Katherine Wirick's Nervenkrank #3

The third issue of Nervenkrank, Katherine Wirick's minicomics serial about Dada artist John Heartfield, is the first that starts to get at the essence of what would become his life's work. The issue continues this historical fiction biography of the artist as he and his brother visit George Grosz, Heartfield's future Dada collaborator. While many associate Dada with cut-up techniques, dissonant live performances and other anti-art techniques, in Grosz and Heartfield they had two caricaturists who directly embodied Dada's spirit as a form of excoriating political and cultural protest. Indeed, Dada was a direct response to the slowly dawning realization that the rabid nationalism that helped lead to the war was utter nonsense that had nothing to do with the average person. Grosz and Heartfield did a lot of pen-and-ink drawings that have more in common with editorial cartooning than anything else, even if they used collage and other found-images as part of their work.

Getting back to the issue and the series in general, Heartfield (then still Helmut Herzfeld) was a sensitive, empathetic artist who wound up in the German army's version of a mental hospital a few times during his stint as a soldier. He had to dodge virulent "patriots" and others, including his landlord. Visiting Grosz was the revelation he needed in his life, because he was exposed to drawings that Grosz considered trash because no one in the art world thought them of any value: his brutal political cartoons. This sparked one of the central themes of Dada and the series itself: wrestling with the very concept of "beauty". In the eyes of Heartfield, beauty was a lie, like God and Country. It was all part of the same package, a bill of goods sold to him. "What good is this? What is it for?", he howled at his brother, saying that when he was being strapped down by the army, art wasn't going to save him. What Grosz was doing, what amazed him, was simply telling the truth about what he saw. Heartfield reasoned that if he was going to die anyway, he might as well record what it was like to live during this time, to leave behind his attempt to document the truth, as horrifying as it was. 

Dada is a paradoxical art form. It is art, using new and traditional techniques, many of them representational. It is anti-art, in that it rejects the institutions that define art and the concept of beauty removed from the everyday world. The world had become (was always?) absurd and meaningless, therefore the only sane response was art that played on this absurdity and meaninglessness, exposing it for what it truly was. Wirick masterfully not only captures and distills this moment in a single, powerful page, she also shows how this realization transforms Heartfield into someone who no longer cares what the world thinks about him, including the landlord who had verbally amused him so many times. It was also not lost on me as a reader that her use of a naturalistic, grey wash lent itself to fitting in with Grosz's images, which were in a sharper pen-and-ink without a wash, yet still fit in nicely with the overall conceit of the book. Wirick is creating a history of one man's wrestling with enormous concepts like art, beauty, nationalism, madness that aren't just abstract ideals--they are factors crashing into his every day life. The look in his eyes when he realizes that trying to combat the insanity of war with simply-defined notions of beauty was a fool's errand is the most striking image in the book; a moment of clarity but also of a mind bursting open, never to be the same ever again. It's an astonishing tipping point, and Wirick clearly gave it a lot of thought as she nailed it. 

Katherine Wirick's Down & Away

Katherine Wirick's long-term project has been a book about Dada artist John Heartfield. However, as she notes in this illustrated zine, her entire artistic output from 2015 were the few drawings that appear here. The reason is revealed on the first page: she committed herself to a neuropsychiatric ward because her depression had led her to suicidal ideations. Her journal of this experience, Down And Away, is at once heart-rending, hilarious and simply fascinating. As someone who has spent many hours visiting people held in such wards, every aspect of her experience there felt familiar, from the items banned for inpatients to those ubiquitous socks with gripping pads on them. Wirick is an exceptional writer, unflinchingly documenting her experience as a way of helping to create a public discourse about mental illness.

She goes into some detail about this, noting that discussing cancer publicly used to be taboo, something that seems unthinkable now in the age of valorizing cancer patients. Obviously, AIDS is another disease that used to be taboo and is still sometimes discussed in whispers in some corners. A greater awareness of mental illness and a willingness to make it part of the public discourse, but Wirick notes that it shouldn't be up to laymen to help the mentally ill. They are simply not prepared or trained to help them, not to mention that the boundary between therapist and patient is there for the therapist's sake as much as the patient. Wirick states unequivocally that only through cheap meds, easily available therapy and well-funded inpatient facilities can mental illness be dealt with. It is a matter of public health, one with clear solutions that go beyond simple platitudes.

Wirick never once sentimentalizes her experience, nor does she suffer the kind of platitudes associated with hospitalization. It wasn't the love of her husband who made her smile for the first time after she was committed, it was a joke on Spongebob Squarepants. She simultaneously refrained from killing herself because of her husband's love and regretted the decision. Love doesn't fix mental illness anymore than it does cancer or the flu. Wirick also notes that there was an intense amount of boredom in the ward but it was also difficult to get much rest, as nurses constantly came into your room (which had no locks). She vividly describes the many people she met in various states of distress and illness, as well as the oasis that occupational therapy provided for her as an artist. Above all else, her acidic wit comes through on every page; her humor isn't there so much to distract from the reality of what her situation was, but rather to affirm it. Even the title of the journal is an inside joke with herself, as Wirick is a huge baseball fan and "down and away" refers to a part of the strike zone that is especially hard to hit. And of course, she was down emotionally and put herself away. This is required reading for anyone who's ever suffered from depression or suicidal ideations.

Minis: D.Edwards, M.Feazell, K.Wirick, T.Breed

Nervenkrank #2, by Katherine Wirick. This is the second chapter of Wirick's long-form work about Dada artist John Heartfield, aka Helmut Hertzfeld. The first issue discussed his time just after being released from a mental hospital after a breakdown during World War I as a German soldier. This issue sees him being brought back into the army as a sick ward attendant. Wirick gets right to the heart of the Dada ethos when she shows the utter pointlessness of the conflict and nationalism as a whole through his eyes. Dada was in large part a reaction to the War, born in the middle of the conflict in Switzerland from those dodging the conflict and then spreading through Europe and then to America in different forms. Wirick runs the story's narrative spine across the relationship between Heartfield and his brother Wieland, as the latter was absolutely steadfast in his support of his brother's career as an artist. The constant specter of death that loomed over them as they were both soldiers eased as Wieland was injured severely enough to earn an honorable discharge, and he used that time with his brother to introduce him to George Grosz at the end of this issue. Grosz and Heartfield would go on to found German Dada, but more to the point, it pushed Heartfield to create again after losing all desire to paint in the face of his anxiety and wartime realities. Wirick's use of grayscale is expressive and moody, providing a counterpoint to her naturalistic figure work. She's able to get across the fragility of both men in her drawings in the face of a nightmare, but also portrays Wieland's quiet strength and John's tenacity despite everything. She takes her time in telling this story, but it's clear that establishing Heartfield's circumstances was crucial in understanding the way in which he chose to express himself.

The Amazing Cynicalman #43, by Matt Feazell. The Rembrandt of stick-figure mini-comics continues to draw his signature character in minicomics form. This series reprints weekly comics that are either four or eight panels long. Feazell's humor is extremely silly, as Cynicalman (always with a straight line for a mouth--neither smiling nor frowning) is always dealing with an annoying, disappointing world. Yet he keeps chugging along no matter what, both in his normal day-to-day activities and in his role in the Board of Superheros (sic). There are other regulars that Feazell draws, like teens Spud n Ernie, Stupid Boy, Cute Girl, and Anti-Social Man. Feazell's comics are interesting because of his refinement of stick-figure drawing, which is both wonderfully precise and expressive. His ability to balance elements in each panel's composition is remarkable, be it text, negative space to express a beat of time, or background elements that are key to understanding the gags. Feazell can't afford to waste a single line, yet there's something attractive about the way he draws a page. Feazell is one of the earliest minicomics makers who's still drawing on a regular basis, and the result is a formula that's refined to such a fine point that it's reached the level that once you start reading, you can't stop reading.

That Night: This Must Be The Place, by Tony Breed. This is a quiet, elegant and deeply felt story about the grieving process. It's about the associations music and relationships have, and how a musical cue can both exacerbate and ease pain, depending on the context. As Breed reveals in the course of the comic, his husband died six months before this story was set, and the Talking Heads song "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)" comes up because it was a reading for their wedding. A different version of it comes to Breed's attention in a positive way, and as he walked home from a bar, he listened to it (with the key line "Love me till I am dead" especially resonating) and saw what seemed to be a fox on the way. There's a funny epilogue where a friend tries to pinprick that scenario but asserting it was likely a coyote, not a fox, but Breed squashes it by noting that it wasn't really important as to what it was--the important thing is that it was personally significant for him. This sums up the comic, as we seek meaning and connections in the face of grief as part of the mourning process. Everything about this comic was simple: a standard 2x3 panel format, typical grayscaling, and expressive art that stays within the range of naturalism. This wasn't a comic where Breed was looking to reinvent the form; rather, Breed was working within the comfort of the form to approach some difficult emotions in a way that didn't overwhelm the reader (or him) but still got at the heart of his grief and his attempts to experience and move past that grief.

QAT Person #2, by Dylan Edwards. This is Edwards' own anthology series of short stories as a man who identifies as transgender and asexual. Edwards has come a long way as a cartoonist since his first book, Transposes, which was published five years ago. Working in full color, these comics are sharper and have a much more confident and bold line than his earlier work. They also work better as narrative, as each short story packs a powerful punch in just a few pages. The first story details Edwards' history coming to terms with not only his sexual orientation and his gender orientation, but also dealing with the enormous pressure of being made to feel less than because he only rarely felt sexually attracted to others. When a wise doctor said that this situation should only be considered problematic if it bothered the individual in question, it gave Edwards permission to eventually embrace his identity as an "ace". Edwards also points out that asexual does not automatically mean aromantic, and this creates its own set of challenges.

This story is both intensely personal (going all the way back to childhood and an evangelical christian background) and written with a great amount of clarity with regard to explaining what all of this means to people who might not be familiar with these terms or this experience. There's also a short strip grappling with the reality of having Donald Trump as president and what this means to queer people, as well as a short, fascinating strip about visiting Japan and discussing trans issues with an activist/DJ/bar owner. In particular, they note that insurance frequently doesn't cover trans-related health care in both of their countries. Edwards has always clearly had the urge to be an educator, and his comics have a pedagogical quality to them. However, Edwards has also become a top-notch storyteller, using an economy of words and lines to pack an enormous emotional punch as well as as relating clearly-delineated ideas.

Minis: K.Wirick, J.Zwirek, J.D.Woods

Jimmy Plays The Drums and A Natural Family, by John Dermot Woods. These are interesting, enigmatic comics that play a lot on the grid (the first is a product of Frank Santoro's correspondence course) and on very differing uses of color. Jimmy Plays The Drums is a story about expression and elusiveness, told in a time-fractured style over a long period of time. The entire story is done in bright CMYK in virtually every panel (with the black simply being the lines delineating the characters and the lettering), with the characters and backgrounds flipping colors in each panel. It's an interesting visual effect that forces the reader to reorient themselves on a constant basis as we figure out why the bespectacled Jimmy drummer is constantly trying to escape (from childhood) an older man. The people Jimmy hangs with and his peculiar abilities are only hinted at, but what is made clear is that his parents never allowed him to leave his penthouse home, and he only had the gardener as company--the man chasing him. It's a story about chosen family, a love of art that was not allowed or encouraged, and a slightly magical world that's given life but Woods' almost-exclusive use of colored pencil.

A Natural Family is more conventional in some respects. The use of color is purely functional and even bland. It presents with an unusual occurrence: a brother and sister (both adults) living alone in their family house, with the sister having fallen asleep for two straight days. It's told from the perspective of the brother, with a film crew, the police being brought in to observe the phenomenon and (presumably) have someone do something about it--to no avail. Woods then time-jumps back to the siblings, three days earlier, and reveals that a once-boisterous and happy familial relationship had been reduced to silence, and the suggestion by the brother that one of them leave the house to explore "missed opportunities" leads her to fall asleep in response--a move that prevents him from leaving. Much is left unsaid in this comic. What, precisely, was the nature of their relationship beyond being familial? There's a panel of the man in bed with a presumed sexual partner in the morning, seemingly ready to kick her out. The last page reveals that she went to bed naked, but it's clear that he put a dressing gown on her before he invited in the media. Is her escape into sleep a way of protesting her brother abandoning her, or is it something more? In both of his minis, Woods provides a lot of clues but ultimately leaves a lot of the answers up to the reader.

Stand-Up Comic, by Jeff Zwirek. Zwirek's one of my favorite comics formalists, especially in terms of the actual physical construction of his comics. This short mini about a stand-up comedian is made in such a way as to literally have a stand in the back, as though it were for display. It features a deeply schlubby comedian named Buster Guts, a pear-shaped fellow with a face that looks like it was arranged by Picasso. Zwirek starts off in a four-panel grid that falls away to an open page format as Buster Guts actually proves himself to be a top-notch, self-deprecating comedian whose gags go from tired to genuinely funny. This comic is a nice combination of gimmick and gags, with one grabbing the reader's attention and the latter standing on their own but aided by the mere sight of the comedian.

Nervenkrank #1, by Katherine K. Wirick. This is the first chapter of a much longer work about the life of German Dada artist John Heartfield, born as Helmut Herzfeld. There has been a proliferation of comics biographies as of late, mostly coming out of Europe, and they have a tendency to be pretty to look at but largely mundane. Wirick's work has a chance to be an exception, as Nervenkrank is clearly a passion project, not just a project researched for a contract. Heartfield's work is obviously important to her on a deep level, and it shows in the intensity of the rendering on each page and the emphasis on a slow narrative pace that establishes his emotional state as a soldier. The story opens in 1915, in the middle of World War I. Heartfield is a hospitalized soldier, clearly traumatized by what he's seen. Wirick emphasizes that by noting that his roommate literally won't come out from under the bed, another patient can't stop screaming about being bombed, etc. Returning to his boarding house, he is presented with compassion by the wife of the owner and contempt by the owner himself.

Wirick depicts the stuttering Heartfield as delicate and sensitive but not weak. He steals the German flag flying outside his room and burns it. Dada was born in large part as a reaction to the pointless stupidity and brutality of World War I as the people were sent to die for no good reason, and this issue emphasizes all of these issues. Wirick is a skilled naturalistic artist who masterfully uses greyscale to balance depth and density in each panel. It's clear that she thoughtfully and carefully resolves issues like negative space, character interaction in space and how to make her realistically-rendered characters still manage to appear alive on the page. Her page design is functional, relying more on her figure drawing than on an innovative approach, but it's clear that this story is meant to appear in a larger format. This mini came out nearly four years ago and I haven't seen another issue since, but I hope she continues to persevere on this project.