection turns to petulant anger.) A story can be worth reading even if its


1
  I went to a prestigious writing program and its main benefit was that, almost twenty years later, some of
the people I met there will still pick me up at the airport.
protagonist fails to learn anything, but not if its author does. At best, this kind of story

can be a diagnosis; at its worst, it's only a symptom. The same painful truth applies to

any other art, including drawing: it's evident from Frank Cho's art that he's looked at a

lot of girls, but it seems equally clear that he's never really seen one. This is more than an

artistic failure. Some rare ones among us, like John Porcellino, seem to be born artists,

with keener eyes or more sensitive nerve endings than the rest of us, but most of us have

to become artists the hard way, through what we witness and suffer and learn. "I can help

you learn to reveal your soul through your voice," Megan Kelso's singing instructor once

told her, "but I can't guarantee that you have a soul worth revealing."