Differently Expressive

The more I read and think about graphic novels, the more I feel like they can't really be successful equated with "word" novels at all. I used to think that, depending on a given story, either or graphic novel or a "word" novel would be 'better' at expressing the ideas and the action. I realize now I was wrong. We can talk about what they achieve relative to one another, and how they might each tell the same story in disparate ways, but in the end, rather than one being more successful than the other depending on the goals of the story, they are simply differently expressive-- they offer different advantages and techniques in the novel's common pursuit of expression and evocation.

I think part of why City of Glass makes such an awesome graphic novel is the fact that perspective in general is a huge part of the story. From one perspective, an atom is a world in and of itself, while from another, it an infinitesimal part of a larger whole. In the same sense, a person's role in the world, in a city, in a story, seems dramatically different depending upon the perspective from which you view it.

The story of City of Glass is one of Quinn attempting to re-assimilate in a world and city from which he has become removed, alienated by grief. In inhabiting the persona of "Paul Auster", he examines and reexamines life from various perspective, and, ironically, becomes more fully himself. Through hearing the stories of older and younger Peter Stillmans, he travels into and out different perspective, seeing the world from the small and large perspectives, the literal and the absurd, the comic and tragic. Slowing, the perspectives themselves begin to overlap and accommodate one another-- they become part of a whole reality.

The brilliance of the graphic novel is how clearly it illustrates each of these perspectives, the whole in (like the fingerprint) and the far away (the maze of city streets that it becomes) and then builds a language using those perspectives such that reader can come to assimilate the various perspectives for him or herself, just as Quinn in learning to do.

For example, when, on page eighty-five, the image of the fingerprint and the maze flash up, at this point we know what they represent, we understand that they are meant to convey the limitlessness of Quinn's search, and also the specificity of his experience. It is this remarkable visual language that makes the graphic novel differently expressive than the book.

Scenery in City of Glass

In Paul Karasik's interview with Indy Magazine he discusses how he was influenced by Alfred Hitchcock's method of immediately letting the viewer know where his films took place in the opening scene. He says this helps situate the viewer and get a better grasp on what the character's everyday life is like. I found this particularly interesting, especially when I went back and looked at the opening scenes of City of Glass. I had not realized just how powerful the images of Quinn in his apartment were. His space is small, dark, and cluttered with books and papers, all of which paint the portrait of a recluse. Even the somewhat humorous/somewhat gross panels of him reading on the toilet on page 9 illustrate his loneliness and lack of places to go and things to do. The "case" of Peter Stillman was most likely the first social obligation he had in some time, which is why he grew so obsessed with it.

The other two apartments we see in City of Glass are also indicative of the lives that are going on in them. The Stillman's apartment is large and lavishly decorated; Quinn is obviously uncomfortable sitting on the couch on page 13. There does not seem to be any evidence that the people who live in this apartment enjoy the things that surround them. Whereas Quinn's apartment suffered from a lack of material objects, the Stillman's apartment suffers from too much; they are clearly overcompensating. The real Paul Auster's apartment is a different story. It is drawn as a bright and open space, with comfortable looking furniture and domestic clutter. This only adds to Quinn's notion that Auster possesses everything he wishes he had.

City of Glass is a novel that is primarily concerned with identity, or lack thereof. I think that Paul Karasik did an excellent job of showing this through the characters' dwellings.

The Detective & the Knight Errant

An English professor once told me that Don Quixote is and will always be the most influential text of all time, with exception only to the Bible (conveinently utilized in City of Glass, as well). Since my professor made this claim four years ago, I have only been pleasantly surprised that he just might be correct.

Expanding on Katlyn and Ben's posts concerning outside references, I'd like to address the Don Quixote link that is given so much attention on pages 92-93 of the novel. Kuhlman brings up Don Quixote in her attention to the metanarrative of City of Glass and summarizes how Don Quixote is a comment on authorship. While this is undoubtedly true, addressing metanarrative only scratches the surface of the vast implications that Don Quixote has on the graphic novel. In Cervantes' text, Don Quixote's adventures are primarily the result of two factors: 1) DQ has read so many stories of chivalry that he turns his reality into an adventure where he is the protagonist (i.e. the knight errant) where 2) his main objective in his adventures is to win the hand of the lady Dulcinea (who never actually appears in Don Quixote and thus is largely thought to be imagined). Simarily, the protagonist in City of Glass, Daniel Quinn, writes so many mysteries that he easily takes on the role of the detective. He then drives himself to carry this role through with visions of winning Mrs. Stillman's affection (26.3, 60.2-9). In light of the Don Quixote connection, this only adds to the claim that Quinn isn't alive or sane himself, as Mrs. Stillman is perhaps, like the lady Dulcinea, imagined.

It's also interesting to note how Daniel Quinn and Don Quixote's names are linked through similarities in the letters, syllables and sounds in their names. The frames that zoom-in on Quinn's notebooks (36.9 and 129.7) comment on the interchangeability of their identities, suggesting that further study of Daniel Quinn should be done through Don Quixote - not only in terms of the metanarrative of the text, but in regards to who the characters are themselves.

Kaspar Hauser Reference

I was intrigued by a reference to “Kaspar Hauser” in the “Coffee with Paul Karasik” interview/reading that we had this week, and following Katlyn’s lead with “William Wilson,” explored this a little further.

Kasper Hauser is a famous historical figure from Germany, a feral boy who appeared suddenly on the streets of Nuremberg in 1828, after years of confinement in a darkened cage. Here’s a link to a three-part summary of his story: http://www.mysteriouspeople.com/Hauser1.htm

Hauser is referenced in the novel and absolutely had to be one of the inspirations for the tale of Peter. In the interview, Paul Karasik mentioned that the cover of the “New Yorker” that was used in the graphic novel (page 57) was based on an actual cover that he had in his room at the time. Coincidentally, in that same magazine, there was an article on Kasper Hauser, the wild child (that’s a fascinating coincidence).

After mentioning this fact, Karasik states: “Hauser makes another appearance in the book for sharp-eyed readers.” Of course, I had to chase this, and I found his reference on page 87, panel 7. In that panel, you see the names of the apartment building’s occupants, including our Mr. Hauser in italics.

It’s fun to explore all these references, and “City of Glass” provides a ton of them.

"Manga Diplomacy"

Friday's topic on NPR's On the Media was titled "Manga Diplomacy." It's a 7 1/2 minute interview with Roland Kelts (Japanamerica) that addresses the way Japan is acknowledging the potential and power of comics even in the political sphere. Beyond that, the brief segment hits on a few issues that have come up in our class discussions: demand for a "nitty gritty" definition of manga, difference of what is on the page versus what the reader projects onto characters, and brief explanation as to why cell phones are becoming a vehicle for comics.

You can access the link here:

http://www.onthemedia.org/transcripts/2007/09/28/06

William Wilson

After reading the interview with Paul Auster, it was interesting to note that Quinn's pseudonym was taken from Edgar Allen Poe's short story, "William Wilson." I immediately re-read the story and I found many similarities between William Wilson and Quinn. (For those of you who haven't read the tale, "William Wilson," the narrator William Wilson explains how from the time he entered grade school until his ultimate death, a man by the same name, of the same stature, the same date of birth, etc. is ruining his life. Every scheme he creates, Wilson destroys. The two Wilson's become so blurred in the text, that it is difficult to tell which is which.)

The first line of the tale begins "Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson" (p.1). From the onset, the reader knows that this name, William Wilson, is not the narrator's real name, just like the reader knows that Quinn's real name is not William Wilson. Both authors of their own tales, the two create a false identity to hide behind. Page 3, panels 2 through 6, introduce William Wilson in Auster's "City of Glass." "He now wrote mystery novels under the name of William Wilson. Quinn no longer existed for anyone but himself" (p.3 5-6). It is clear that the only interaction Quinn has had with anyone since his death was with the Stillman's. Yet, the Stillman case does not help Quinn recover from his isolated state, but makes him sink deeper and deeper into it (See p. 108-113).

Likewise, after the narrator Wilson learns that the other Wilson is really just himself. He states, "You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead - dead to the World, to Heaven, and to hope! In me didst thou exist - and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself" (p.22). Just as Quinn's obsession with the Stillman's has caused his own death. I believed Quinn murdered himself long before he met the Stillmans. His obsession with death is apparent within the first few pages of the novel. He writes under a false name. He has no family or relations with other people. At the end of the graphic novel, Quinn quite literally yields to the darkness. Likewise, Wilson's obsession with the other Wilson leads to his assumed death.

In the graphic novel, "City of Glass," and the tale of "William Wilson," there is a blurring between reality and perception. The reality of "City of Glass" is that the tale ended long before Quinn knew it was over. His perception of things is so off that he continues the story even after the apartment is long empty and forgotten. Wilson is the same. He does not realize that the other Wilson is something he created in his mind. Quinn and Wilson are creators of their own tales and likewise their own skewed realities.

Language and COG

So I was re-reading Emerson's Nature for a class when I stumbled upon a paragraph that seemed to fit very well with the Older Stillman's grasp on language as presented in his own book (pgs. 38-45 of City of Glass).

RWE, Nature:Ch.IV Language
" A man's power to connect his thought with its proper symbol, and so to utter it, depends on the simplicity of his character, that is, upon his love of truth, and his desire to communicate it without loss. The corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language. When simplicity of character and the sovereignty of ideas is broken up by the prevalence of secondary desires...and duplicity and falsehood take place of simplicity and truth, the power over nature as an interpreter of the will, is in a degree lost; new imagery ceases to be created, and old words are perverted to stand for things which are not...In due time, the fraud is manifest, and words lose all power to stimulate the understanding or the affections."

If you read the first two sentences of that paragraph with panels 2-5/6 on pg. 39 of CoG you could even replace Emerson's words with Auster's and the visual images would line up perfectly with the text. What does it mean, then, that there is clearly something Emersonian about the Older Stillman's book? If we pay attention to both texts there is a lot of emphasis on the innocence of people and the loss of innocence, Quinn's deceased child, Stillman losing his own son in pursuit of the language of innocence, at what point are all of the characters trying to re-capture innocence?

I just really liked how poignant this passage was to the book(/graphic novel) because there is a lot of merit in thinking about man's original nature and his corruption fit into the scheme of language and words. Could the fact that this book was done in graphic novel form be making a large statement as to how there might not be the exact words to describe this story and that visuals are employed as a way of symbolizing and representing those ideas and emotions that cannot properly be named? These were just some interesting ideas I had about the text and I thought I would share them.

(Read Second)Pages 24-26: Form is Genre/Style

Before even looking at these pages just think of The Big Sleep or if you don't know that film think of The Big Lebowski. Both films feature protagonists who are hired by physically broken men for reasons that may or may not be red herrings. In both films a potential femme fatale may or may not be behind a deeper mystery, and steps in to complicate matters right after our hero's initial meeting with his new employer.

Panel 1 on page 24 with Quinn's face half shadowed immediately brings us out of the world of abstract ideas and iconography on the previous 10 pages into the shady and morally ambiguous territory made familiar to us by decades of films in the noir tradition. At this point, Quinn's motives in taking the case are still unclear, hence our inability to deal with him in strictly black or white terms. Despite the darkness of the room, however, Stillman is represented almost entirely in white indicating if not his innocence then perhaps his ignorance, the possibility that he is just a dupe in this whole game. Virginia Stillman turns on the light in the next panel, yet in the subsequent ones her face his constantly obscured by shadows, throwing her credibility into question. This darkness and obscufation is compounded by her words in which tells Quinn that he mustn't assume Peter is telling the truth, no should he assume that he's lying.

In the first panel on 26, Quinn adopts a gruff approach telling Virginia that her sexual habits don't concern him, but in the world of film noir (more so than in hard boiled fiction) the protaganists are often hyper-sexual despite their no-nonsense pretensions. We can see what Quinn really has on his mind in the third panel. Wonder if he'll see any more of it? And if he does, will he keep his head?

Pages 24-25: Form is Genre/Style? Exposition (Read First)

In Dylan Horack's response to Understanding Comics, one of his criticisms is that McCloud's "'form as vessel' metaphorical system . . . suppresses alternative conceptions which erode the borders between the arts, for example 'form as genre.'"

By now we are all sensitive to certain generic conventions which help to locate us within a specific genre. As certain stories have been told retold over the years (decades? centuries? . . . ), generic transformation is required to keep the descerning viewer/reader interested. Paul Auster's City of Glass is a prime example of the transformation of the hard boiled detective fiction (the type which Quinn writes). The semantic elements of the genre are present, but arranged in such away that we come away from the experience of reading it with a different sense than we would a traditional hard boiled novel.

If City of Glass is generically the offspring of hard boiled detective fiction, stylistically, Karasik and Mazzucchelli's graphic rendering of it, with its moody black and whites and imposing gritty cityscapes, more effectively nods to film noir (a style emerging from hard boiled waters) than the all prose version is capable of.

Sensory Empathy

Appolgies once again for the late post-- no internet again.

If ya'll will humor me, I'd like to focus in even further than just page, onto a three-frame sequence at the very beginning of this comic, right on page two. This really highlights one of comic's great strengths-- not only can the use codes and signals to communicate motion and progression, they also have a special knack for capturing moments.

One frame show's Quinn's foot as it moves down from his bed, getting ready to touch the floor. You can almost sense by the way it's flexed that he expexts the floor to be cold. The next frame shows the foot making contact with the floor, and the next, his first step out of bed. There is such detail and such intimacy in these frames. In one sense, it is obviously intimate because it shows an intimate, vulnerable moment-- the time of waking up, a state of half-awareness, an unshod, vulnerable foot. But it isn't just the situation that creates the intimacy, it's the portrayal. The flexed foot reaching toward the floor also creates a sense of sensory intimacy with Quinn, the detail of the foots position tell us that not only is the room chilly, but maybe he is reluctant to get out of bed. We start to start imagining ourselves as Quinn.

And all of it shown, not told, the reader/viewer is drawing conclusions, connecting, beginning to build a sensory picture of Quinn's morning. Later on all, these sensory conclusions will help he reader empathize with Quinn, to feel what he is feeling, in a more intense way. Do we feel more connected to Quinn because we can see him? Because we can imagine that we are peaking at him, seeing bits of him he may not choose to reveal, or that words cannot uncover?

I guess, for me, a big part of these questions has to do with whether I feel like the visual narrator in comics in the same "person" as the textual narrator. In City of Glass, I feel like these two narrators are indeed one and the same. This is evidenced by the way that text and image convey complex ideas by working in concert with one another-- a layering of meaning that creates a three-dimensional concept. It is also the way we come to empathize with a character whose experiences and thoughts may be so disparate from our own. This experience of empathy not only feeds into a richer reading experience, but it is also key in immersing one's self in some of the book's more complex themes.

See page 21 re: icons, questionable grip on reality.

I was fascinated by the series of images beginning on page 15 with Stillman's "No questions, please" (15.1), zooming out of close-up after unrelated close-up until page 21, when it instead switches gears to a series of equally unrelated objects--icons, you could say. Scott McCloud points out in "Understanding Comics" that some icons ("pictures") are just more iconic than others. With this in mind, I turned back to the images on page 21. The first, a rabbit in a top hat, suggests magic or trickery--the "xxx bottle in the second, alcohol or poison. The hand speaking suggests instability, a voice that is fractured and a strength of emotion that is also referenced in the fourth frame, a smashed television.

Then, Stillman's narrative shifts from the horrific and tragic ("Sometimes I just scream and scream. For no good reason" (21.3-4).) to a more hopeful tone ("Best of all, now, there is the air. Yes. And little by little I have learned to live inside it... Each day is new, and each day I am born again" (21.5-6,9).). Similarly, the images shift from powerful and dangerous to more innocuous and playful--his voice rises from an inkwell, then the hole of a guitar; the "O" in a tic-tac-toe game, a teddy bear's mouth, and finally, it issues up from the bottom of a white frame. Just as each day being new suggests endless possibilities, so too does the blankness of this rectangle--the images are moving to a more innocent place of play and childhood, after all. We've regressed from alcohol and rage, trickery and fracture to the potential of ink and music, games and stuffed animals. And yet we know that if we regress far enough with Stillman, we will not reach a normal childhood--as is proven on the next page, a voice issuing instead from the depths of a cell whose blackness encompasses all nine frames on the page, their gutters having become the bars holding him in.

Though a sense of regression and meaning can be found in the images, we are carried from frame to frame primarily by Stillman's tragically stilted narrative, the words running parallel to the pictures (as McCloud explains, they "follow very different courses--without intersecting" (154.3).) The font of Stillman's "voice" itself suggests a slightly unhinged speaker, the letters alternating between upper- and lower-case and not quite sitting along a straight line. And as McCloud also points out, "all lines carry with them an expressive potential" (124.6). The whole construction of this dialogue suggests a character neither at ease with himself or the normal functioning of the world at large, someone whose communication skills have been broken and reformed, who is a little closer to the myth of Babel than the rest of us.

City of Glass: Page 57

One page that stuck out to me in the first section of City of Glass is page 57. The items that Stillman collects in this 7-panel sequence ellicit many reactions, as these items are grotesque, broken, worn-out and sad. Further, these items are highly symbolic. Most troubling is the severed head (57.5) of a childlike doll, that floats above Quinn as he records Stillman's actions in his notebook. The head represents either mind separated from heart or action without thought (the latter being the main contrast between Spillman and Quinn at present - i.e. Spillman is collecting data in a very precise manner, while Quinn invents his methods of record keeping as he goes). Another item, a broken light bulb (57.3), speaks to the light motif that appears throughout the novel and suggests a shattering of that light. A worn New Yorker with an egg on the cover (57.3-4) lays beside the light bulb and splits two panels (or, one could say, cracks the egg between two panels). I would argue next that the broken umbrella (57.4), which appears again in 70.3, is a bit of foreshadowing for an upcoming chain of events, and the worn glove (57.1-2) speaks to the concept of identity and protection that is indispensible to City of Glass. Lastly, in terms of symbols, the wind-up toys (57.6-7) can be viewed quite easily as what either Stillman or Quinn are doing (i.e. Stillman walks around with his head hung, picking up random objects as if he's fueled by something inside, and Quinn follows Stillman as if programmed to do his job without thinking) or, since there are multiple wind-ups in 57.6, as a comment on society's thoughtless and aimless progression. The symbol I have most trouble understanding is the broken tree branch which splits between panels 57.4-5, but my guess is that it has something to do with splitting natural phenomenon or breaking the course of nature.

In a way, these symbols speak louder than any text on this page and strengthen the themes and motifs of the novel in a way that text cannot. It wouldn't have been as effective to include these metaphors in the narrative itself. For example, saying, "Quinn wrote everything down as if his head was severed from his body," would not have fit within the scope of the narrator's tone or voice or perspective. Yet the image of the severed head is powerful enough to communicate this idea without jeopardizing the reliability of the narrator. The reader watches the images float across the frames just as he/she would read through a descriptive list in a novel.

Stylistically, panels 57.1 and 57.2 move almost in an action-to-action style; panels 57.3-5 employ a montage affect that links aspect-to-aspect; and panel 57.7 transitions from 57.6 by zooming in and showing the reader what's most important. Issues of time between panels are hard to pinpoint, as time doesn't seem to be as large of a factor. Time is marginalized instead by the symbolism of objects and juxtaposition of Quinn to Stillman. The characters both appear with their heads down (as do the street peddler's and the wind-up's) and both are recording the same symbols.

Lastly, what I find most intriguing about this page is how the text interacts with such a loaded page of images. Panel 57.5 tells the reader how to comprehend the entire page when it says, "...hover stupidly on the surface of things..." This phrase is there to make the reader stop, slow down and look closer at the symbolic images that appear in every frame on this page. The text not only moves the reader through the narrative but tells him/her more - the text instructs how to read the images.

Pages 36 & 37

After reading Art Spiegelman's Introduction to "City of Glass," I was immediately intrigued to figure out how David Karasik and David Mazzuchelli would transform he cinematic techniques characteristic of film noir genre of the 40s and 50s, into a graphic novel. Film noir is characterized by low-key lighting, forming very dark blacks, very white whites, and little to no grays. Also, the use of low-key lighting forms very dark shadows. In a sense, the world of the film noir is literally and metaphorically aphotic. Pages 36 and 37 capture this world of lightlessness and mystery, and transform these techniques into drawings.

Even by briefly glancing at page 36, one notices the stark differences between the black and white spaces of each panel. There are no grays in any of the panels. Panel 4 is an excellent example of the use of dark shadows in noir. Quinn opens the door to his unlit apartment and the light shine in from behind him. He is just a shadow of his own self.

The idea of identity is very important in these two pages. Beginning with Quinn's shadow, we are unsure (like Quinn himself) who he is. Is he Paul of is he Quinn? For instance, in the seventh panel, Quinn removes his clothes. "He had never done this before, but it somehow seemed appropriate to be naked at this moment." In the following panel, we see Quinn in the nude surrounded by darkness. In this world of mystery, Quinn removes his clothes (objects associated with identity) and strips down to nothing. Yet in the next panel he writes his name, something that also gives a person identity.

However, on the following page the uncertainty of this dark world contradicts panel 36.9. The background is very black, which sharply contrasts with the white notebooks and Quinn's pale frame. His face bent over the notebook casts a dark shadow across his chest. The intensely black backgrounds of the nine panels surround Quinn. He is engulfed by darkness, so much so that even his hair and the shadow across his chest morph with the dark. Quinn's world is literally black. The notebook pages fill in as a voice over of Quinn's inner feelings (another characteristic of film noir). "Nothing is clear. For example: who are you? And if you think you know, why do you keep lying about it?" (37.5).

As Spiegelman describes in his Introduction, Neon Lit, is not only "comic adaptation of urban noir-inflected literature," but also (as seen on pages 36 &37) draws much of its inspiration from the film noir cinema.

Pages 52-53

As Scott McCloud pointed out in Understanding Comics, it is important for the book's creator to find a balance between too much and too little. In City of Glass, I have noticed that this balance seems to be between the art and the story. Paul Auster's prose is much more cohesive and novel-like than the other works we have read thus far this semester. The illustrations, though quite impressive, seem very comic-like in comparison to American Born Chinese and Heartbreak Soup. They remind me of older, Dick Tracy-era comic strips. However, I think this fits nicely with the mystery/detective genre that Auster is focusing on in this story.

With that being said, I would like to take a closer look at pages 52 and 53, when Quinn goes to Grand Central to watch the arrival of Stillman. The three tiers of panels on 52 seem to zoom out in a way, with the first tier showing close-ups of the crowd, and the second and third tiers pulling out so the reader gets a better look at Stillman. This allows us to see the scene through Quinn's eyes: initially it is just a mass of strangers, but when he focuses in on his target he is able to see things more clearly. The last panel on page 52 and the first three panels on 53 are extremely interesting, not to mention incredibly comic book like. This is where Stillman inexplicably splits into two versions of himself, one being the older, feebler looking man who Quinn first spotted, and the other being a cigarette smoking, dapperly dressed Ian McKellen look-alike. I thought this scene was just fantastic, and cannot imagine it being told through words alone. This is one of many instances in the first half of City of Glass that I found the graphic novel format to be the best suited for Auster's story.

I do have a question about an image on page 52, an image which appears in various forms several other times throughout the book. I am referring to the fourth panel, which is a crayon sketch of an angry face. There are never any words with these panels, and I am not entirely sure what they are meant to represent. My first reaction was that they illustrate Quinn's frame of mind at the time, but I don't know how accurate this is. I looked online to see if I could find any insight into this, but to no avail. I am curious to know what other people thought.

Interdependent Parallelism, part 2: Page 5 (read this second! See part 1 below)

Page 5 is simpler I think but still very artistic in its presentation. Here, the words are filling in the tragic back-story of the main character (the loss of his son). I think the combination here is “duo specific” because each has its niche. The words talk of loss, and the artwork neatly emphasizes this with the portrait fading in and out and then disappearing in the wallpaper. I would categorize this as a moment-to-moment kind of transition (several panels of a spot on the wall where the portrait once stood) with a very film-like close up of the family and the son himself). The panel with the close-up of the son is drawn in the most clear, bright lines, and stands out from the dark gloom of the rest of the page. Clearly, it is a sharp and painful memory.

The ending is a straight subject to subject transition, to emphasize clearly the break from thought. The portrait disappears; we see the phone, and then Quinn speaking into the receiver. A loud noise from the outside world, and we are pulled back into the ongoing mystery.

I like the film noir vision of this book, and I think the artistry of it is among the best we’ve seen. See you in class!

Interdependent Parallelism, part 1: Page 4 (read this first!)

I wanted to explore pages 4-5 in “City of Glass” because I think the prose of the original novel was combined with some engaging artwork to create a most unusual effect. I think I’m going to split page 4 and 5 into two separate posts, because this might become too long otherwise.

In these two pages, overall, we are really inside the head of the main character (we are in most of the book) and the words at the top reflect this. It is an overview of how Daniel Quinn escapes into the labyrinth of New York daily to essentially disappear (he wants to be nowhere), and the memories of his three-year-old boy; then the abrupt sound of the phone ringing in his apartment.

The pictures follow this story, and yet they are doing so in most interdependent way. I think Scott McCloud might almost invoke the “parallel combo” label for page 4, because the pictures essentially veer off the train of thought to focus on something very particular, namely buildings becoming a maze, and then eventually the image of a fingerprint staining the inside of the apartment window, which looks out on the New York buildings and skyline. And yet this series of pictures helps to also illustrate the main character’s frame of deep thought, his desire to be alone (in his apartment away from people), and even the physical manifestation of his disconnect (his fingerprint on the window looking out over New York).

What kind of transition is this? I think it follows a kind of subject to subject transition progression over several panels, because the subject changes from buildings, to a maze, to a fingerprint, but this effect is done over an entire page of panels which gives it a very ponderous and deliberate feel (an eternity lost in thought). But it is not a straight subject change, because it’s really our view as a reader that is being challenged, as if we were looking through a kaleidoscope as someone was talking. I liked this page a lot.

Duality and Language in _City of Glass_

I’m focusing this post on page 39 of City of Glass:

At a glance the page consists of eight panels which are drawn differently than those on the preceding thirty-eight pages. The illustrations are comprised of thin straight lines giving them a harsh disconnected feel. This sense of disconnection is mirrored in the written content of the panels. The page depicts the way in which “language had been severed from God” (39.7). In panels 39.3 and 39.4 we see that by naming objects and “invent[ing] language” (39.3) the “thing and its name” became “interchangeable” (39.5). Panel 39.4 replaces Adam’s actual shadow with the word shadow, illustrating the continuity and interconnectedness of language and objects because “in that state of innocence, his words had revealed the essence of things” (39.4). This union of object and language is shattered in panel 39.6 when, as a result of “the Fall,” “names became detached from things.” Adam is seen on his own broken cliff, disconnected momentarily from the word he had created, and in panel 39.7 the word is the focus and is beginning to fall off the cliff, no Adam in sight. The final panel of the page depicts both Adam and the word “shadow” falling together, uniting “the Fall of Man” with the “Fall of language” (39.8).

Panel 39.2 is interesting not only because it is drawn differently from the other panels on the page (it is drawn to resemble a sketch of the serpent tempting Eve) but also because it takes up the space of two panels. The text of the panel describes how “[i]n Paradise Lost, each word has two meanings—one before the Fall, free of moral connotations, and one after, informed by a knowledge of evil” (39.2). This idea of doubleness in the text is reflected in the size of the panel, given that it is the only double-sized panel on the page. Also, it is an enlarged version of a section of the last panel on the preceding page, adding another level of duality through repetition. This idea of duality is one which follows through the entire novel. From Quinn’s multiple identities as himself, William Wilson, and Paul Auster to Peter Stillman Senior’s mysterious splitting in two at the train station, the idea of duality remains in the forefront.

What is Art?

According to Scott McCloud, art is “any human activity which doesn’t grow out of either of our species’ two basic instincts: survival and reproduction” (164.1). Thanks to this very broad definition there is not much that would be excluded from the list. This very all-encompassing definition allows for comics to be called art even though it is an art form which has been greatly snubbed by those who practice and study the more “noble” arts of literature and painting. McCloud seeks to situate comics within the larger sphere of art, thus legitimizing the form. As mentioned in class however, McCloud goes on to make distinctions between those artists who create comics for the economic payoff and those who are truly invested in comics as an art form. I agree that he seems to have somewhat of an axe to grind with those artists who have garnered popularity and financial stability from their work; it goes along with the idea of the “starving artist” in that those who creating art for arts sake are not frequently rewarded with fame within their lifetimes.
In the end, McCloud is a cheerleader for the future of the graphic novel: “Comics offers tremendous resources to all writers and artists: faithfulness and control, a chance to be heard far and wide without fear of compromise…it offers range and versatility with all the potential imagery of film and painting plus the intimacy of the written word” (212.2). More than a work of theory, “Understanding Comics” is a tool to recruit new artists to join the cause of exploring and solidifying the future of comics in the realm of art.

An Interesting Article

“The word comics is laden with so many negative connotations, while the words ‘graphic novel’ give it a certain cachet,” Paul Gravett.


After our discussion in class today I was interested in seeing if I could find a few example of Chris Ware's "Building Stories." While performing my search, I ran across this article in the New York Times, entitled "Britain Embraces the Graphic Novel." It has a great deal of interesting insights into the popularity of the graphic novel in Britain and else where.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/05/books/05comi.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

Quote taken from the above article:
"Britain Embraces the Graphic Novel" By Tara Mulholland
Published: September 5, 2007 New York Times

Media as Vacuum

I think McCloud makes an interesting point about our culture's interaction with all media and not just cartoons when he describes on page 36, "When you enter the world of the cartoon--you see yourself" (36.4). His expansion on this idea, saying that cartoons serve as vacuums that absorb our identity and awareness, allowing us to inhabit these "empty shells" and travel to other realms, is an accurate description of many people's reasons for reading romance novels, going to the movie theatre, and watching CSI. Ours is a culture that appreciates escapism, especially when we can place ourselves in the main character's seat. What caught me, though, is the idea that we identify more easily with a less representational image, especially as children.

I was skeptical at first that there would really be that big of a difference--when he asks in the last frame on page 36, "would you have listened to me if I looked like this?" (showing himself in a more realistic form) I thought, "...yes." But as he expands on the role of messenger as blank slate, what struck me was the fact that, as a blank slate, he can be "just a little voice inside [my] head" (37.4). What convinced me was his suggestion, "if who I am matters less, maybe what I say will matter more" (37.7)--at least, for this text.

See, I think the plot and purpose of the text have equal influence on our identification, and also on the effectiveness of different styles of drawing. For example, I think of the style of the "Cynicalman" comics. Because he is drawn so simply, I can see him as the cynical "devil on my shoulder" without any depth to his own character. On the other hand, American Born Chinese and the Palomar stories were so effective for me for the opposite reason. They were--for the most part--fully fleshed out characters telling their own stories, and they wouldn't have been nearly as compelling if I were trying instead to project myself onto them.

Or would you argue that, unconsciously, I was projecting myself? Is it possible to simply absorb a story without forcing yourself into it first? And going back to the idea that kids identify better with cartoons than realistic images, why do I remember equal airtime given to cartoons and to shows like Saved By the Bell on Saturday mornings? Or is this not a conclusion that can be drawn across types of media, or at least away from drawing and into the world of actors and sets?

Minimalism in comics

I found Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics to be an incredibly informative and eye-opening look at the nature and history of comics, and when it came time to make a post I was having difficulty narrowing down one of his many topics to discuss. However, a point he made on page 85 stuck with me: "The art of comics is as subtractive as it is additive." He illustrates this idea with one story told in four different editions, each one with fewer panels than the one before it. McCloud explains how finding the balance between too much and too little is one of the most difficult tasks that comics creators face. This led me to realize just how minimalistic comics actually are, despite their appearance. It is easy to be overwhelmed by this art form, as I think most of us experienced while reading Heartbreak Soup. There is an enormous amount to take in at once, not just with the pictures and text, but the all important panel space that forces the readers to draw their own conclusions. But can you imagine how much Gilbert Hernandez must have edited out before he arrived at his final draft? He managed to achieve the perfect balance between how much story to provide and how much to leave up to the readers' imaginations.

Gene Yang took a different approach with American Born Chinese. He did not give us as much character history as Hernandez, but he provided just about all of the plot that we needed. For instance, we do not see how Wei-Chen evolved from the shy Asian transfer student that we saw at the beginning of ABC into the extremely bold and Americanized character he is in the last chapter. However, we know exactly where he and Jin stand at the end of the novel; Yang leaves it up to the reader to imagine how they reached this place and where they will go from here.

These are just two ways that comics creators achieve the balance between too much and too little information. It will be interesting to see the other ways this balance is reached in the rest of the books we read this semester.

Applying The Concept of Closure to Heartbreak Soup

On page 63 of "Understanding Comics," Scott McCloud introduces the idea of closure, or "observing the parts but perceiving the whole." Heartbreak Soap is a graphic novel that demands that the reader actively participate in closure. Gilbert Hernandez has created a series of mini stories within the story of Palomar. By combining all of these stories, one can create an identity for Palomar. It is a community where every story is in some way related to another. The reader is the one who Hernandez asks to create a “whole” out of each of these moments.

One important way we create closure is through the actual stories. Between each there is a definite passage of time. A large portion of the lives of each character is left out yet we can perceive their entire existence. For instance, the ending of the novel focuses on the character of Israel. The last we heard about Israel was that he had an affair with Carmen and never returned to Palomar. A period of time occurred between the time Israel had the affair and when we see him next with the Old Man. As active readers, Hernandez asks us to create closure. He gives us parts of Israel's life (as in the ending of the text each section is a new episode in Israel's life) and we must perceive what has taken place between the then and now.

McCloud makes a very valid and very important point that as readers of comics we must "read" in between the panels. Yet, he also notes that in every day life we "often commit closure" (p.63). The stories given to us in "Heartbreak Soup" are everyday stories and we commit closure to piece them together. "Heartbreak Soup" is in a sense like a comic itself. Each story can be compared to a panel that is juxtaposed with another panel to form a complete sequence. The complete sequence does not end with the last image of Israel's ambiguous smile, but continues in the other stories in part two. There too, I’m sure Hernandez will require us to commit closure between Israel's smile and the opening story in "Human Diastrophism."

Still In Palomar

I am more and more impressed with Heartbreak Soup. I don't know if we're still supposed to be looking at it, but I really can't stop. I keep dipping back into to take another look at this story or that. Particularly, I am loving the way that Hernandez tackles the subject of community and leverages his form in doing so. The way that some graphic serials work is perfect for telling the story of multi-layered, long-ranging community life.

The individual strips dip in and out of the town's history. They can be read individually, as little stories. In this capacity, they explore a single layer of Palomar, or a single concept (for example, "The Laughing Sun", one of my favorites, deals with the fact contrast between the way we expect things to turn out when we are young, versus the reality of what happens in adult life). Hernandez does a brilliant job with these stories because each one is filled with extremely keen observations about the way that humans behave, towards themselves and with one another.

Taken together as a collection, all of these little stories can be synthesized to represent a study of humans in community--with all of the heartbreaking complexity and fascinating incongruities. Again, Hernandex does this with gret aplomb, He the back-stories and side-stories he creates for each character are faithfully carried out throughout the timeline of the collection, making it so that the more you know from previous stories, the more any given story will mean to you. The characters are not-onedimensional in their motives, behaviors or impulses, but he manages to imbue each one with consistent personality-- throughout it all, Israel, with all of his varying behaviors, has the same heart.

Visually, he "grows" each character in such a way that they remain recognizable (with the occasional help of textual cues). His use of physical stereotypes common to comics and graphic novels, (muscular women, slick playboys, etc) is another very fascinating topic, and has something to do with this, but is mainly a discussion for another entry. The key is that, even while Hernandez maintains the consistencies the both form (graphic serial) and content (the story of a set of specific characters over time) demands, he never falls into the trap of stereotype in plot or, ultimately, in character.

Each person develops along a path that is believable and revealing, but also surprising and intriguing. While many of the theme that Hernandez explores are universal, each event befalls the characters in way that absorbs the reader into the narrative. In this sense, Hernandez walks a fine line, allowing is his audience to make explorations both narrative and pedantic, without falling into the trap of either.

Applying McCloud to Yang

I’m really enjoying Scott McCloud’s take on and passion for graphic novels (blood in the gutters, the three points of the icon triangle, etc.) I think it’s an excellent way to explore and analyze the comic tradition. I was particularly interested in Chapter 3, and its overview of the six types of transitions, and the pronounced difference between Western and Eastern comic styles.

A natural question that occurred to me as I read was how Gene Yang’s ABC would score using these parameters, since he’s straddling the two worlds of an American upbringing and Asian tradition. (Our other book, Heartbreak Soup, already appears in the charts). Does he skew toward the Western style of heavy emphasis on Type 2 (Action to Action) or more toward the Type 1 (Moment to Moment) and Type 5 (Aspect to Aspect) Manga-style comic form?

I tried to “score” the first chapter and it seemed that Yang was tilting toward the latter, as I counted points in both Type 5 and Type 1, but the majority of points were in Type 2.
After this, I flipped through the book, and found much more of the moment to moment transition (the Danny looking in the mirror splash pages are one of many examples). Yang seems to especially enjoy the “full-on” view of a character’s face and a few subtle facial changes over 2-3 panels. Because of all this, I would expect Yang to score as an “Eastern-style” artist using this system, although of course he’s much more of a crossover storyteller.

I look forward to hearing people’s reactions to McCloud tomorrow.

Skirting the Law

Not to run the themes in Heartbreak to the ground, but it’s plausible to revisit the oversexed nature of the text from many angles. Instead of looking at what we’ve discusses before –deliberate physical attributes of characters or indisputable acts of sex - I’d like to focus more on how the character’s political stance shapes the reader’s perception of Palomar’s collective sexuality. Two stories in particular, Slug Fest and Boys Will be Boys, effectively use Chelo’s skirt law to differentiate between how a Palomarian woman perceives and presents herself with how a Palomarian man perceives her.

For instance, the last page in Slug Fest (168) depicts Diana and Tonantzin arguing over Chelo’s enforced skirt law for girls over eighteen. Diana reacts and declares she’s under eighteen, strips to her underwear, and runs through the streets. While Tonantzin chases after Diana in the last scene (168. 5), the reader gets closure with Tip’in, Tip’in, as he declares this a typical day in Palomar where the goddesses roam. While there’s already a lot of imagery in this story that sexualizes Tonantizin (164. 2-3, 165.1-3, 167.1), Diana’s rebellious act refocuses how Hernandez addresses the sexual tension. In an action that is fueled more by political statement than sexual desire, Diana portrays a reckless and limitless attitude towards her sexuality. Tip’in, Tip’in, in turn, becomes the male authority that brings this political act back into the scope of Palomar. The reader is left with a cyclic sense that Palomarian women’s sexual desire and desire for equality/respect will constantly negate one another.

Again, in Boys Will be Boys, a woman is disturbed about Chelo’s skirt law (197.6). The “Babosa Bimbo,” as she is called, thinks the law is “dumb,” and Anacleto agrees for obvious reasons (198. 2). The reader sees that both the woman and man in this situation are comfortable showing their sexual desire to the other. Hernandez undercuts the desire, however, using Luba to comment, in much of a political manner, that she “prefers it this way,” claiming that “if [men] ever used their brains we might have to start taking them seriously.” (198.5)

Further, beyond these two stories, Hernandez quite possibly undercuts every sexual desire/scene with a more poignantly-charged statement. Or vice versa, illustrated in the juxtaposition of the last scene in Boys Will be Boys (198.5) with the first page of Holidays in the Sun (199).

Culture Clash?

Given that both of the graphic novels we have read thus far this semester depict different cultures I thought it would be interesting to consider the ways in which Yang and Hernandez use the form to portray racial stereotypes.

In American Born Chinese, Yang explores racial stereotypes and a journey to self-acceptance. His novel confronts and overcomes stereotyping through his characters' self-discovery. The Monkey King, Jin, and Wei-Chen all struggle with accepting themselves because of rejection from the world around them. The graphic novel, as a form, allows Yang to illustrate the change that takes place when Jin denies his Chinese heritage and becomes Danny in a way that a traditional novel could not. The visuals provided reinforce the positive theme of the novel by syncing up the internal and emotional changes the characters experience with the external appearance of the characters.

In Heartbreak Soup, Hernandez introduces the character of Howard Miller in the chapter entitled "An American in Palomar" in order to explore the way in which Palomarians are seen by outsiders. Up until this chapter we are focused on the characters interactions with each other and are not concerned with the influence of people outside of Palomar, aside from brief references to the States scattered throughout. Palomar still remains isolated from the prejudice of outsiders. Upon Howard Miller's arrival the reader is forced to step outside of the bubble of daily life in Palomar and to see the characters through a foreigners eyes. Miller has come to Palomar merely to exploit the inhabitants in order to garner recognition and fame as a photographer. Being privy to Miller's true motives, the reader is placed in a position to immediately dislike him. Through the introduction of Howard Miller, Hernandez illustrates not only the various prejudices Miller brings in but also the prejudices held by some of the Palomarians against Americans.

More on Magical Realism

I'm guessing that this is a topic that will come up in later readings so I though it might be helpful to have a discussion about what we mean when speaking of magical realism. Certainly I don't intend to pin down an exact definition, but if we can speak to what does or does not constitute such style in Heartbreak Soup, perhaps future conversations on the matter can be more pointed.

So very generally speaking, magical realism entails the intrusion of something fantastical into an otherwise realistic narrative. Wolk cites some of the early Palomar stories as employing magical realism reminiscent of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude. Both works focus on tiny, isolated, fictional, Latin-American towns for a span of generations. Beto even pays express homage to Marquez by using 100 Years of Solitude as a catalyst for the argument between Heraclio and Carmen in "Love Bites." (213-223). Marquez's text is often cited as the "go-to" source for a primer on magical realism, because it contains so many different forms of it. For our purposes here, I'd like to focus on three of them as the apply to Heartbreak Soup.

Returning to my overly simplistic assesment that we have magical realism when the fantastic intrudes into the ordinary, but what constitutes the fantastic? Wolk contends that Beto's first few stories are grounded most in the magical realist tradition (for more on this see Kmurph's post, but for my money Duck Feet contains the broadest use of two major strategies):

1. Psychological conditions externally manifested. For example Guadalupe's fever induced hallucinations (262).

2. Phenomena for which no scientific/psychological explanation is implicit. For example the plague itself. We are only to assume that it is the result of a bruja's curse. This intrusion of the fantastical is perhaps most extreme because we are to take it at face value.

Obviously there are plenty of other examples throughout Heartbreak Soup. I'd like to know which ones the class found most effective.

Comprehension

Ya'll, apologies for not posting this last night-- the internet went down in my apartment building Sunday evening...

Reading a longer, larger, more detailed comic like Heartbreak Soup has really pushed me in terms of my reading skills are far as comics are concerned. It is such a different process than reading a book. In fact, I've had a lot of trouble following heartbreak soup and making sense of what is happening from page to page. I'm trying to break down what makes reading comics so challenging for me, and I've managed to identify a couple of things so far.

1. Character identification. Even though each of the characters have identifying characteristics (body shape and size, clothing, haircuts, etc) I still have a hard time immediately recognizing the characters. It really takes conscious effort on my part to figure out who is who, and that interrupts my ability ti receive informations seamlessly when looking at the pictures, and makes the narrative feel a lot "choppier" to me. Some of the characters in Heartbreak Soup are particularly hard for me to identify, especially the guys!

2. Passage of time and changes in location. I had a really tough time with this in Heartbreak Soup, particularly in the fight between Soledad and Manuel. I had to read it many times in order to figure out what was happening when and where. I think that analytical texts that we’re reading on comics will help me to continue to learn how to acquire this information.

3. Keeping track of characters and storylines over time. Especially when a serialized comic is compressed into a compiled addition, it’s hard for me to hold onto all of the different threads, characters and subplots!

I think a lot of this comes down to reading codified poses and setups for what they are meant to convey. It's clear that, in comics, certain poses and angles indicate certain situations or moods-- a close in angle- for example, indicates on oncoming kiss on page 33. All literature has an internal "cue language" thorough which the author speaks to his or her readers, but it's different for comics, and I'm still trying to figure it out.

Women in Palomar

Women have very interesting roles throughout "Heartbreak Soup." I would like to focus on the tale of "Holidays in the Sun" to emphasize the portrait of women presented by Hernandez, as well as their role in the novel.

Although completely surrounded by men, Jesus, still cannot escape the women of Palomar. They control his daydreams and his thoughts, forcing Jesus to live in a constant hell. Panel 1 on pg 203 provides the reader with a vivid descirption of not only the conditions in whcih Jesus is living, but the state of his mind. It is dark, dirty, and full of depressed, decripite looking men.

Jesus's sexual fantasies begin with Luba and change to his wife, Laura. The women control the men with sex or the desire of such in the town. Jesus cannot escape this control even though he is in prison. He tries to forget Laura by fantasizing about other women, Luba and Tonantzin, but cannot. Gilbert Hernandez does a very skillful job of conveying this through the two page (206-207) panels with no words to describe Jesus's fight with Laura and how he got into jail. These are Jesus's personal thoughts shared with us the reader. He is controlled by Laura, by the memory of her.

Furthermore, the only time he remembers feeling any love for Laura is when she was pregnant. I found this quite interesting. A woman is at her most feminine when she is pregnant. It is then that she fits into her maternal role as giver of life, creator of things. In these three panels on the bottom of 209 continuing on to 210, Jesus is below her. Laura is in the dominant position, once again in control.

The story ends with Jesus being told what to do by Laura, even in his day dream (panel 4, p.212). She states "Come along, Jesus, before the food gets cold." Jesus in the background looking very small compared to Laura who dominates half of the frame in the foreground. It is important to note that in panel 2, Jesus is dreaming of Luba adorned in animal print. His sexual fantasies turn into fantasies for the mothering Luba.

There are, as is evident in this story within the text, two images of women that dominate the text. The image of women as mothers and as sexual objects. Jesus's fantasies incorporate these two images and he has trouble at times discerning between the two. Laura is pregnant and naked at the same time. She is a mother and a sexual being. We see this as well in Luba. She has five children, but is also an object of desire for the men in Palomar. Women in the novel have the ability to control men because of these two powers. The power to be a mother, nuturing and loving while at the same time a fufiller of sexual fantasy.

Men on the other hand, do not have these abilities. As we see in Jesus's story, he is unable to father his child (as he is in jail) and when he acted as a father, he put his child's life in danger. We also see such inabilities when Jesus is an object of sexual desire for the other men in the jail. He turns them down (panels 5-6 pg. 202). Although there are a plethora of men in Palomar, the women stand out as the most prominent in the novel. Women in the novel are able to maintain their control over men because of their ability to be both mothers and sexual objects.

Silence is Golden

I found that I really enjoyed Heartbreak Soup as I read further into it, and I think part of the reason for this is what I perceive as the maturation of Gilbert Hernandez’s style, particularly his use of word-free panels to emphasize a particular mood or series of events. While the very beginning of the book is characterized by text-dense and character-dense action, the end contains more character development and deeper nuances of feeling, and I think some of this is accomplished through these wordless transitions.

The most obvious example is cited in Charles Hatfield’s text, namely the finale of Duck Feet, a one-page overview of Palomar’s citizenry getting on with life after the plague of the Bruja (page 267), but that is not the first significant use of wordless panels. On pages 206-207, we have 18 panels of wordless action, detailing Jesus’s sad memories of his incident with Laura and his violent odyssey through prison.

These are the most significant examples, but there are others sprinkled throughout the book where you can see the author playing with this technique. Part 2 of The Laughing Sun has a very interesting moment (127.4), where Beto displays the brotherhood of the five men (and the complete exhaustion of Jesus) with a silent moment in the car, and On Isidro’s Beach has several wordless moments where Lupe encounters a couple and a frightening stranger behind some dunes (131.6 and 132.1 – 132.5). In Bullnecks and Bracelets, Israel’s flight to the fabled Bahia (286.3-286.9) is mainly wordless, and the very end (287.6) sees a subtle silent smile on Israel’s part after a phone call.

Too much of this wordless action could be overkill, but I think Gilbert Hernandez strikes a nice balance with it, and I found these scenes were among the ones that stuck in my head after I put down Heartbreak Soup.

Hernandez's Magical Realism

While reading Douglas Wolk's essay Gilbert Hernandez: Spiraling into the System, I was interested by a comment he tosses out before quickly moving on, "The first few Palomar stories were pretty clearly written under the magical realist influence of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude" (Wolk 183). He claims that Hernandez then moves out from under this influence and instead embraces the "extended family" of the town. I would argue that, although the "mystical" aspect of the text bows at times to more realistic character development, magical realism remains an important aspect of Hernandez's exploration of Latino culture, as described by Charles Hatfield in Alternative Comics.

As Wolk describes, the circumstances of many of the events of the first few stories have an air of the fantastic about them. The obscure position of "banadora," Tipin Tipin hiding under the house until his broken heart is cured by the story's all-important soup, Israel's twin who disappears during an eclipse, Vicente's disfiguration, and the boys nonchalant acceptance of Pintor, and later, Toco and Manuel's ghosts hanging out around a bench--all create a sense of "other," of a place that is exotic and removed from our lives by far more than geography and the dramatic sexuality and tumultuous relationships.

Once Hernandez sets this aspect of Palomar in place, he can move on and explore other aspects of the story-rich town, reminding us in other ways of its unique nature. Hatfield mentions his fascination with space and time, devices that also speak to a nature of "magical realism."

Moving from panel to panel I notice his methodical control of chronology, his symbolic use of names, his creation of a "mythical" place, occasions of the fantastic--in short, something resembling a magical realism checklist.

So was Wolk right to downplay Hernandez's magical realism leanings? Or are the devices evident in Hatfield's analysis--and the text itself--enough to suggest the importance of the genre to Herenandez's themes? He is, after all, exploring a Latin American town, and magical realism is classically a Latin American genre. What other intentions might he have had? Should we be examining other texts--such as 100 Years of Solitude--to further unwrap the mysteries of Palomar? Or is it just an effective story-telling technique, with the cultural significance as a built-in bonus?

The Spell of Love & Death

For many reasons, I think the most layered storyline in Heartbreak Soup is Ecce Homo (pgs 137-152). The title references a biblical phrase that frequently labels paintings portraying Jesus wearing the crown of thorns. While I have difficulty understanding how this biblical image relates to this particular short comic, I acknowledge that it at least adds to Gilbert’s running tally of biblical references (which perhaps do more to comment as a whole on Heartbreak Soup than individual stories.)

Motifs more easily recognized and applied are images of love and death that undercut almost every other frame. We discussed in class how characters from other comics appear in Ecce Homo, even ones drawn by Hyme. While I can’t recognize who these characters are, I can recognize that they don’t appear in any other stories in Heartbreak Soup. This ensemble effect is interesting, almost like a celebrity cast has visited the set of Heartbreak Soup for some season finale (hence the Sophia Loren reference.) Yet, since I don’t know who these “celebrities” are, I have trouble drawing meaning from their presence. Many other background images, however, easily provide layering that affects every reader. The juxtaposition of the many skeletons (138, 2. 143, 6. 146, 6. 147, 3. 148, 7. 152, 6.) to the many floating hearts (138, 2. 138, 3. 139, 3. 144, 4. 145, 5. 146, 1.) heavily weight the Love and Rockets subheading. Frame 143, 6 is the most blatant in its imagery, as the skeleton appears as a sheriff, beside a man with devil-like horns and a fused bomb.

Many character’s behavior supports this imagery, and furthers the idea that love and death are in the air and are affecting how everyone acts. Heraclio, though married, runs around with his accordion telling the women they’re all beautiful. Another man, also married, fools around with Tonantzin in the woods, and the uptight and overly-serious Ophelia dances away like a free-spirit. Love spirits have seemingly taken over these character’s typical actions. In terms of death, phrases like “Now isn’t he the lady-killer already!” (141, 5), “Why hasn’t anybody killed you to put us out of our misery?” (146, 6), “Just you and a beautiful corpse in there all alone…” (148, 5) and the reminder that “Manuel was shot dead by yet another (deranged) lover…” (142, 2-3) imply a strong causation between love and death. After analyzing the motifs this way, one could argue that Gilbert chose Ecce Homo as the title to support this causation, using Jesus’ sacrifice as love and his crucifixion as death.

America in "Heartbreak Soup"

A running theme I noticed throughout the first half of Heartbreak Soup is the way the characters perceive the United States. They seem to have an idea that it is a land of privilege and wealth. For instance, Manuel is rumored to receive all of his money from an ex-lover who lives in America, a fact that disgusts the people in town who actually work for their money. The children are especially fascinated by Disneyland and are eager to hear all about it from Soledad, who has recently returned from a trip to the states that included a visit to this fabled place. In spite of all of the action that is occurring in town, the children drop everything when they hear that Jesus has spoken to Soledad about his trip. However, his report is less than what they expected. Panels 4-6 on page 39 reveal that he hated Disneyland and the states, and that "Disneyland was just the states in miniature." Although they find Soledad to be a bit odd, the children cannot help but wonder if he is right. There is no mention of Disneyland in the rest of the first half, but this scene stuck with me. Soledad never expressed what it was about America that he did not like, or how these traits were present in Disneyland. We can only assume that he was unhappy there because it was not Palomar. The residents of this Central American town exist in a close-knit culture where any outsiders are immediately deemed suspicious, everyone sleeps with everyone else, and there are virtually no secrets. This is what ultimately leads to Soledad's downfall, for it is impossible for the town to keep Manuel and Pipo's affair from him. While I have no issue with Soledad's dislike of the United States, I am left wondering what it is specifically that he hates so much. One could assume that it was the materialism, commercialism, and media-controlled culture, elements that do not appear to be present in Palomar, but that seems too easy. I hope that this question is answered to some extent in part two of our reading.

Comic Stamps

I picked up a new set of stamps this week and was amused to find that the Marvel Comics Super Heroes are available in a set of 20 (nice timing with our course). The set includes both closeups of particular Marvel superheroes (Silver Surfer, Captain America, etc.) and cover art from specific book covers through the years.

Thoughts on how this would change the format?

"Comic Books Headed to Cellphones": http://www.boston.com/business/technology/articles/2007/09/07/comic_books_headed_to_cellphones/
I think the one frame at a time viewing method would destroy the cohesion of "the page." But do you see comics authors working around that to take advantage of the new way to reach readers?

Teaching kids stereotypes

Of all that we've discussed surrounding "American Born Chinese," I keep returning to Yang's question, "Does acknowledging a stereotype perpetuate it?" As Yang points out, Chin Kee--the most in-your-face stereotype used--was a tool to further his underlying morals and themes. "I wouldn't have introduced him if I weren't going to behead him," he explains. The shock value was intentional, and effective. It served its purpose. But once a character is created, there is the potential for him to be misused, taken out of context.

So how should stereotypes be addressed? It seems to me that the obvious answer is that it is better to proclaim ownership of the stereotypes, as Yang as done, and turn them with the purpose of creating awareness. But how many people learn from the reclaimed stereotype, and how many only see the "pee-pee in your coke" joke they learned as elementary school students? Will the number of people reading A.B.C. outweigh the tide of people who simply see Chin Kee, or one of his many alter egos in Oliphant's cartoon or cartoons or John Hughes-land?

I think the solution is already being undertaken--considering A.B.C. a young adult book, and making an audience from a generation full of children who are still forming concepts of identity, both for themselves--claiming their own cultures--and for the world at large. Kids learn early on the power of name-calling--it is only logical to teach the power of the "name" itself.

The Importance of the Visual Aspects of the Text

I noticed that a few others in the class posted on the visual elements that accompany a graphic novel. Being completely new to the genre, "American Born Chinese" was my first expereience with this type of novel. I was surprised at how much this literary type resembled a story board for a film. Just to clarify what a story board is, it's a visual representation of what the camera will "see." Thus, it is a series of images usually done in frames (or panels) with a caption included.

This aspect of the novel was key in understanding Jin's relationship with his ethnic identity through visual means. Without the pictures the text would not carry the same meanings. In the first section of Jin's story, he tells us of his visits to the herbalist with his mother. The story in the panels plays out like a film scene, and is most comparable to a story board sequence. The boxes of text can be imagined as a "voice over." Frame 1 (pg. 27) can be viewed as an establishing shot, giving Jin's story a setting and developing a visual relationship to the herbalists wife. Just as in film, or as the picture would be dispalyed on the film's story board, the words are not solely significant to the scene. The herbalist's wife towers over Jin. He sits in the far back of the frame and appears very tiny and very child like with his toy. The wife is in the front of the frame, dominating the image. The next frame is a close up of what she is doing. The words are there to provide the reader with context, but in this one example the pictures not only speak for themselves, but are essential in portraying the situation.

Thus it seems evident that the words and pictures function on both an independent and dependent level. The words guide the images, and the images can also function as seperate entities. This relationship is clearly displayed on pg. 32. In this sequence Jin's isolation from the others is evident in four panels that do not have any words. The middle one, like a story board frame is a "long shot" of Jin. He is completely alienated from the other children's "close ups" in the three panels above his.

In recognizing these similarities that "American Born Chinese" had with a film story board, It became more obvious that the images in the graphic novel are just as important and in some cases even more significant than the words.