Underground Comix and Robert Crumb

When the Comics Code Authority came into play during the 1950s, the possibilities for artistic expression through the graphic medium quickly became stilted.  Authors and artists wishing to depict more than what the CCA would allow began to self-publish their work, creating an underground form of the comic book that would eventually be referred to by the moniker of “Comix.”

Comix came into the world during the period of the Vietnam War: a time of social upheaval back home in the US, caused by an increasing dissonance in values and ideals in its populace.  This clashing of values is easily seen in Comix like Whiteman (and a number of R. Crumb’s other works, including the animation, Fritz the Cat), and progressively glimpsed more and more in Howard Cruse’s Barefootz.

My first encounter with R. Crumb was when his illustrated version of the Book of Genesis came out in 2009, and WMagazine rolled out an article featuring his work; I didn’t his work appealing then, and still grasp at straws attempting to find something I genuinely enjoy about it now.  Crumb’s ink work has an intentionally heavy-handed feel that I never really took to, and his particular portrayal of most women – thick thighed, thick legged, “balloon-busted” figures – is, personally, offensive in its invocation of the image of a blow-up doll (meanwhile, males in the spotlight may take on licentious tendencies and engage in often drug-induced buffoonery).

Focusing more on the content of the works read this week (again, primarily on Whiteman, although this analysis is still applicable to parts of Barefootz), Comix seemed to take the freedom they could of being self-published, and ran with it, often heavily relying on shock value (the influence of the free-love Hippie culture and heavy use of psychedelics is also evident).  Sex, drugs, and violence interplay throughout the body of Comix in varying levels (Whiteman focuses more on the sex, Barefootz tends to play more with drugs and sex when dealing with any of the aforementioned), to the degree that they actually begin to lose their shock value and become moot point.

I will fully own up to the fact that I enjoyed some of the Comix discussed, to a small degree.  But I believe part of the disconnect being experienced can be found in the generation gap: these comics were published during a time when there were intense social and political disturbances occurring in the nation – the hippie culture was surfacing alongside the later half of the Civil Rights movement, while young men were being shipped off and [hopefully] returning from the Vietnam War, for better or worse from their experiences overseas.  Comix were contemporary during this time, and, depending on which ones read, addressed or even satired issues that would have been relevant for the time of their publication.  Essentially fifty years later, Generation Y – my generation – has not really experienced the same things they would have back in the 60s and 70s.  With the flattening of the world through the ‘net, the idea of a great, cultural upheaval seems to diminish (as far as I can tell, we don’t even have a distinctive type of music to attribute to Generation Y, unlike previous generations).  There hasn’t really been a great rebellion, be it against parents, society, or the government.  Generations Y and onward seem almost placated by technology and the cultural saturation being experienced, which makes it difficult to relate to such Comix published during a time when discontent ran rife through the hearts of generational contemporaries.  

Blankets by Craig Thompson

            Blankets is one of those books you see sitting amidst shelves and shelves of books and just have to pick up to have a look; sophomore year this was exactly what happened, but unfortunately I only ever skimmed over the contents of the book.  Blankets encompasses a number of themes, from spirituality to first love to simply dealing with the high school experience, but at it’s heart, to me it seemed like a coming of age story: gaining new experiences, finding yourself, and finding some semblance of peace with who you are and the world you’ve chosen to reside in.

            The main character and author, Craig, shows us his discontent with his world early on in the novel: from an early age, he retreated into dreams and the fantastical in order to escape a world where he could not hope to have a say against authority (both parental and spiritual authority), could not fit in with most of his peers (and was in fact bullied), and could only fleeting find a few moments of peace.

            From a technical standpoint, Eisner’s influence on Craig’s inkwork is clearly evident, although more polished and refined quite beautifully (I’m a sucker for good ink work), although the idea of spiritual contemplation and relationship between man and his god cannot go without comparisons also being drawn to Contract with God.  Craig’s ability to seamlessly meld his drawing style with more abstract visuals is striking when used, and only serves to further compliment the point the author is trying to make.

            On one last note, I found the comments made by one of the teacher characters to be simultaneously entertaining and rage-inducing: during a bible study class, Craig inquires if he can praise God with his drawings instead of having to sing [specifically while in heaven], as the instructor stated that “…our new lives in heaven will be devoted to praising and worshipping god…” by singing and exclaiming His name.  In response to his question, she essentially brushes young Craig aside, asking how drawings will praise God, when God has “already drawn [His creations] for us.”  The irony and ignorance of this answer isn’t immediately brought up, but the fact she neglects to remember the staggering amount of religious artwork in existence is hilarious (the fact that Christianity relied heavily on images to spread its faith throughout illiterate Europe during the Medieval Era and the centuries surrounding it makes this comment ever more bitterly funny).

A Contract with God by Will Eisner

            A Contract with God is a heavy examination of spirituality by Will Eisner, created through a series of short stories surrounding different characters residing in the same tenement building.  The work examines the faith of both the young and old, and how their experiences  (or their lack thereof) throughout life have shaped their spiritual connection to God.  These stories could have been taken from life: there are not always happy endings, and the bad guy doesn’t always get his just desserts (in fact, by the end of the last story, a man on vacation during the summer rapes a woman he was attempting to seduce under the pretense of her being rich [she wasn’t], leaves her where he raped her, and then proceeds to find another woman with money and seems to successfully wrapped her around his little finger).

            Although each short story gives an intimate look at the lives of each of its central characters, Eisner does allow himself to step back and pose some greater questions: one of the more important ones, presented in the first short story, asks, “Is not all religion a contract between man – and God?”  Given the main character’s actions towards inspiring such a question to be presented, Eisner plays with the different ways people practice their religion and express their spirituality.  Some are more literal and physical, like in the first story and a subsequent story later on, while others are intangible more mutable.

            Something I found appealing about his work in A Contract with God was the fact these characters were not beautified in any way: they could have been anyone, anywhere, in any tenement housing establishment (or to simplify it, any city).  These characters have the potential to be real, thanks to the genuine approach Eisner takes in designing and drawing them, and forcing them to bare all of their emotoins.  The way he plays with the layout of the novel makes it flow almost like a film, from one scene to the next, instead of a comic.  The emotions of each character are clear and concise, and his mastery of wordless expression is evidence for why he is one of the great American comic creators.

Tintin and Carl Barks

            I grew up with Tintin, albeit on the television screen and not the pages of a comic strip.  One of the primary things that I found appealing in the character of Tintin was that he’s essentially an everyman: his personality is idealistic and toward the heroic bent, but it’s not overbearing or obnoxious (in fact, it’s almost bland – the main thing I remember about Tintin is that he never seemed to exhibit any extremes within the emotional spectrum); as far as I’m aware, outside of his history represented through his previous comic adventures, he has no history, nor any family; and his character is simplistic/iconic enough that readers can easily associate with him and practically be him, as Scott McCloud discussed in Understanding Comics.  I’m even unsure about his age.  Due to these aspects, Tintin is a character easy to relate to, but also simultaneously easy to forget – while his adventures, and the characters he encounters are memorable, the features that make the character Tintin, well, Tintin, are not, sacrificing the potential for distinctive personality traits in favor of becoming an avatar for the reader to inhabit.

Tintin shows its age a bit through some of the racial stereotypes (although from what I read, this was not done so out of malice) as well as its dialogue, predominantly through Captain Haddock and his, ahem, unique method of expressing his frustration with a situation at length (a combination of “Billions of blazing blundering blue blistering barnacles!“ and “Ten thousand thundering typhoons!” among his more popular exclamations); however, this does little to take away from Tintin’s adventures (if at all, honestly), and younger readers may even find such verbal tics highly entertaining.

Stylistically speaking, I really enjoy Hergé’s work: the characters are iconic in their design and simplicity, and the more detailed and obviously researched locations enhance the idea of Tintin’s worldliness and the care that went into the comic’s creation.

Similar things can be said of Carl Barks’ work on his Donald Duck and Scrooge McDuck titles, or as a whole, the Duckberg comics.  The simplicity of the characters are emphasized and complimented through slightly more detailed backgrounds, and I absolutely love his ink work. The world building that also went into the different series taking place throughout this particular universe is also particularly incredible for its time, and was taken advantage of later on in the 90s by spinning the ideas in the comic into a cartoon version of DuckTales.

Krazy Kat, Little Nemo, and Comic Strips

            I had a look at some of the old Little Nemo and Krazy Kat strips for this week’s reading.  Thanks to History of Illustration sophomore year, I was familiar with Winsor McCay’s work like Little Nemo, as well as the animated shorts he created, but had never really considered looking at George Herriman’s Krazy Kat because of the simplistic art style (which was poor judgment on my end).

            The experimental nature of Little Nemo makes up a large part of why I enjoyed reading it: McCay was traipsing through somewhat unknown territory during this time, most notably playing with panel sizes and layouts (and his struggle with leaving enough space in his speech balloons for all the necessary dialogue is always entertaining).  I emphasize his panel and layout experimentation the most due to my love of two more sequences, The Walking Bed and Befuddle Hall (especially the latter).  You can really tell McCay was enjoying himself just playing around with a simple aspect most artists in the same field overlooked during that time, along with some of the techniques he would later utilize when creating some of his animations.

            I was surprised that, after being given a volume to read during class, I wound up really enjoying Krazy Kat as well.  Admittedly, the thick accent of the titular character is a bit hard to read at times, but the story itself provides entertainment for a large range of ages, and for some reason I was very fond of the feud between the baker and the brick maker and the results from using their own wares as ammunition during their fight.  As a whole, Krazy Kat had a very slapstick sense of humor that probably later influenced cartoons like Tom and Jerry, Itchy and Scratchy (from the Simpsons), and a good portion of the body of work created by Tex Avery (particularly Looney Toons).  It was actually quite refreshing to read, due to both the light-heartedness of the strip’s writing and it’s simplistic style: the images are clear and concise, and the dialogue gets the point across without being  too heavy or too simplistic in its form.