How Comics Should Look

Recently, I took it on myself to write to the editors at Fantagraphics, who among other things translate French and Belgian comic books, and ask them why, oh why they haven't translated more of one of my favorite bandes dessinées series, the Spiffy Adventures of McConey, by Lewis Trondheim? The Hoodoodad* and Harum Scarum are great, and I'd like to read the other eight.

The answer, it turns out, is that Americans (and other English speakers, apparently) don't seem to like those big "album" style books. Fantagraphics' Kim Thomson very kindly wrote me back:

"Alas, the two books, especially the second, didn't do at all well for us, and then NBM went ahead and translated two more of the McConey albums in their ODDBALLZ comic book series. (But you'll notice they discontinued the series and never released the McConey work in album format themselves either.)

I think part of the problem with our series was using the French album format which American retailers and most
fans seem to resist. I'm toying with the idea of someday repackaging the McCONEY material in the smaller and
thicker (2 or 3 French albums to one album) format, but alas again, I'm so backed up with my foreign-comics commitments that it doesn't look likely to be soon... Keep your fingers crossed..."

Curiously, when I asked my children whether they preferred the big (French-style) album format for Asterix and Tintin or the smaller format that both series seem to be released in nowadays, their response was a resounding "The big one!" And I remember discovering Tintin long ago, in the Berkeley Co-op (which would tell you how long, if you're in the know) and being fascinated and impressed with the large, beautiful, brightly-colored format. Particularly, I loved the hardcover books, and how with the large format it felt I was opening a magic book to another universe. I was so taken with them that within a year I had all of them, out of my own pocket-money, despite the fact that they were so intensely expensive compared to the cheap American comics at the local store. And unlike the cheap comics on newsprint, the Tintins held up to years of re-reading, looking neither smudged nor murky at the end of it all (though a little soft around the edges).

So why don't grownups like the Big Ones? Do they take up too much shelf space? Too much space on the table next to your bed, or the space next to your bowl of cereal? What, exactly, is there to dislike? Perhaps, and I hope this is not true, people like things that are familiar, and these aren't a familiar size.

For a number of years now, I have gone to France as often as I and my family can afford, and each time we make a pilgrimage to a particular store in St. Michel that sells literally thousands of these kinds of comic books, along with videos, manga, and other things. Imagine going into a shop that rises up on several levels, with at least two of them literally solid with the spines of comic book albums. Every book on the shelves is large format, beautifully printed, and relatively reasonably priced (considering you can get ten or twenty years out of them; the terrible bindings I've been finding on modern American softcover graphic novels only last a few months in the hands of enthusiastic readers before they start giving up their pages like moulting birds). We always choose two or three books to buy. They have to be readable in our lame high-school French, and at least one of them has to be readable to my daughters, because we can only fit a couple in our luggage. But they're worth it.

Sigh.


I've discovered any number of gems this way, over the years, beginning in the 1980's (pre-children, of course) with The Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec (above), and by extension, Jacques Tardi (the author), who has created any number of interesting and memorable characters over the years. Several have been translated into English, though not, alas, for any great length of time (Adele Blanc-Sec in English costs, used, up to $45 now and is not all that easy to find).



On the lighter side, I discovered Lewis Trondheim this way, too. Or, rather, I saw his stuff there, and then was able to find some of them at home. I gobbled down any of his stuff I could find in English: the high-school French simply doesn't cut it, though, as his dialogue is witty and full of colloquialisms. Except, of course, for the hilarious Mr. O, and The Fly (La Mouche), neither of whom need any dialogue at all to be funny.


And Melusine, who we all adore, is not likely to be found this side of the Atlantic anytime soon, more's the pity.

So what I want to know is, what's wrong with the album format? I'm not a huge comic person, despite enjoying the above folk, as well as Pogo (who I had a crush on as a child), Los Bros Hernandez, old Donald Duck, Maus, Sandman, and various other newer bits and bobs. I'm not one of the True Believers, who can cite names and dates and so on by heart. But I will always remember that shining moment of discovering the Tintins under the stairs at the Co-op. And I wish, with all my heart, that somewhere, sometime, perhaps when I'm old and creaky, there will be a comic book store -in English! - that rivals Boulinier on Boulevard St Michel.




Links (etc.):

More, and even more, about Lewis Trondheim.


Rowrbazzle

*Don't be discouraged by Amazon; they have a terrible description of the Hoodoodad, making it sound annoying in the extreme.

My Clockpunk iGoogle Theme

I've heard that Google can take weeks to approve something, but I've been working for much of this week on my Clockwork Theme. I'll be submitting it to them tonight. Above is a little sliver of it. Wish me luck, and I'll post when/if it shows up.

Counting Your Way to Safety

When I was a child I used to eat M&Ms in a particular way.

For plain M&Ms, I separated them into colors and then ate them in pairs, one on each side of my mouth. If the number of M&M's of any particular color was not even, then I was presented with a problem. I could divide the offender in half, and eat it that way, or I could save all the "orphans" and eat them in a great handful, succumbing to greediness and a curiously thrilling sense of chaos - as if I was letting go, dipping into a terrifying vortex for a few moments while savoring the veritable explosion of chocolate on my tongue.

Peanut M&Ms were devoured in a different way. First, the candy was sucked off, and the chocolate bitten in half; these halves were sent to separate sides of my mouth to be chewed up. Then the peanut was broken into its two halves (but the little sprout inside taken out) and tucked into my cheek while skin and sprout were chewed and swallowed. Lastly, the peanut.

It would often take me more than an hour to fully savor a regular-sized bag of M&Ms.

I find, now, that this idea of "coming out even" is considered a prime obsessive-compulsive trait. The number of steps from point A to point B; bites of food; pages in a book; and so on, all are carefully counted and the end result made to "come out even", even if it means taking an extra, smaller step at the end to accomplish this. The sufferer is compelled to order their world in this way, to "right" the anomalous odds (so to speak), to keep track of numbers, consciously or subconsciously. The compulsion is just that, an involuntary urge which has nothing to do with choice: a deep, sometimes desperate need to order the universe, usually as an anxiety reaction, which sometimes comes to rule the person's life.

Nothing to do with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but strangely compelling. Thanks to Lost Circuits

For me, it lacked this overriding element. In my case, it was more an asthetic thing, a combination of natural fastidiousness and a deep belief in the magic of symmetry. It was a game I played with myself, an ongoing artwork, a way of setting things in order, creating beauty with my mouth and mind. A meditation of sorts.

Which is, I think, less unusual than we adults probably think. My elder daughter, for example, is constantly creating things which, in an adult, would be considered conceptual art pieces: drawing around shadows on the driveway with chalk and then going back five minutes later with a different colored chalk and doing it again - and again; making a "drawing" of a bumpy road near our house by letting the bumps move her pencil over the paper - for the full six-mile stretch, resulting in an extraordinary drawing of motion and time.


These kinds of activities, this kind of art-making and rule-making, are absolutely everyday things for children. Step on a crack, break your mother's back; step on a line, break your father's spine. Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye. Gruesome, some of them, but based on a well-ordered (if not entirely fact-driven) universe designed specifically to keep dishonesty, monsters, and general chaos at bay. Anyone who has read Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn will know that the minds of children hold the seeds of whole cultures of superstition and ritual.

Which leads me to think: perhaps this is really just a universal trait, this desire to order the universe, to create something out of nothing. Those who are educated do it through "acceptable" channels, such as science or research; those who are ignorant - children and the uneducated - do it anyway, through ritual and superstition. We all use what tools we have to hand. Which may, to some extent, explain why it is so hard to change people's view of their world.

Growing up alone in my large, dark house, I made up my own rules for how the Dark side worked. There was no question of denying the ghosts who changed the water temperature of the bath, or the Thing that lived under the bed: it was more a matter of organizing them enough to keep them at bay. So eventually, for example, the Thing was no longer able to grab my ankles if there was anything covering my legs.

At first this meant "if my legs are completely covered"; but in the naturally bureaucratic mind of a child (me), this definition was continually analyzed, questioned, and redefined (in much the same way the early Catholic church was constantly defining itself via debate and endlessly nuanced theological distinctions), until I was safe if anything "touched" my legs. Further questions came up, such as "Are buttocks considered part of the legs?" And eventually the committee in my head decided these things (it was in favor of the buttocks), and I was able to, for example, keep the Thing at bay through the simple expedience of underwear.

And of course, eventually this led to the vanquishing of the Thing by virtue of its defanging - as all dull, rule-oriented bureaucracy will do with wild beasts and interesting dangers, in the end.

The Exception That Proves the Rule: Calvin, questioner and rule-breaker (and creator of the fabulous game Calvinball) was funny precisely because the Calvin Systems and the Adult Systems did not intersect well.

It's certain, however, if you give children any chance at all to create their own taxonomy for the universe, they will do so. For in definition lies security, and so ignorance will make its own rules, self-creating the world: to make rules is to make known the unknown, to fend off the arbitrariness of the Universe.

The obsessive-compulsive disorder's version of this, the need to count, to tidy, wash one's hands until they bleed because by doing something a certain number of times in a certain way you can define it - I think this is merely an extreme extension of our need to overcome the arbitrary. Children often go through an obsessive-compulsive stage, becoming a victim of their own natural ordering process. When the need does not recede with childhood, when it goes on to dominate one's life, interfering with relationships and causing self-damage - at this point, the "disorder" concept begins to come into play. When you find yourself unable to stop coming up with new rituals, or afraid that you are going crazy, or simply unable to get to work within an hour of the normal start time because you have to go back and do something again, and again, until it is right, because that is the only way to find peace - then you are suffering. This is a different thing entirely.


But in regular life, as Frances' friend Albert demonstrates in Bread and Jam for Frances, it's nice when your lunch can come out even. A little bite of this, a little bite of that, some soup, some salted egg: eating, and other things, can be a nicer experience when you put a little thought and structure into it, when it blends perfectly. Mindfulness is not a bad thing, and making up rules to make one's life more interesting can be a good thing. Eating your apple and raisin tart in small bites, and dividing each raisin in half to get at the sweet bit as you go, can be a way to help bring yourself into the present, to pay attention. It means you are tasting, exploring, nodding to each part of what you're eating. Going through life like this can mean you are not gulping down experiences, not rushing yourself, but making a way to see things, feel things, notice things.

But beyond mindfulness, I believe a studied superstition is more interesting than a fully-modernized lifestyle, free of ritual and meaning. To throw salt over my shoulder or knock on wood, though my forebrain knows it does not affect the universe, still makes me feel a sense of connection to an older magic. I like to encourage my children to find creative solutions to their fears. I still believe in the power of twelve inches, twelve hours, twelve pieces: I prefer it to metric in many cases. And I still enjoy the slow ritual of dissecting my peanut M&Ms.

The Animal Book: Complete with Rivets

My elder daughter, who likes to instigate odd internet searches, asked me to do a search for "mechanical world" this afternoon, and what came up? The Animal Book, a short animation written and directed by Natalie Hinchley and Chris Randall and produced by Second Home Productions (who, by the way, have a very cool animated logo), looks to be a very interesting little film indeed.

Here is the synopsis from the website:

The Animal Book is the story of two sisters who exist in a threatening world of giant machinery; a city of cog-mechanized buildings, where cars cruise shark-like through the streets. Even their sun is a giant lightbulb and the moon a stud-riveted mirror. When a snatched retreat to the sisters' broken playground is interrupted by a flying book, one of them is offered an opportunity to escape the world for a better life.

I don't have access to the full film, but the trailer is this amazing vision of a world where someone has gone nuts with the riveting gun. ScreenWM describes the film thusly:

"Polly and Dill live in a mechanical world, devoid of animals for benefit of the great machine. But when the mysterious Animal Book appears into their lives, things are bound to get interesting."

Which, of course, piques my interest doubly. If I were back in the US of A, I would be chasing the thing down as we speak. It is hard to tell from the website when this went to Cannes: this year? Last year? The year before? Alas, IMDb says nothing about it, so I will I rely on you-all to find a copy and tell me more about this enigmatic gem.

(This just in: Chris Randall, the film's co-director, kindly wrote to me and updated this information. He says: "In answer to your Cannes query, it actually went last year. The website is due to be updated imminently with more details about the project." And apparently it has done the rounds of the festivals since then. So I'm a little behind the curve, but it's still worth checking out. And they sound like nice people.)

And lastly, courtesy of Youtube, you can look at the trailer right this very moment!

Wunderkammer-Inspired Sculptural Crochet

Anna A. pointed me to Jessica Polka's delicate creations, both crocheted and embroidered. She is interested in the natural curiosities found in Wunderkammern, and has found a way to make them sculpturally via crochet. Her work is small - in some cases, even tiny - and exquisite.


She has a blog called Wunderkammer, in which she posts new creations and happenings in the life of an exquisite thing-maker, and she sells patterns for many of them at San Francisco's Curiosity Shoppe. She also occasionally posts a free pattern and instructions on her blog if you're interested in trying it out. Apparently she did a workshop at said Curiosity Shoppe in February, which I am sad to have missed! Here is something she developed to help her students learn the basic ideas and shapes for sculptural crochet:


You can see more pictures of her tiny things here.

Lost in Split

The sun is finally out.

Having no trousers is a problem, since they seem to be de rigeur here, except for old ladies. Both my pairs of jeans fell apart two days or so before I left the states, and I’m not an easy person to fit. But it is time, time to post a blog, and I am not so easily deterred.

The Saturday afternoon foot-traffic along the road from Meje is quiet, only picking up as I near the ultra-clean Riva, the plaza along the waterfront downtown. As usual, I get many stares in my long skirt and thin green sweater, either because of my intense red hair or because I am simply dressed like a weirdo, I'm never sure. The Split style seems to be a uniform, uh, uniform: a sort of italianate obsession with jeans, sportswear, and glam. My French hiking sandals are far too practical for what is considered normal here.

Plus, the tourists hadn’t arrived yet.

I cannot find an internet cafe that is open on a Saturday afternoon. There are three marked on the map, and I actually think that might be all of them. The first one contains only one person: a tired, housewifely person who has just finished mopping the floor. She shakes her head at me. The next one, somewhere near the East side of Diocletian’s Palace, is closed. The third one, near the Fish Market (dead right now, of course, as are nearly all the streets except the little back ones with the sounds of children playing) is open.

“Internet and games,” claims a sign, and points up an unprepossessing stairwell. Hmm. At the top is a closed door with a backpack-y sign on it proclaiming it open every day until 21:00 hours. I hesitate, then reach for the door, only to have it snatched open under my hands.

Two young men with Italian-style front-faded jeans leap backwards and gesture inward, but I’m there first, smiling and gesturing outwards. They move past me, and the smell of cigarrettes comes with them. I step in: a darkened room, several dark-haired guys with earphones on play CarJack 900 (or something) with earphones on and cigarettes dangling from their lips. They puff away while silently jerking at the controls.

I back out quietly.

Now I’m sitting on the limestone steps of an alley in the middle of Diocletian's Palace, typing this to the sound of neighborhood kids home playing without fear of strangers, climbing around on 2,000 year old walls and steps and one of the 4,000 year old sphinxes that Diocletian had imported to decorate the place. The air is chill but dry, pigeons fly by with that peculiar whiff, whiff sound they make, and I’m happy to be here. Despite a back injury, a sinus infection, and a month of not writing, children who won’t eat local food and the unfortunate tendency to become locally famous for my hair and eccentric dress, I’m here.

What a great place.

One Week to Go

Well, only one week until we fly away. I'll be posting like crazy once I get to Croatia (and overcome some jet lag). I'm taking all my materials! Looking forward to it -- I've missed writing about things, and want to thank everyone for the support and inspiration!


Diocletian's Palace

(More about Diocletian, an interesting guy and one of the few Roman emperors who actually managed to retire before he was assassinated).