I've been surprised, in reading Mauss, what a non-issue the whole mouse thing has been for me. When I first found out about mouse as a kid, it seemed so gimmicky, and to be honest, my first reading of it was cursory enough that the gimmickyness stayed with me. This time around, I guess I didn't really notice that the characters were mice past the first ten pages or so. What I do notice (and have trouble with) is the characterization of other peoples as other animals (Nazis as cats, Poles as pigs, etc). When I first saw the Pole depicted as pig, I was pretty shocked, and it still makes me feel uncomfortable, for what I hope are obvious reasons.
My feelings hear are harder to express than I thought they might be. Growing up, what was emphasized over and over again was the fact that Jews really worry often a real part of the culture in their home countries. Certainly not so much in Poland as in Germany, but even there, the rudeness of the shock, the perceived rejection by their own countryman, the people they had served with in war and celebratedwith in life, was what stung Jewish folks even before the brutal murder began. I feel like the depiction of the Jews, Germans and Poles as different "species" is incongruous with this historical fact, and that makes me sad.
I kind of wonder on the whole whether it would have been better if Speigleman had just made everybody mice. I guess some folks would say that this not having the different factions be different animals would defeat the purpose of doing it with animals at all, but I don't think this is so. For me, the whole mouse thing is about getting a little bit of distance from a story many of us have heard over and over again. The mouse thing makes it almost the story of the Holocaust, but also something else. This sort of titling or skewing gives us a way into the complexities of a story that is often impenetrable, which I find immensely exciting, particularly as a Jewish kid who has often found herself dissatisfied by the orchestrated blare and hush that defines modern Jewish discourse around this part of our history.
Showing posts with label Spiegelman/Maus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spiegelman/Maus. Show all posts
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Memory's failings
Hatfield explores in his chapter "Irony and Self-Reflexivity in Autobiographical Comics" how effective Spiegelman is at pointing out the problems with memory. The best representation of this is shaped by the metaphor of Anja's papers. We learn at the end of the first book that Vladek destroyed all of her pictures and diaries when he was having a particularly difficult day. "Did you ever READ any of them?... Can you remember what she wrote?" asks Art. "No, I looked in, but I don't remember... only I know that she said, 'I wish my son, when he grows up, he will be interested by this.'" Vladek replies, his honesty about Anja's wishes and his actions doing nothing to assuage Art's rage--"God DAMN you! You-you murderer! How the hell could you do such a thing!!" (159.3-4).
The silence created by the absence of these papers causes Art clear distress. This feeling remains an undercurrent to the text as Vladek's health worsens and Art fights to get the rest of his story recorded. We can see simultaneously the desperation to capture memory--and with it, the stories of our loved ones--and the realization that it is ultimately impossible. Vladek seems to have accepted this, and in turn dismissed Anja's papers (and with them, their metaphorical value). He attempts to put Art's mind at ease in one scene, saying "But, before I forget-I put here a box what you'll be happy to see. I thought I lost it, but you see how I saved!" Art, the bold-faced text in his speech bubble showing his excitement, replies, "Mom's diaries?!" "No, no!" Vladek says. "On those it's no more to speak. Those it's gone, finished!" (113.5-7). Vladek is willing to share his own story with Art despite some misgivings, but now that Anja is gone, he seems to be saying, her memories are too.
Even his own memories are qualified, not only through Art's continual self-examination, but in several scenes where they go against "documented" stories. "You heard about the gas. But I'm telling not rumors, but only what really I saw" (69.8), he tells Art at one point. At another, when Art asks him about the orchestras at the gate of Auschwitz, Vladek replies, "No, I remember only marching, not any orchestras..." "It's very well documented," Art says, almost defensively. "No. At the gate I heard only guards shouting" (54.3-4). It is scenes like these and images such as the destroyed diaries that make "Maus" such an excellent representation of nonfiction comics, and that capture so vividly the bittersweet and temporary nature of memory.
The silence created by the absence of these papers causes Art clear distress. This feeling remains an undercurrent to the text as Vladek's health worsens and Art fights to get the rest of his story recorded. We can see simultaneously the desperation to capture memory--and with it, the stories of our loved ones--and the realization that it is ultimately impossible. Vladek seems to have accepted this, and in turn dismissed Anja's papers (and with them, their metaphorical value). He attempts to put Art's mind at ease in one scene, saying "But, before I forget-I put here a box what you'll be happy to see. I thought I lost it, but you see how I saved!" Art, the bold-faced text in his speech bubble showing his excitement, replies, "Mom's diaries?!" "No, no!" Vladek says. "On those it's no more to speak. Those it's gone, finished!" (113.5-7). Vladek is willing to share his own story with Art despite some misgivings, but now that Anja is gone, he seems to be saying, her memories are too.
Even his own memories are qualified, not only through Art's continual self-examination, but in several scenes where they go against "documented" stories. "You heard about the gas. But I'm telling not rumors, but only what really I saw" (69.8), he tells Art at one point. At another, when Art asks him about the orchestras at the gate of Auschwitz, Vladek replies, "No, I remember only marching, not any orchestras..." "It's very well documented," Art says, almost defensively. "No. At the gate I heard only guards shouting" (54.3-4). It is scenes like these and images such as the destroyed diaries that make "Maus" such an excellent representation of nonfiction comics, and that capture so vividly the bittersweet and temporary nature of memory.
Art's Harsh Words
We mentioned briefly in the last class that the last panel of Maus Part I is altogether shocking. After telling us of the horrors Vladek experienced (prior to entering Auschwitz), Art calls his father a "murderer." The statement is so horrific that it resonated with me even after closing the graphic novel. I was appalled at Art's reaction to his father burning Anja's diaries. Vladek explains "These papers had too many memories. So I burned them" (panel 1, p.159). Two panels later, Art screams at his father, yelling "God Damn You! You - You Murderer! How the hell could you do such a thing!!" (p.159). Yet, we understand why Vladek burned the diaries. As he explains, the memories were just too painful. His wife committed suicide. After surviving the horrific events of the Holocaust, she could not survive everyday life. Or maybe the memories of the Holocaust were just too painful for her. There is an anger and a hatred in Art's words as he leaves his father. It is altogether shocking, for lack of a better world, that Art would respond to his father in such a way.
While this seems uncharacteristic of Art (yes, he does often times have a short temper with his father, but this statement is over the top), it is not. This resentment towards his father continues into Part II. Chapter 1, "Mauchwitz." presents us with another disturbing view of Art. During his car ride, he explains to his wife Francoise that he has yet to understand the dynamic between himself and his father. However, the following panels are the most startling. He states, "When I was a kid I used to think about which of my parents I'd let the Nazis take to the ovens if I could only save one of them ... usually I saved my mother. Do you think that's normal?" (panels 7-8 p.14). It is through this graphic novel that Art is trying to figure out why he saved his mother and not his father. More importantly, "Maus" is providing Art with the opportunity to understand his father. His harsh reactions don't seem so out of place in this first chapter. It is easier to understnad that his outburst are out of confusion, not out of hatred. He does not yet understand why these memories are so painful for his father.
While it is obvious that Anja spoiled Art, we can not really call Vladek a bad father. Quite the opposite. As an outsider, it is easy to assess that Vladek's miserly tendencies, his overbearing personality, and neediness, are more for Art's benefit. Vladek is trying to forge a close relationship with Art; to enable him to have the life and happiness that Vladek never did.
While this seems uncharacteristic of Art (yes, he does often times have a short temper with his father, but this statement is over the top), it is not. This resentment towards his father continues into Part II. Chapter 1, "Mauchwitz." presents us with another disturbing view of Art. During his car ride, he explains to his wife Francoise that he has yet to understand the dynamic between himself and his father. However, the following panels are the most startling. He states, "When I was a kid I used to think about which of my parents I'd let the Nazis take to the ovens if I could only save one of them ... usually I saved my mother. Do you think that's normal?" (panels 7-8 p.14). It is through this graphic novel that Art is trying to figure out why he saved his mother and not his father. More importantly, "Maus" is providing Art with the opportunity to understand his father. His harsh reactions don't seem so out of place in this first chapter. It is easier to understnad that his outburst are out of confusion, not out of hatred. He does not yet understand why these memories are so painful for his father.
While it is obvious that Anja spoiled Art, we can not really call Vladek a bad father. Quite the opposite. As an outsider, it is easy to assess that Vladek's miserly tendencies, his overbearing personality, and neediness, are more for Art's benefit. Vladek is trying to forge a close relationship with Art; to enable him to have the life and happiness that Vladek never did.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Chapter 2, Maus II
For me, one of the most impressive chapters of the “Maus” series is Chapter 2, Part II. I think most of the power and artistry of “Maus” is on display in this chapter – the “inside-outside” dynamic of Vladek’s story and the struggle between father and son, Art Spiegelman’s own conflict in producing this story, and the effective mix of narrative and artwork.
Of course, you get a real sense of foreboding heading into this chapter with the title (“Auschwitz (time flies)”), the disturbing picture of the mice in flames, and the flies spread here and there outside the frame of the picture, but Spiegelman goes somewhere very different when he begins the chapter with a frank discussion of his own struggles with his writing, the publicity and questions generated by his first book, and critical forays into therapy. He also starts the chapter hidden behind the mask of his own creation, caught in his own world, fighting off the flies swarming about him.
As the narrative continues, you can see Spiegelman literally shrink in size, before he rises up to the task, gaining enough from his mice-masked therapist to head back into the story. Chapter 2 concerns itself with many of the details of the struggle to stay alive, the compromises and deals Vladek makes along the way in an attempt to keep in touch with Anja, and even one of more interesting conflicts of the story, where Art and Vladek have a back and forth over the Auschwitz orchestra (the artwork here frames this conflict nicely, with the phalanx of prisoners showing the orchestra, and then hiding it when the father disputes its existence).
The final details of the chapter are all too powerful, as they focus in on the “cremo building,” and the burning of bodies, which brings us full circle to the title page, and what we’ve been building up to for the length of the book, a steady gaze into the blackness. But there’s a last touch here that I found very interesting – after Vladek has gone to bed and Art and Francoise are on the porch, the author attempts one more level, literally and figuratively killing the flies on the porch (a disturbing reminder of the Zyklon B pesticide that we’ve just read about) but also putting to rest any last doubts that this story will be completed. Spiegelman has slain the last dragon of doubt in his mind, it seems, and will bring the rest of this story forth into the world.
Of course, you get a real sense of foreboding heading into this chapter with the title (“Auschwitz (time flies)”), the disturbing picture of the mice in flames, and the flies spread here and there outside the frame of the picture, but Spiegelman goes somewhere very different when he begins the chapter with a frank discussion of his own struggles with his writing, the publicity and questions generated by his first book, and critical forays into therapy. He also starts the chapter hidden behind the mask of his own creation, caught in his own world, fighting off the flies swarming about him.
As the narrative continues, you can see Spiegelman literally shrink in size, before he rises up to the task, gaining enough from his mice-masked therapist to head back into the story. Chapter 2 concerns itself with many of the details of the struggle to stay alive, the compromises and deals Vladek makes along the way in an attempt to keep in touch with Anja, and even one of more interesting conflicts of the story, where Art and Vladek have a back and forth over the Auschwitz orchestra (the artwork here frames this conflict nicely, with the phalanx of prisoners showing the orchestra, and then hiding it when the father disputes its existence).
The final details of the chapter are all too powerful, as they focus in on the “cremo building,” and the burning of bodies, which brings us full circle to the title page, and what we’ve been building up to for the length of the book, a steady gaze into the blackness. But there’s a last touch here that I found very interesting – after Vladek has gone to bed and Art and Francoise are on the porch, the author attempts one more level, literally and figuratively killing the flies on the porch (a disturbing reminder of the Zyklon B pesticide that we’ve just read about) but also putting to rest any last doubts that this story will be completed. Spiegelman has slain the last dragon of doubt in his mind, it seems, and will bring the rest of this story forth into the world.
Characterization in Maus
One aspect of Maus that really stood out to me was how minimalistic Spiegelman's characters are. The faces of the "mice" are practically indistinguishable, yet I never had a problem figuring out who any of the characters were. Witek brings this point up in his article, saying that "Spiegelman performs subtle wonders of characterization and expression using only two dots for eyes and two lines for eyebrows, and the unobtrusive quality of his drawing is one of its strengths." I agree with this completely, and cannot help but notice that this was not the case in his earlier renderings of "Maus", and was one of the many improvements he made in his final version. For me, the main way I could tell the difference between characters was their posturing. For instance, in his flashbacks Vladek has a very confident and composed posture. Though he is not always the tallest person in the scene, it often seems as though he is. This is also the case for the present day scenes with his son. Art is usually slouching and has an extremely agitated posture, and Vladek's remains calm.
I'm sure Spiegelman had many reasons for making his characters so similar. Perhaps he wanted to further emphasize that the Holocaust affected so many people, not just the ones in this story. Or maybe he felt that giving them certain distinguishing characteristics would make them too cartoonish, as is the case in his original renderings of these characters. However, I think that Spiegelman's main point was for the reader to focus on the story and not the people in it. It is very easy to get hung up on the visual aspects of characters, especially in a story that features a lot of them. But more often than not, this can lead to confusion, i.e., in Heartbreak Soup. By stripping his characters of all physical differences and having their distinguishing traits be reflexive of their personalities Spiegelman has forced his reader's attention to the more important elements of the story.
I'm sure Spiegelman had many reasons for making his characters so similar. Perhaps he wanted to further emphasize that the Holocaust affected so many people, not just the ones in this story. Or maybe he felt that giving them certain distinguishing characteristics would make them too cartoonish, as is the case in his original renderings of these characters. However, I think that Spiegelman's main point was for the reader to focus on the story and not the people in it. It is very easy to get hung up on the visual aspects of characters, especially in a story that features a lot of them. But more often than not, this can lead to confusion, i.e., in Heartbreak Soup. By stripping his characters of all physical differences and having their distinguishing traits be reflexive of their personalities Spiegelman has forced his reader's attention to the more important elements of the story.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Borders that Bleed
Witek cites the insert of “Prisoner on the Hell Planet” as proof that “Speigelman’s visual style [in Maus] is a narrative choice, as constitutive of meaning as the words of the story.” (Witek, 100) But before Speigelman presents this juxtaposition, he has already made a distinct stylistic impression on the reader; the background of panels, in particular, draw the reader’s attention away from the mice and place emphasis more on the scene that surrounds the mice. That is, Speigelman busies and details the environment in which his mouse father lives to create a more realistic setting. Speigelman’s attention to shading (solid, stripes, checkered, flowers, polka dots, etc.) grounds the Maus world in the physical and adds believability, ultimately encouraging the reader’s identification with the mice as people.
And, as Speigelman capitalizes on a reader’s ability to suspend his or her disbelief more easily in a realistic setting, it’s worth zooming in on other instances where the background disappears. Many panels that depict Vladek on the treadmill as he tells Art a story provide a full image of Art’s “old” room (for instance, 12.2 or 23.4). But many other panels break outside the borders altogether when depicting Art and Vladek in the old room. In the first chapter alone, panels 14.2-3, 15.1, 17.1, 20.1, 23.1 and 23.6 break borders and defy Speigelman’s shading rhythm. This switch from background to no background is mirrored in chapter 2 in scenes of Art and Vladek at the kitchen table (for instance, 26.1 versus 40.8), and, in fact, progresses consistently throughout every chapter in Maus. In this way, the present tense of Art and Vladek is the only form that can transcend borders or, as Speigelman says, step outside the “neat little boxes.” (Witek 101) Yet the allowance for Art and Valdek’s transcendence of borders doesn’t stop here. In other instances, the present tense of Art and Vladek appear to cross into the Holocaust story (45.1 and 115.6 are good examples) to further disrupt the already disjointed narrative of the past. As Speigelman stylistically and subtly suggests (if there ever is any question of how Vladek has changed) that the present holds a stronger version of his father, he gives the present an advantage that the past doesn’t readily possess.
This stylistic approach of Speigelman is so effective in establishing power, that the image of the large rat (147.7) and the bleed of the Nazi truck and concentration camp (157.1 and 157.4) becomes more jarring and effectual. These remain the only two times in Maus that Speigelman shifts the power from the present tense to the past. The last panel in Maus, then, is worth scrutinizing under this same scope. Art leaves the novel and, in many ways, transcends the borders of the last page as if it was the only page in the novel. The borders on page 159 intentionally encompass him and his father, and Art's breaking of the boxes in the last panel implies a new transcendence and shift in power in Art and Vladek's relationship.
And, as Speigelman capitalizes on a reader’s ability to suspend his or her disbelief more easily in a realistic setting, it’s worth zooming in on other instances where the background disappears. Many panels that depict Vladek on the treadmill as he tells Art a story provide a full image of Art’s “old” room (for instance, 12.2 or 23.4). But many other panels break outside the borders altogether when depicting Art and Vladek in the old room. In the first chapter alone, panels 14.2-3, 15.1, 17.1, 20.1, 23.1 and 23.6 break borders and defy Speigelman’s shading rhythm. This switch from background to no background is mirrored in chapter 2 in scenes of Art and Vladek at the kitchen table (for instance, 26.1 versus 40.8), and, in fact, progresses consistently throughout every chapter in Maus. In this way, the present tense of Art and Vladek is the only form that can transcend borders or, as Speigelman says, step outside the “neat little boxes.” (Witek 101) Yet the allowance for Art and Valdek’s transcendence of borders doesn’t stop here. In other instances, the present tense of Art and Vladek appear to cross into the Holocaust story (45.1 and 115.6 are good examples) to further disrupt the already disjointed narrative of the past. As Speigelman stylistically and subtly suggests (if there ever is any question of how Vladek has changed) that the present holds a stronger version of his father, he gives the present an advantage that the past doesn’t readily possess.
This stylistic approach of Speigelman is so effective in establishing power, that the image of the large rat (147.7) and the bleed of the Nazi truck and concentration camp (157.1 and 157.4) becomes more jarring and effectual. These remain the only two times in Maus that Speigelman shifts the power from the present tense to the past. The last panel in Maus, then, is worth scrutinizing under this same scope. Art leaves the novel and, in many ways, transcends the borders of the last page as if it was the only page in the novel. The borders on page 159 intentionally encompass him and his father, and Art's breaking of the boxes in the last panel implies a new transcendence and shift in power in Art and Vladek's relationship.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
My Spin on Vladek's emergent head (77.7)
At the end of class today, someone (forgive me for forgetting who) pointed out that in the last panel on page 77, Vladek's head and shoulders pop-up to provide the narration in a manner somewhat consistent with the original "Maus" cartoon. This is the only time in Maus that Spiegelman goes for this specific effect, but there are countless panels in which he gives us full frame shots of Vladek in the present providing retrospective commentary on the scenes he is describing (for example the bottom panel on 86: ('We didn't know yet of Auschwitz - of the ovens - but we were anyway afraid.")
So why the decision to include this abbreviated depiction of present day Valdek within the historically rendered scene on 77?
"Of course I said I only got half of what I really made. Otherwise I wouldn't save anything" present day Vladek says, but the Vladek of 1940 isn't saying anything in this panel. The narration, therefore, indirectly and retroactively puts words into young Vladek's mouth. I don't intend this to be a full explanation, as there is another factor to take into account: In additon to Vladek's head and shoulders being visible, we also see the handles of his exercise bike, an image that will take on greater significance as the chapter progresses.
In chapter one, when the bike is first brought into play, the reader might not take it as anything more than Speigelman's loyalty to accuracy. That is, if Vladek told him the story while riding on an exercise bike, why not commit it to paper that way. In chapter 4, however, greater attention is paid to this device, giving its use a ring of artifice. Upon completing his story about the last time seeing his father, Vladek is tired, which Spiegelman shows by cutting back to the present and depicting him hunched over on the bike (91.8). On the very next page, he says "Whoo - I overdid a little. I'm feeling dizzy" (92.1). Ostensibly, he's referring to the exercise session, but the implication that recounting history has exhausted him is impossible to ignore.
There also seems to be some significance that his chosen mode of exercise doesn't get him anywhere. Which brings us back to page 77. Here, the sly thriftiness that current Vladek describes did in fact get him somewhere. It was perhaps only through his frugal means of saving that Vladek kept enough money to bribe his way toward survival. On the other hand, here is an instance where Spiegelman is not resisting "caricature of the miserly old Jew" and is thereby spinning his wheels without getting anywhere.
So why the decision to include this abbreviated depiction of present day Valdek within the historically rendered scene on 77?
"Of course I said I only got half of what I really made. Otherwise I wouldn't save anything" present day Vladek says, but the Vladek of 1940 isn't saying anything in this panel. The narration, therefore, indirectly and retroactively puts words into young Vladek's mouth. I don't intend this to be a full explanation, as there is another factor to take into account: In additon to Vladek's head and shoulders being visible, we also see the handles of his exercise bike, an image that will take on greater significance as the chapter progresses.
In chapter one, when the bike is first brought into play, the reader might not take it as anything more than Speigelman's loyalty to accuracy. That is, if Vladek told him the story while riding on an exercise bike, why not commit it to paper that way. In chapter 4, however, greater attention is paid to this device, giving its use a ring of artifice. Upon completing his story about the last time seeing his father, Vladek is tired, which Spiegelman shows by cutting back to the present and depicting him hunched over on the bike (91.8). On the very next page, he says "Whoo - I overdid a little. I'm feeling dizzy" (92.1). Ostensibly, he's referring to the exercise session, but the implication that recounting history has exhausted him is impossible to ignore.
There also seems to be some significance that his chosen mode of exercise doesn't get him anywhere. Which brings us back to page 77. Here, the sly thriftiness that current Vladek describes did in fact get him somewhere. It was perhaps only through his frugal means of saving that Vladek kept enough money to bribe his way toward survival. On the other hand, here is an instance where Spiegelman is not resisting "caricature of the miserly old Jew" and is thereby spinning his wheels without getting anywhere.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Relying on the Narrator
In our class discussion it was argued that Bechdel's reliability as a narrator was sometimes faulty since she would often draw places or events that we know she could not have participated in. However, the bulk of the book focuses on events that she had been around for. What does it mean then, in comparison to Fun Home, that the bulk of Maus is visualizing a story that Spiegelman was not around for? Yes, it's true that there is more to emphasize that he learned this story from his father, but the fact remains that Spiegelman's story is wholly anachronistic. Does this make him an unreliable author?
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