Humanoid Boogie
Robotic Performances at the Venice Biennial
by Philip Auslander

AVANT-GARDE AND COMICS

Serious Cartooning

by M. Todd Hignite

A great deal of attention has been given recently to contemporary American comic book art, and thankfully it no longer seems necessary to qualify a discussion of the medium with the disclaimer that one is not merely speaking of a marketing trend (Îgritty realismâ) for the superhero set. Regardless of sociological justifications, escapist superhero fare today constitutes the least interesting genre from any time period in the mediumâs history. Previously described Îalternativeâ works are rightly the only comics even looked at by anyone other than cultural studies academics explicating the cultural myths of super-slugfests, uncritically nostalgic profiteering baby boomers, and 12-year-old boys. The newfound visibility of artistic-minded comics is mainly due to the expansion of the medium outside its slim pamphlet confines, specifically by way of the numerous book form collections that have begun to appear from American comic publisher Fantagraphics, Canadaâs Drawn and Quarterly, and Pantheon Books, which has made a commitment to reprinting serialized contemporary works and publishing crisply designed historical studies. As a result, works previously ignored by the mainstream press and scholarly art and literary publications are now immediately more palatable: no matter the content, lushly produced hardcover books are much easier to digest for those not in the know than the perpetually stigmatized comic book.

Charles Burns, ãBlack Holeä from Black Hole #5, 1998, ink on paper (photo courtesy Fantagraphics).

Coinciding with the mediumâs hardcover respectability are some of the most conceptually ambitious and formally impressive works of the last 30 years, and the corresponding accolades have been rolling in. Joe Sacco, whose most recent volume of Îcomic-strip journalismâ is titled Safe Area Gorazde: The War in Eastern Bosnia 1992-1995, won a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship; cartoonist Ben Katchor was awarded a MacArthur Genius Grant; and Chris Ware, critically acclaimed within the comic community for the last decade, has recently garnered widespread critical and popular attention and been nominated for numerous prestigious literary awards for his recent collection Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid on Earth. The film Ghost World, adapted by cartoonist Daniel Clowes and director Terry Zwigoff from Clowesâ serialized comic of the same name from the pages of his series Eightball, met with universally rave reviews. Articles on the new golden age of comic art tend to focus on a select few artists, not necessarily because of superior artistic achievement, but rather because of this increased accessibility, both in terms of name recognition and availability in chain bookstores. Of course, the recent embrace can only be considered positive (although unfortunately superficial in many instances) in terms of acknowledgment as an art form. As cartoonist Jaime Hernandez, who, along with his brothers Gilbert and (occasionally) Mario, has been producing the essential Love and Rockets on and off for 20 years, states, ãWe need all the help we can get.ä Yet it seems the attention has not altered deeply ingrained attitudes about the modest form itself, which has remained basically unchanged since its inception in the 1930s, nor attracted many serious minded aesthetes to the wide-ranging comic book, which as a medium has had the historical freedom of flying ãbeneath the critical radar.ä This is unfortunate, as the slim booklet with brightly colored covers most effectively exemplifies the unique characteristics of the form, displaying a total integration of design and endlessly varied content. As Clowes, ever the contrarian, states: ãI think that the average reader is far more open to a well-designed book than to a standard comic book. The comic book format is really out-dated and makes almost no sense anymore as a consumer item. The cost of printing a comic is more than the cost of producing a CD, but the cover price must be kept so low that profit is nearly impossible. Most people would be willing to read Jimmy Corrigan or Maus [the 1992 Pulitzer Prize winning collection by Art Spiegelman] on a subway, but very few would feel comfortable reading a standard comic book pamphlet. For these and many other more personal reasons, I prefer the comic pamphlet.ä

In addition to collected works, comic art is also becoming an increasing presence in the art museum and gallery arena, and not necessarily for the better. Comics are a sequential language, employing complex narrative structures that tinker with the conventions of the medium, and are undeniably altered when taken out of this narrative context to function as a singular art object. As Clowes puts it, ãI usually agree to put my work in galleries only with the intent of either selling it, or drawing the attention of affluent art-patron types to our humble ghetto.ä While original pages are informative of process (and enormously satisfying aesthetically), the conception of most museum exhibitions is suspect at best. The 1980s saw a progression of shows that, while paying lip service to breaking down a Greenbergian hierarchy of acceptable art forms by graciously admitting comics to their hallowed halls, paradoxically reinforced such a schism by presenting comic strip and book art as merely source material awaiting high art molding, which would alchemically transform into Îartâ worthy of merit.1 This process of transformation was fully manifested in ãComic Iconoclasm,ä organized by the Institute of Contemporary Art, London, 1987 and, of course, in the Museum of Modern Artâs much derided ãHigh & Low: Modern Art and Popular Culture,ä 1991. While not an invalid approach to painting, such hierarchical classification is intentionally myopic in terms of comic art, and at this point, laughably obsolete.2 ãMisfit Lit,ä 1991, curated by Fantagraphics publisher Gary Groth and solely comprising comic art, attempted to remedy this gradual ossification. However, this outdated view puzzlingly continues to pervade the institution-as witnessed by ãBizarro World! The Parallel Universes of Comics & Fine Artä at the Cornell Fine Arts Museum, Rollins College, 2000, an exhibition that treated comics as a Îparallelâ rather than subservient medium. Gallery exhibitions, less restricted by such cause and effect dialectics, have been more interesting and ambitious, with a number of artists such as Gary Panter exploring the language in several media. However, most artists are committed to mining the specific rewards of the comic medium. As Hernandez states: ãA gallery showing is more of an afterthought for my work. I would draw much larger if it was the opposite.ä The medium is particularly craft-oriented (with no gimmickry, technological or otherwise, displaying a decided lack of pretension) and plays on a dialogue between an inbred fetishization of glossy collectible and the comicsâ disposable origins. Comic art must be discussed as an egalitarian form that, due to its marginalized

history, is, if not hostile to, certainly aloof from the audience and concerns of corporate gallery art3, and defined by vastly different characteristics due to its reproductive nature and modes of distribution: justification as Îartâ is exactly the wrong approach.4 Such reluctance in America to navigate comics is not at all the case globally. Europe and Japan, for example, acknowledge cartoonists both critically and popularly.

So what are the unique achievements within this medium, the goals of cartoonists attempting to elevate the form? A good deal of writing on comic art remains bogged down in academic and theoretical mire or tends toward the merely celebratory. Comic art conveys an expansive, layered visual story that uses a wide array of formal devices to advance (however discursively) a singular narrative viewpoint. The form is marked by a continual experimentation, but rarely for its own sake. As Clowes points out in his Modern Cartoonist chapbook, comics are spiked with immediate visceral unconscious nostalgia for the formative period of childhood when one first experienced the language; an inherent self-referentiality combines with formal experimentation and narrative disruption: content and form are deftly intertwined. Contemporary comicsâ use of figurative imagery and narrative devices are the most sophisticated of any medium, and their predominant sympathy with the plight of the downtrodden outcast reveals an allegiance reflected in the stature of the medium itself. The comic format is unbound by constraints of Îpurityâ or propriety; rather they are all-encompassing in terms of style (from the ragged to the precious) and subject matter. Of course, many artists stand by dismantling storytelling and iconographic, and such cannibalistic tendencies are ever-present subterranean undercurrents.

The formâs 105 year history, noteworthy for its heritage of commercially driven trashiness (and admittedly plagued with a past largely comprising hackwork) is also undeniably rich with individual achievement. While artists created a good deal of highly inventive artwork and iconic imagery in early comic books, much of the work is far more interesting from a biographical/social historical point of view: the industrial conditions of the assembly line, or Îshopâ system, gave rise to a disjointed surrealism, whereby formulaic action tales marketed for children masked bizarre nightmares when read by a perceptive adult. Comic books as a form developed much later than the newspaper strip (the mid-1930s as compared to 1896) but the two are currently closely intertwined. Contemporary cartoonists look directly back to pioneering strip artists as cartoonists in the truest sense who manipulated every aspect of written and drawn presentation.5 Strips such as Winsor McCayâs Dream of the Rarebit Fiend and Little Nemo in Slumberland, George Herrimanâs Krazy Kat, Frank Kingâs Gasoline Alley (which introduced the passage of Îreal timeâ into the medium) and Elzie Segarâs Thimble Theatre pioneered a sophisticated visual-textual interplay that hovers majestically over todayâs cartoonists.6 The comic book conventions (especially the superhero type) from the early period, ripe with psycho-sexual undercurrents and thinly veiled by escapist adventures and power fantasies, were savagely deconstructed by Harvey Kurtzmanâs Mad in the 1950s, and brought to the fore (to say the least) by the underground comix movement in the late 1960s, a period characterized by a loss of faith in programmatic modernist ideals. Comics began to achieve some amount of artistic status as narrative content in visual art was no longer necessarily the kiss of death, therefore a narrative/figurative form was not immediately dismissed as unworthy of attention. In the 1980s, artist, historian and avant-garde spokesperson Art Spiegelman, along with Françoise Mouly, edited Raw, an anthology of international avant-garde comics that originally serialized Spiegelmanâs Maus. In addition to other like-minded travelers, artists included in Raw demonstrated that the medium displays an elasticity capable of dealing with virtually any subject matter, from the Holocaust to pornography. Perhaps more than any other, contemporary artists look to mandarin Robert Crumb as ideological role model, if not in terms of specific subject matter then certainly in terms of his expertly crafted approach, markedly lacking in concession (or restraint). No cartoonist has advanced the move toward a personal aesthetic more than Crumb: his example of dogged introspection and his total rejection of the mediumâs most egregiously pandering elements have encouraged a generation of inventively Îautobiographicalâ and socially concerned cartoonists.

Major achievements over the last decade have resulted from various techniques of narrative experimentation. Jaime Hernandez movingly weds multi-layered narratives, exploring Mexican-American culture and the Southern California punk milieu, with radical fissures of time, place and point of view. Conversations trigger entire histories, implied by the subtlest visual cues. Hernandez integrates an expansive tapestry of humanity: characters and locales imaginatively rendered through telling minutiae, and transcending mere realism to achieve truth through a snappy and increasingly pared down shorthand style that provides only the vital marks necessary to define characters. As the artist states: ãItâs like growing older. There are just some silly details in life that donât matter as much as they did when youâre younger. Iâd like to think my line has matured over the years, for lack of a humbler anecdote.ä Such richness was fully achieved in his multi-issue narrative Wigwam Bam (originally serialized in the early 1990s), a panoramic meditation on absence also delving into ethnic and provincial stereotypes. Hernandez explores the singularity of the form through a balance of visual and textual information (which transcends the goals of illustration), evoking the passage of time through surroundings and physical objects. His command of black and white weight, solidity, and perspective foregrounds the languageâs blatant distancing effects for critiquing any action or situation. Hernandez creates multi-faceted (i.e.: realistic) depictions of women, replete with humor and pathos, always resisting didactic moralizing. His stories incorporate an instant back and forth totality, alternating between direct spontaneity of execution and painstaking detail. Hernandezâs work represents the challenge of the medium: to visually depict the non-visual-thoughts and memory-by using collectively remembered, standard techniques of the medium without being clichéd.

Daniel Clowes, ãGynecologyä Splash Page from Eightball #17, 1996, p. 3, ink on paper (photo courtesy Fantagraphics).

Daniel Clowesâ 1996 story Gynecology incorporates the artistâs biting social critique in an indictment of a prematurely embittered failed artist, articulating many of the background elements later present in the Ghost World film. In Clowesâ comics, the inherent unreality of the language functions symbolically, allowing greater room for personal interpretation: the work transcends the literal; metaphor and symbol are a given. Gynecology epitomizes the strength of the comic language: the stilted flatness, or Îdeadâ quality, is a positive effect (chaotic fight scenes in comics, mostly anathema to contemporary concerns anyhow, cannot compete with digital technology). Clowesâ deliberately slow, downbeat rhythm, which focuses on spiritual and physical emptiness and renewal, creates a specific reader interaction that rewards multiple readings, expanding in scope over time. Despite claims that the two are practically synonymous, the comic language relates closely to cinematic storytelling devices only in the descriptions of visual techniques-angles, depth of field, staging. The artistic production could not be further apart, specifically in the nature of viewer interaction. Clowes observes, ãComics have nearly all of the storytelling capabilities of film, without any of the constraints. Each has its own strengths and weaknesses. I find it much easier to show the inner life of a character in comics, for instance. A film must work first and foremost on the surface; any depth will only be experienced subliminally on the first viewing. I expect more from my comic book readership than I do from a film audience. Reading comics is more interactive than watching a film, more of a direct communication between two individuals.ä The artist explores the translation of stereotypically cinematic conventions into comics in his most recent sustained story, the visual and textual clue-laden book-length David Boring. Clowesâ command of characterization and dialogue create a dizzying cross-examination of all levels of creativity and artifice. Future readers will see his microscopically specific, heartfelt portraits as achieving as close to a definitive portrait of an historical moment as Crumbâs.

Charles Burnsâ opus Black Hole sharpens the artistâs dissection of ãdark, hidden high school horrors,ä 7 the post-adolescent period in which comic book imagery wielded great power. Burns perfectly mimics the antiseptically cool, mechanical style of pre-1960s comics to lay bare (and subvert) the menacing subtexts hinted at in romance stories and alien invasion cautionary tales. He actually pushes the impossibly slick and coldly clinical inking past the level to which it had hardened in the 1950s, to read jarringly as somehow mechanically produced (prior to reproduction). Burns composes each panel iconically, with a heightened sense of drama, calling attention to the static artificiality of the language. The artist revels in the disreputable elements of subject matter and art that characterize the mediumâs history, deconstructing the horrific that lurks in melodrama.

For the last 10 years, Chris Wareâs Acme Novelty Library has been the most obvious example of comicsâ formal experimentation, gracefully combined with warmly emotional narratives. His work, more so than any other, incorporates the page design and layout artistry of strip pioneers into the comic book format. Thrilling Adventure Stories, which appeared in a 1991 issue of Raw, consists of parallel stories running simultaneously in text and imagery, strangely combining a recounting of racism with panels from an archaic 1940s superhero yarn, short-circuiting assumptions about reading the form. In the contemporary climate of rampant design shortcuts, Wareâs level of craft for a reproductive medium seems practically Sisyphean, exploring the narrative and emotional possibilities of every formal device. As this integration is a monumentally laborious process, the devotional aspect is inspiring. Wareâs work exploits comicsâ unique rhythmic balance (Îvisual-writingâ as articulated by pioneer cartoonist Will Eisner), which conflates the space of art and the time of literature to create a new language. Wareâs comics are expansive in their humanity, a characteristic of much contemporary work. As cultural critic Gilbert Seldes wrote about George Herrimanâs Krazy Kat,
ãIt is wise with pitying irony; it has delicacy, sensitiveness, and an unearthly beauty.ä 8

The time has come to cease parroting clichés that Îcomics are not just for kids anymoreâ and begin to examine seriously the achievements of book and strip forms. While previously viewed as fodder for fine art transformation, the bulk of recent scholarly and popular literature (with the notable exception of The Comics Journal) skirts serious discussion of individual works in favor of an exclusive focus on either the formal aesthetics of the form or the mass sociological impact of comics (as merely culturally symptomatic). Such a widening of the critical net conveniently avoids content, resulting in the flip-side of the universally despised dogmatically formalist coin. Everything from advertising campaigns to postcards can now be unflinchingly exhibited and explicated without the qualification of influence, as they pose no threat. This is not the case with comics, as artistic aspirations within such a format still embarrass. Florid justifications, by way of perpetual comparisons to other art forms, are no longer necessary: the field is wide, characterized by disparate voices, genres, and formats, with a proliferation of quality small and self-publishers (from mini-comics and wordless pocket-size booklets to folio scale tours de force) all displaying a strikingly noble level of craft; conferences such as the annual International Comic Arts Festival bring together a vast spectrum of cultural approaches. Comics constitute a mass cultural form that eagerly embraces its materiality (however ephemeral) and technological irrelevance in a culture that views such irrelevancies as anachronisms. Within the singular nature of the form, one finds a sense of urgency, a danger, in the lack of editorial restriction or logistical impediments. The invalid comparison of comics with Îartâ is pointless: they exist as a profoundly rich, meditative art form in our landscape of digital detritus.

NOTES 1. The coopting of iconography and both formal and narrative devices by Îgallery artistsâ is at this point the least interesting and fruitful use of the medium. 2. Such obsolescence is implicitly tied to criticismâs confusion regarding not only stratified artistic accomplishment but also the literary component of comic art. 3. The nature of contemporary comic books as a Îmassâ form is open to discussion: many contemporary print runs are miniscule, often 10,000 or far less, as compared to those of early comic books, which could be 100,000 or more. The Pantheon published David Boring by Daniel Clowes had a print run of 20,000 and Chris Wareâs Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid on Earth currently has 55,000 copies in print. 4. If concerned primarily with levels of cultural dialogue, there are numerous methodologies that do not imply subservience. One could approach thin printed comic pamphlets as political tracts, for example, that manipulate Îhigh artâ conventions. 5. Although assistants were employed by strip artists, the working relationship of these artists to printed product was entirely different than the segregated duties of the early comic book artist. 6. Excellent studies of the formâs history include: Bill Blackbeard and Dale Crain, eds. The Comic Strip Century: Celebrating 100 Years of an American Art Form. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: O.G. Publishing Corp., 1995; Bill Blackbeard and Martin Williams, eds. The Smithsonian Collection of Newspaper Comics, Washington, D.C. and New York: Smithsonian Institution Press and Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1977; and Robert C. Harvey, The Art of the Funnies: An Aesthetic History. Studies in Popular Culture, M. Thomas Inge, General Editor. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi, 1994. 7. Charles Burns, Black Hole #1, Kitchen Sink Press, 1995. n.p. 8. Gilbert Seldes, ãThe Krazy Kat That Walks by Himselfä, in The Seven Lively Arts, New York and London: Harper & Brothers, 1924, p. 245. This observation aptly describes numerous contemporary cartoonists, of which I have only touched upon a few. In addition, artists Seth, Julie Doucet, and Chester Brown immediately come to mind.