45 Days Of CCS, #2: Bread Tarleton

It's been exciting to track Bread Tarleton's development as a cartoonist. (Full disclosure: Fieldmouse Press will be publishing their book, Soften The Blow, early in 2025.) The writing and concepts have always been there, but Tarleton has notably sharpened not just their drawing, but their entire vocabulary surrounding cartooning. You can see how confident they are now on the page as they start to enter their mature period as a cartoonist. Tarleton's comics are about suffering, growth, and love, and the ways all three are connected. 

That's certainly the case in their one-person anthology showcase Ponyshow. The opening story is a conversation in a diner from the point of view of an otherwise unseen person. Tarleton uses an unusual angle in order to emphasize the story of the person who arrives and does most of the talking. It's a quiet story about empathy and human connection, and it features Tarleton using cartoony, distorted anatomy to further emphasize point of view. The second story, "Perfect Life," sees Tarelton going in a more surreal direction. An anthropomorphic marble is "born" and goes down a chute to live his life. He's privileged from the start, with a Rube Goldberg mechanism ensuring that he's born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He offers commentary the whole time, as he goes through the "Adult Happiness Machine" after having a baby and then through the "Making Peace Machine" when he felt empty ("Got it! That was easy!") 

The best story was the hilarious, strange, and touching "24 Hours," which is about a man capturing and releasing a fly. Of course, it's not that simple, as he reveals to the fly that he was once a fly but for some reason turned into a human. A reverse-Kafka, if you will. The fly-human gets clothes, a job, food, an apartment, and even a woman (from FetLife, of course) who would let him "fertilize her ovipositor." Things take a dark turn when someone sees through his horrific disguise, and even the released fly comes to a tragic (but hilarious) end. There's a sad, droopy quality that Tarleton gives to the protagonist, and this is a story where you can see the ways in which Tarleton's cartooning has leveled up. The other stories are brief anecdotes about an older man at a beach with his family recalling ritually humiliating someone in the army, a cigarette that lasts all summer, a "lone wolf" desperate for attention, and a series of floral gifts from an abandoned bouquet. Tarleton exquisitely captures moments in time: absurd, cruel, painful, loving, and tender. 

Horse 2 goes in a different direction, as Tarleton takes on the challenge of one of the more infamously difficult things to draw and turns it once again into a choose-your-own-adventure story. It reminds me a bit of the extreme absurdity of a Jason Shiga story in the same vein, where things can get out of hand very quickly in extreme ways. This isn't just a story about a horse; it's about a horse who finds a time machine. In addition to being funny, the whole thing is clever, as traveling forward or back in time has different implications. On top of that, going back and doing different stories gets you the code for a secret page which is wonderfully meta that ends the issue. Even in the silliest of stories, Tarleton still has a way of making an emotional connection with their readers. Sometimes this is dramatic, and sometimes it is mundane, but the feelings of Tarleton's characters are always every bit as important as the narrative itself. 

45 Days Of CCS, #1: Emma Hunsinger

If you're a cartoonist and you're trying to make actual money in the profession, it's been fairly well-established that the only genres that are growing and paying real money are middle-grade and kids' comics. Even the young adult genre was long ago oversaturated in the market, especially as more and more young cartoonists have emerged. As such, while I was happy to see that the very talented Emma Hunsinger got a middle-grade deal with Harper Collins, I was also a bit sad to see her perhaps limited in a genre that has fairly exacting rules. 

I needn't have worried. Her debut How It All Ends is not only one of the most sharply-realized narratives about the middle-school years I've ever read, it actually feels like it's on the same continuum as her CCS thesis project, Chunk. That was a beautifully-cartooned, emotionally complex, and nuanced story about awkward love relationships and friendships at art school. How It All Ends is a similarly layered story about a young girl trying to establish her identity after skipping a grade and going straight to high school. Hunsinger's loving depiction of Tara Gimmel, her sister Isla, and Tara's delightfully overactive imagination is a visual feast and a master class on how to write dialogue. 

Hunsinger's style is a delightfully expressive series of scribbles and scrawls that emphasizes gesture, body language, and the relationship of bodies in space above all else. She avoids a traditional grid in favor of a more fluid open-page layout, but her attention to story flow is impeccable. Her big gimmick for the book is that Tara is a daydreamer, imagining all sorts of fanciful (and sometimes anxiety-inducing) scenarios that allow Hunsinger to really cut loose in fun ways. Tillie Walden did the colors for the book, and Hunsinger wisely used a mostly two-tone scheme. When Tara is engaged with the world, the color wash is a foam-green. When she's off on a flight of fancy, the wash is a variant of red. Happier fantasies are lighter shades of red, but anxiety is closer to brick red. This simple distinction does so much work in the book, both narratively and emotionally. 

Hunsinger gets out of her own way with regard to the plot. She keeps it bare-bones simple, as the narrative is entirely about Tara adjusting to going from 7th grade to 9th grade, and how difficult this process is. Her own anxiety is in the way, but it's less a plot device to be overcome and more a chance for Tara to deeply examine herself. Her older sister Isla (two years ahead) is a crucial character: something of a guide and a mentor, but she's going through her own stuff. The way that Tara relates to her family is joyful, especially being able to play pretend with her toddler brother. Having that loving foundation makes a later conflict with Isla feel raw and real. They fight (physically and otherwise) the way that only siblings can fight. 

Hunsinger's attention to detail with regard to every character allows the book to breathe and develop in a way that feels organic, instead of seeing the Lesson inherent in these sorts of books from a mile away. The rowdy boys in Tara's English class who slowly come to love the material, the put-upon teacher who learns how to respond to the aggressiveness of the boys, Isla's friends interest in Tara's blossoming friend Jessup all give Tara meaningful characters and situations to bounce off of. Isla is a secondary character (albeit an important one), but she is fleshed out in such a specific and delightful way that I would have been perfectly content reading a book entirely about her. 

All of that sets up the most important parts of the book: Isla's crush on a boy named Joel, and Tara's budding friendship with a girl named Libby. It's clear to the reader regarding Isla's crush, but Tara is not only oblivious to it, she's oblivious to her deeper feelings for Libby. Hunsinger depicts this ache in such a beautiful way precisely because these feelings are messy, complicated, and Tara is clearly not ready for them. Much of the book consists of her confronting the idea that she's not ready for high school and not ready to grow up. She vacillates between pretending she's something she's not at times and feeling as though she's doomed, with a level of catastrophization that is frequently hilarious (but also very much a symptom of OCD). Learning to come to terms with her identity along with pumping the breaks on the idea of romance was such a well-suited ending, and I especially liked the way that Hunsinger avoided romantic cliches and plot entanglements. This is a remarkably assured debut that could easily be part of a series, or I could see Hunsinger doing something completely different but equally compelling. 

Jason's Upside Dawn

Having read Jason's entire output, I've found that his most interesting comics are those that follow his current cultural influences into ridiculous flights of fancy. The Left Bank Gang (imagining the Lost Generation writers as cartoonists) and Goodnight, Hem (imagining Ernest Hemingway as a sort of real-life action hero) are two of his best, but I've also enjoyed the way he's managed to insert the immortal Musketeer Athos into a number of his comics. The eternally deadpan way he draws his anthropomorphic characters just seems to make more sense when he's riffing on something that interests him. In particular, his delight in mixing high and low art never fails to amuse. 

His newest collection of short stories, Upside Dawn, is a pretty big one, with 17 stories. Jason seems to be working shorter and snappier, not allowing his high concepts to wear out their welcome. The result is maybe my favorite Jason book since I Killed Adolph Hitler and The Left Bank Gang, which had the twin appeal of novelty and sharp conceptual gags. Absurdism is a running theme in this book, and the opening story, "Woman, Man, Bird" is a sort of tribute to absurdist playwright Eugene Ionesco. It's a story of a man and woman meeting for a date at a restaurant called "Eugene's," and their small talk is solipsistic to the point of ridiculousness, as neither perceives or responds to what the other says as their visual representations also become increasingly bizarre. One of Ionesco's themes is the impossibility of communication via language, and this piece is a marvelous visual representation of this concept, particularly in the end of his play The Bald Soprano. Speaking of which, in Jason's short story "Ionesco," that play is mistakenly referred to as "The Bald Prima Donna" by a documentarian-type figure, who becomes increasingly irrelevant in the absurd story that revolves around bananas and a shifting, imaginary figure from his past named Bobbie Watson. It's fitting that Jason should be drawn to this play in particular, given that the Romanian Ionesco wrote it while learning English, and of course, English is not Jason's native language. 

The second story, "Perec, PI," imagines the OuLiPo writer and filmmaker known for his use of constraints as a private investigator getting mixed up in a byzantine murder investigation, but his hard-boiled narration is clipped of the endings of the sentences. It's a funny way of thwarting reader expectations in panel after panel. "I Remember" seems to be a bit of self-indulgent nostalgia until it builds into something more far-reaching without breaking stride or changing tone.  "Vampyros Dyslexicos" is a retelling of the old "Carmilla" vampire story that works really hard to get at the gag suggested in the title. Death being frustrated by a juvenile knight (as played by Max von Sydow) in "Seal VII" and storming off is another great gag based on a familiar bit of cinema. Jason mashes up Kafka and The Prisoner, adding a level of tedious bureaucracy to the mysterious goings-on in the Village. 

Mash-ups are a dime-a-dozen, but what sets these apart is his unrelenting commitment to his deadpan style of humor, frequent use of silent pauses, and a highly deliberate and slow pace--even in adventure strips. Some of the stories are reframed versions of classics like "Crime and Punishment," but one of my favorites was reimagining "Ulysses" as a murder mystery thriller. Seeing Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus as action heroes was hilarious, while Jason elides actual action scenes with blackout panels labeled things like "fight scene" or "sex scene." Jason is often less interested in the content of particular works and is more interested in form, like in "What Rhymes With Giallo?", a spoof on the bloody Italian horror films of the 70s done with a Dr. Seuss-like rhyming scheme. 

The back part of the book is the most sentimental in many ways, as he digs deep into his oldest pop culture loves. "The City Of Lights, Forever" reimagines the old Star Trek episode "The City On The Edge Of Forever," only this time it's Spock who travels to Montparnasse in 1925 to become a painter. This era has been one of Jason's running interests for much of his career, and there's kind of a sweet sentimentality in this story about Spock loving cats, painting the famous model Kiki, and a cameo by Athos. "Who Will Kill The Spider?" adds some spot primary colors in what at first seems to be a kids' story but has a punchline that is something entirely different. "One Million And One Years, B.C." is one of the more straightforward entries, notable mostly for Jason drawing dinosaurs. 

"E.C. Come..." and "...E.C. Go" are both tributes to the classic horror and science-fiction comics from EC with frequent twist endings. The former is about a stage magician whose murder of his assistant/wife has unexpected consequences, and the latter is about a crew of astronauts who arrive on a world that surprises them with its (literal) homeyness. These are entirely straightforward stories in this style, just done in Jason's distinctive hand and voice. "From Outer Space" is a classic two-track narrative story. The visual narrative consisted of scenes from the classic B-movie "Plan 9 From Outer Space," but the textual captions were apparently a personal account of a bad acid trip. The effect it created was pleasantly bizarre, given how nonsensical the film is and how an acid trip can scramble meaning and the ability to communicate. Of course, this is a running theme throughout the collection. 

Finally, "Etc." is a collection of one or two-page gags that are a melange of pop music, movies, Athos the Musketeer, and Death. Death hiding from the immortal Athos was an especially funny gag. It's stuff that Jason has been drawing since the beginning of his career and material that he continues to mine for comedic content. What sets this collection apart from his other work is the fact that he left a lot of it behind in favor of branching out to new inspirations while still retaining his core sense of humor. The final image of the book, an absurd image of "Sartre Night Fever," sums Jason up: high and low, absurd and refined, deadpan and silly. 

It's A Vibe: The Comics Of Benji Nate

The key to understanding Benji Nate's intentions as a cartoonist can be found in the introduction to her minicomic Cold Soda #1 (the older one, published by Milk Money Books). It said "Cold Soda is where I dump everything I've been working on including the adventures of a group of friends who do stuff, another group of friends who also do stuff, and of course, Spacedog." Most of her comics can be reduced to "a group of friends who do stuff" with the optional proviso of "and sometimes in a horror setting." Her friend group comics tend to be gag-oriented and highly episodic, with only the occasional strands of a larger narrative. This is especially true of her most popular comic, Girl Juice (Drawn & Quarterly), which was a big success on Instagram and isn't the first time D&Q has published this sort of comic (Aminder Dhaliwal comes to mind). With plot usually being an important part of horror, those comics are more narrative-oriented, even if the vibe of the characters remains exactly the same. 

Indeed, the vibe is exactly what Nate is going for here. The vibe is not a naturalistic one, though Nate is skilled at delivering meaningful dialogue. Instead, everything about Nate's comics is highly stylized and leans heavily into shoujo-style character design and energy. Even in quiet moments, they have a frenetic quality, as every moment tends to be invested with drama (real or imaginary). Cute horror is a mainstay of Silver Sprocket, which is why her books like Hell Phone and Lorna are such a snug fit there. However, a running theme of Nate's work is that they talk about horrific acts or being big sluts, but Nate tends to only want to talk about and around without actually digging into anything. Not that the comics specifically need grisly violence or tons of sex and nudity, but in thinking about a comparable work like Elizabeth Pich's Fungirl, Nate's overuse of restraint adds up to a lot of telling and not enough showing in the storytelling. Taking things a little further (especially in Girl Juice) would have made these comics funnier and/or scarier. 

At the same time, this use of restraint could have been perfectly effective if Nate went a little deeper into her characters. Bunny in Girl Juice is such an overwhelming presence that she borders on caricature, and her roommates feel underwritten at times as a result. The relationship between Sadie and Tula begs for more air time, and Nana's bizarre arc (a cartoonist who is sexually attracted to clowns) is more interesting than Bunny's self-involvement. Of course, Bunny's narcissism is a feature, not a bug, and her ridiculous excesses are the whole point of the appeal. It's just that without some kind of narrative tether, the act gets repetitive. 

Speaking of a narrative tether, Hell Phone (Book One) might be Nate's most effective comic. It introduces us to two best friends (Mona and Sissy) who go on a supernatural odyssey when Sissy discovers a ringing flip phone. The voice on the phone instructs them to go to a particular address, where they discover a dead body killed in some kind of ritual. When they call the cops, they don't find a body and the phone they have isn't activated. That leads them on an increasingly bizarre series of tasks as Nate slowly reveals details about her protagonists. When all of this connects to their friend Trent, the questions that are answered only lead to more questions. The story is contrasted by the ultra-cute character design and bright use of color. 

Lorna is another collection of comics from Webtoon, about a comically murderous young girl. Once again, the contrast of super-cute character design and hints at grisly murder is the attraction, but this is another comic where the gags get repetitive. Halfway through, one could sense Nate getting restless with the premise and crafted a story called "Lorna's First Date," which established her friend group and had a story with an actual plot. The only problem is that Lorna was such a one-note joke character that it felt a little dissonant to attempt to add depth to her. 

The same was true in Girl Juice, where after over a hundred pages of Bunny demanding attention for herself and/or her dog Britney, it suddenly transitions into a sixty-page story called "Tallulah's Demon." It involves youtuber Tula (Tallulah) being haunted by a demonic presence while streaming. It goes to some pretty ridiculous if predictable places, as she becomes possessed by a demon and a priest is called in. Here, Bunny's ridiculous self-absorption has a real target to play against, like referring to the hot priest as "Father Daddy." It doesn't quite come together, but it has the same kind of page-turning quality that made Hell Phone such an enjoyable read. It is funny that Lorna, the horror comic, drifted toward a relationship story at the end, while Girl Juice, a "Sex And The City"-coded comic, drifted toward horror. It reflects how Nate is betwixt and between at this point in her career, but it seems like the eventual answer will be combining the two in a coherent narrative that doesn't lose her sense of humor, charm, and keen understanding of character dynamics, especially for her characters who are women.

Jeffrey Brown's Kids Are Still Weird

It's funny to see where cartoonists wind up in their careers. Jeffrey Brown burst onto the alt-comics scene over 20 years ago with his self-published memoir, Clumsy, which was about losing his virginity. He was one of the central figures of what Tom Spurgeon called "Sad Boy Comics." This term has been subject to parody in later years, but at the time, this was more of an extension of the thoughtful, vulnerable, and even poetic comics of cartoonists like John Porcellino and Dave Kiersh. Brown's comics, especially in his first three books (which he dubbed "The Girlfriend Trilogy"), built on that template and added a structural, narrative solidity that set his work apart. His visual style was a mix of the ratty line typical of the Fort Thunder era that was also informed by Gary Panter and a highly palatable, cartoony simplicity. Jeffrey Brown's figures were and are cute, which at once made them more approachable for a reader but also acted as a distancing device for the more jagged emotional moments of his books. 

However, at heart, Brown was always a humorist. In his many years publishing with Top Shelf, Brown drew a bunch of superhero parodies, Transformers parodies, and other total nonsense. Part of the fun was seeing him draw genre comics in his resolutely anti-commercial style. However, what really made them interesting was Brown's keen instincts as a parodist who genuinely admired these kinds of stories. His first more mainstream humor book was Cat Getting Out Of A Bag And Other Observations, but what really made his career was Darth Vader And Son, an improbably warm and funny use of the arch-villain and young Luke Skywalker. This led to an entirely new career doing these kinds of Star Wars-related comics (Jedi Academy became another one) at around the same time he became a father. He stopped doing memoir comics altogether, perhaps because he was too busy with other work or perhaps because the narratives he had been doing no longer made sense. 

He did, however, do a book called Kids Are Weird, a "kids say the darnedest things"-style collection of observations about his first son, Oscar. Now publishing with NBM, he dipped his toes back into smaller press publishing with Kids Are Still Weird, which is about his younger son, Simon. Brown's ability to create verisimilitude in his dialogue without it feeling clunky or forced has always been one of his best assets, and that particular ear for dialogue is the lynchpin of this book's success. That ear led him to use a variety of compositional structures to highlight the particular gag or feeling expressed by Simon. Sometimes Brown uses his old, trusty four-panel grid. However, he also sometimes uses, on a given page, a gag that's two or three panels (like a comic strip) with a single image below it that is its own separate gag. 

Brown gently depicts Simon's frequently defiant, aggressive, and oppositional energy as a toddler. As a three-year-old, Simon is just starting to push boundaries and assert his agency on the world. Whether it's yelling at the GPS on a phone to stop talking, yelling at his mom during playtime that he's "talking to Daddy," or telling his older brother he doesn't love him, his pugnaciousness is also an expression of his overall curiosity. At the same time, Brown observes him doing ninja moves, debating whether or not he's a "big boy," and declaring that his preferred superpower is to shoot lasers out of his eyes. He also expresses moods and emotions, like saying his brain doesn't feel good, or that he can only come up with horrible stories. Brown creates a pleasant rhythm from comic to comic that doesn't overstay its welcome. Wisely, he doesn't attempt to create a more coherent narrative; instead, he favors little moments in time. Small struggles, tiny triumphs, moments of wisdom, and plenty of just-plain weirdness (as promised!) fill this collection. It's all done in Brown's familiar style, and in color; Brown's overall expressive line is the key to filling these amusing anecdotes with their own sense of life. 

Whit Taylor's Dead Air #1-2

Over on Patreon, Whit Taylor has been serializing her new long-form project, entitled Dead Air. It's the sort of slice-of-life comic that was common in the 90s but has largely fallen out of fashion. It's set at a college in 2002 and follows a frosh named Noe (loosely based on Taylor) who decides to become a DJ at the college radio station. If you're at all familiar with that particular social ecosystem on a college campus, it's a scene that's at once broad-reaching and brimming with potential but also incredibly insular. Taylor mines the particularities of this scene with an incredibly fine sense of detail that creates a rich, albeit wacky, world-building setting. 

One problem with slice-of-life fiction is that it can be meandering and episodic. While the plot is certainly episodic, Taylor smartly establishes key aspects of Noe's character and introduces the key secondary character (a fellow frosh named Nate) within the first three pages of the story. Noe dreams of being a connector, of having something to say and finding a way to say it. Dead Air is a sort of spiritual successor to Taylor's older quasi-autobiographical series Madtown High, another story with a large ensemble cast that celebrates a certain cultural era from the point of view of a protagonist who is an outsider in many ways. 

What Taylor does best here is conjure up a huge cast of outsized personalities with an established pecking order, and slowly reveal details on the nature of their interactions through the eyes of Noe. The first issue goes into a deep dive as to why alternative music is so important to her. It allowed her to express her angst and manage her loneliness and alienation. Taylor once edited an anthology called Sub-Cultures, and she locks into this particular sub-culture in the way that it creates a certain camaraderie even when some of her fellow DJs are insufferable and awful. There is a magic and power to music that Taylor also taps into, as the band she gets free tickets to see creates an experience where Noe says "And just like that, I was transfixed." She wants to be a DJ and become part of the subculture, but she never forgets what music does for her. 

The second issue delves into the specifics of what a DJ does and how they do it, and because the radio station has certain commercial obligations, it is considerably less fun than Noe had hoped. Taylor also established a plot element (each prospective DJ has to make their own ad feature in order to pass their probationary period) and deepened the relationship/friendship between Noe and Nate. The fact that Nate has a girlfriend throws a bit of a roadblock, even if their relationship had been platonic up until that point. That's where the second issue ends, as the narrative starts to build and other key characters are introduced. There is a looseness to the proceedings that's a great deal of fun, as the best slice-of-life stories tend to lend themselves an informal hang-out feel. Taylor focuses on character dynamics and bodies relating in space, which only serves to reinforce this balance of pleasant relationships and witty interactions with the overarching theme of wanting to find a place to belong. 

Tia Roxae's Face Fatigue

Tia Roxae's Face Fatigue is a short (10 pages) but highly effective bit of body horror and social critique & satire. A woman who just turned 21 is obsessed with her youth as her only asset, but is all-too-aware of how men objectify and threaten her when she doesn't make herself available for them as a sexual object. When she develops some mysterious kind of acne. It gets bad enough that she starts wearing a scarf to obscure her face, and there's an over-the-top bit of ridiculousness when her mom shows her a fish her father caught and the young woman screams "I LOOK LIKE IT!" The comic then devolves into revenge, more body horror, and an injury-to-the-eye sequence that would make Dr. Wertham flinch. 

There's a lot to like here. Roxae's mix of pastel pinks and blues is highly effective, especially when pink turns to red with blood. Roxae's use of body distortion veers from simple pimples to monstrous physical changes, even as the affliction is purely on the surface. The murder scene is a total descent into madness and fantasy revenge rolled up into one, and her final facial reveal is a mix of desperation, horror, and social-influencer smile. The face fatigue has a double meaning here--being tired of relying on beauty, then being tired of having it taken away. In both cases, the protagonist was on edge and ready to snap.