Tagged: The Past Is a Foreign Country

I find myself staring at this blank page, either unsure of what to say or not actually having anything to say. (I’m also writing this one on Christmas morning, which is its own issue.) So I’ll try being short and factual, and see if that gives me a way in.

Delights  was Guy Colwell’s new graphic novel this year – his first work created as a single book, as well. I knew his name from Doll (which I saw once or twice, I think, but never read seriously), but he was an underground cartoonist (both as a creator of comics and as a colorist/editorial worker on other people’s comics) for a few decades and a painter as well. He’s in his seventies now; he was part of the main wave of the undergrounds, which means he’s a Boomer, born in 1945.

This is a historical story, fictionalized since the details aren’t known but aiming to be realistic or plausible – this is how Colwell thinks things probably happened, mostly, or that it’s most interesting for him to postulate how it happened.

The main character is the 15th century Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch (real name Jheronimus van Aken), and it’s about the year or so when he was working on his most famous painting, The Garden of Earthly Delights.

In Colwell’s telling, Bosch was a visionary painter – literally, in that he saw visions of the strange creatures that populated especially his paintings of Hell – and that he was somewhat concerned about being pious and true to his religion, but even more concerned about propriety and not being seen by his neighbors as heretical or transgressive. This painting was commissioned by a local duke and his heir, and their agent (another painter) continually pushed Bosch during the preparation to be more fleshy and earthly in the painting – more nudes, more varied nudes, more activity, more titillation for the noble audience that would enjoy it.

Bosch worried about scandal as he sketched various permutations of naked people in his studio for months on end, and tried to keep them quiet form the local town – the models were mostly sent by his patron, being retainers or servants or whatever.

That’s what the book is about: Bosch doing the work, and worrying about the work as he does it. Being pushed by his patrons in one direction, and then – in a major scene Colwell admits is entirely invented, but based on concerns that arose much later, when the painting was in Madrid and Bosch was dead – being pushed in the opposite direction by a representative of the much diminished but still potentially dangerous Inquisition.

It’s a story about making art, on a scale and with a scope that clearly appeals to a maker of comics. A big painting – Garden is a tryptch, six feet tall and almost twice that wide – that takes a year to paint is not a million miles away from a graphic novel, say one of about 160 pages like Delights. Making something like that is not a single action, but sustained work over a long period of time – and art about painters often struggles with depicting the length of time it takes to make a painting, preferring to assume major works can be done in a day from a live model.

Colwell doesn’t overdramatize the conflicts; they’re mostly internal to Bosch himself, or worked out in conversations with his wife and models and patrons and neighbors and assistant. (Or, a couple of times, with the visions he sees, which talk back to him.) So Delights is mostly a quiet book, about a long period of sustained work. Colwell’s art reinforces that: his lines are precise and fine, his faces and especially gestures feel more medieval than modern – a major benefit for this work – and his tone quiet and contemplative throughout.

Delights is not really a book to love; it’s one to think about, to let simmer, to enjoy quietly and then go look at the painting it’s about. It’s a book to make you look at another work of art, to stare at it in depth, and think hard about what you see and what it all means. In a very real sense, it’s a guide to appreciating The Garden of Earthly Delights, in an unexpected format.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

The best creators are unique, with styles and concerns different from everyone else. You know their work clearly: it is what it is, and it is intensely itself.

Julia Gfrörer draws thin lines, mostly all the same width. Her stories are set in the deep European past, told straightforwardly with a cold but not unsympathetic camera-eye. They are about death most of the time, I think.

Laid Waste  was her 2016 graphic novel; it followed Black Is the Color , and – if Wikipedia can be trusted – is still her most recent book.

It’s set during the plague: probably the 1300s, somewhere in Europe. In an unnamed town, there’s a woman named Agnes who seems to be immune to the plague – well, we first see her “die” of it as a baby, and then be pulled out of her grave, so the scientific explanation is that she survived it once and afterward was immune.

There could also be a supernatural explanation. The people in this world are more likely to believe that one. It doesn’t comfort them – nothing would comfort them right now, as all the people around them are dying, one by one, painfully and hideously, and the dogs and rats flourish, growing more bold every day.

The dead are all around. We see people die, we see the bodies piled in the churchyard and a ditch. We see the dogs fight over those bodies. We see the survivors – the current survivors; this isn’t over yet – continuing with their lives, milking cows and tending crops. Even when the world is ending, they still need to eat.

And we see Agnes at the center of this: strong and capable and healthy. She’s holding her older sister when she dies early in the book; she sees other deaths, lugs other bodies. What she’s going through is unendurable, we think – but what’s the alternative? She is still alive. So many others are dead.

The other main character is Giles, a neighbor. He also seems to be a lucky one, still healthy as we see him. But death strikes his family as well: no one in this village is untouched, not the children, not the plague doctor with his pointy mask.

Agnes and Giles connect: I’ll call it that. Cling to each other, I suppose, as two of the few people healthy enough to keep things going. As the ones who have to keep things going, until they fall themselves.

Agnes and Giles, and the rest of their village, believe in the supernatural – Death personified, saints and angels. They see and talk about that; it may be “real” in the world of the story, but it’s not nice and it’s not comforting. This is a hard world, full of death and woe, and no one talks about the joys of the afterlife, seeing their friends and family die in pain.

Laid Waste is a short book: about eighty pages, covering just a few days. It looks unflinchingly at this world of death and sadness, and we see it through the eyes of the inhabitants. It is powerful and chilly and unnerving and, maybe, with just a tiny bit of hope at the end. (If I had titles for these posts, this one would be “Let Me Walk You Home.”)

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

I often find I’m thinking about or focused on the wrong things in the books I’m reading – that I need to specifically tell myself to ignore something so I can move on.

For example in Julia Gfrörer’s short, dark, creepy 2013 graphic novel Black Is the Color , the story opens on a wooden ship, far out in the ocean, several hundred years ago. One of the leaders – not the captain, maybe the first mate or owner – tells two sailors that they are, unfortunately, running lower on provisions than expected. So he’s going to kick the two of them off the ship, into a small open boat, to die in the middle of the sea.

And my first thought was: was that a thing? I’ve heard of crews going on half-rations, or even less – stretching their food farther and farther. And I know that a merchant ship, which this one appears to be, had a small, tight crew to begin with – especially compared to a warship, which would be swarming with gunhands and marines and others. So it didn’t quite make sense that they could or would just kill two of a very limited crew at the first sign of trouble.

But that’s how Gfrörer gets to the story she wants to tell: this is about two men, in that open boat, and what happens to them. So the setup almost doesn’t matter: it’s plausible, it’s quick, it gets them out there, under a baking sun, with no food or water.

And then the mermaids come out to investigate.

Black is the story of one of those two men: Warren. He lasts longer. He’s…befriended? made a pet? visited? by a mermaid, Eulalia. We see him alone in the boat, slowly dying. We see him with her, being comforted or having sex or being a new object of interest. We see her down in the depths, among her people, callous and self-centered and flighty. We see that she and all her people view humans as amusing distractions, as entertainment – interesting in the moment, maybe, but nothing more important or significant than that.

Gfrörer’s art is detailed and organic, her lines dark black and usually thin, her borders in this six-panel grid just slightly irregular, her people with sharp defined faces, her seas a mass of lines rippling and undulating, endlessly. This is a book that’s black in multiple ways: story, theme, characters, often visually. Black is the color here.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

It can be easy to lose track of just how much work and time goes into a single comics panel – to think of a graphic novel like prose, where you can strike out a line and rewrite it at any time. But comics are much more architected than that, built up in stages, and you can’t build a penthouse unless you have the right foundation.

It’s more obvious with books that don’t tell simple, direct stories – ones where the architecture had to be laid out more carefully, planned more fully, and where the foundation had to be chosen to tell this particular version of all of the possible stories circling in the creator’s head.

I bring this up with Leela Corman’s stunning new graphic novel Victory Parade , because this is not a straightforward book. It’s skips around in time and space – not hugely, but enough that the reader needs to pay attention – and is not telling one single narrative, but a loosely connected skein of stories weaving through an interconnected cast during WWII. It starts in the middle of a situation, and ends without a single big moment, like life.

Victory Parade is mostly the story of three women, of three different ages, starting in 1943 New York. All are Jewish, which is important, alongside a dozen other facets of their personalities and lives that are also important. Rose Arensberg is working in the Brooklyn Navy Yard while her husband Sam is fighting with the Army in Europe – and she’s also sleeping with the maimed veteran George Finlay, who lives in the same building. Her daughter Eleanor has the least to do of the three, as a mostly-innocent primary-schooler. Then there’s Ruth, a Jewish refugee from Germany who has been living with Rose and Eleanor for several years – she came as a young teen, and is now twentyish. 

Ruth is the only survivor of her family, as far as she knows.

Ruth is also pretty enough and young enough that she gets endless attention from men – grasping, crude, horrible attention – and hot-headed enough that she fights back and gets in trouble for it. An opportunity arises for her to use all that as a wrestler, and she takes it, starting to train and fight matches.

Late in the book, we also see Sam – first back from the war, then in flashback, after the liberation of the Buchenwald camp. He’s as admirable or relatable as the other characters: that can be “a lot” or “barely at all,” depending on the reader, of course.

Corman tells these stories on pages that feel smaller, more constrained, than the reader expects – mostly four-panel grids, as if a whole tier was cut off or never existed. Her drawing is organic, her people have sharp, strong faces – none of these people are pretty, but then their world isn’t, either. There are multiple dream sequences, sometimes bursting into waking life, full of violent imagery, particularly severed limbs.

Again, Corman is not telling one story, and there’s no crisp “plot” running from beginning to end. All of these people do things, feel things, worry about things, suffer things. Not all of them make it to the end. And standing behind all of them are the millions who didn’t make it through WWII, both the dead of the Holocaust and the soldiers on all sides doing their best to kill each other. We’re seeing the stories of a few of them: mostly women, mostly in New York, mostly Jewish, mostly survivors. But “surviving” is a moving target; there’s a lot of brokenness that isn’t quite “actually dead.”

Victory Parade has an ironic title: there are few victories here, and no parades. It’s a powerful, deep story that will not tell you how to read it, how to feel about it, or about whom to care the most.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.