Elise Dietrich's Kill Your Idols, Part 1

Many of Elise Dietrich's autobiographical comics have been in the form of travelogues, but Kill Your Idols follows a different journey: one into the musical idols of her past. This is mostly about Dietrich as a teenager, "a mostly unformed mass of anxiety and passion." Music and art can often provide both an outlet and a template for teens, as well as a parasocial relationship that can inform their path and decisions. 

Unsurprisingly, Dietrich details that she first started becoming a fan of alternative rock in the late 80s and 90s, as an older boyfriend shared a lot of different bands with her. While the boyfriend didn't last (although the regrets did), the musical obsession did. For Dietrich, it centered around Perry Farrell of Jane's Addiction and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. With the ostentatious Farrell, it was the kind of devoted desire given to a magnetic cult leader. With the cool and reserved Gordon, it was the urgent desire of having a role model. Dietrich points out that their identities became fantasies that she wove in her own head, especially when any significant investigation into Farrell's life and aesthetic revealed a great deal of pretentiousness--and not even original pretentiousness. Gordon at least gave Dietrich a creative direction as a musician and an artist. 

Dietrich explores whole-cloth adaptation of another artist's aesthetic and perspective as a way of cycling through influences in order to find one's own voice. The next part of the story will include Dietrich's present-day evaluation of her idols. In this issue Dietrich uses a mostly open-page layout to her advantage, which allowed her to adapt the imagery and album art of her favorites. It's a quick and easy way to show how they influenced her own aesthetics. Dietrich does her best to express not just what each artist meant to her, but why their songs and visual presentation were so important. There were two essential problems here, however. The first is that the comic doesn't convey much in terms of why the sonic qualities of the music was compelling. It's a difficult ask for any comic, but one that is predicated on music falls flat without it. The second problem is that Dietrich's teenage self is barely a character. This is partly by design, as she presents her teenage self as inchoate, but the result feels more like an extended book report more than a narrative. Hopefully, the second part will help connect the dots with a more pointed critique and deeper self-reflection.

E. Joy Mehr's E. Joy Comix #1

E. Joy Mehr's comics have an easy, scrawled, and unaffected quality that gives her diary strips a comedic charge that most examples in this genre lack. There's a crudeness, both in terms of style and subject matter, that works because of its intentionality and a sense of the artist appearing not to give a fuck. Yet, from the lengthy introduction in E. Joy Comix #1 alone, it's clear that Mehr is keenly interested in honing her craft, both in terms of the actual drawings and the jokes. 

If her comics are similar to something, I'd say she's close to the spirit of Newave-era minicomics, with a lot of her drawings reminding me of Sam Henderson. Her jokes aren't as sharply assured as Henderson's at this stage, but there's also a personal element that gives them a certain charge. Mehr's jokes are funny, her drawings are funny, and her cartooning is clear and fluid. I'm fascinated by the sketchbook pages she included here that are largely drawings of dicks (with the occasional drawings of female forms to round things out), but even these drawings are lively and fun. Mehr has a knack for self-deprecation that pushes a premise all the way, like a comic about perseverance that somehow veers into dog-fucking as a metaphor. Even Mehr realizes that is nonsensical, but she declares she's going to do it anyway. The longer stories at the end are both pretty dumb, but there are kernels of darker material at their core, like a story about watching the film The Goonies, which had its origin in depression. Anxiety is at the heart of other strips. Everything is grist for the mill, but Mehr never lets the reader forget why some of these laughs should feel uneasy.

Sea Legs, by Jules Bakes & Niki Smith

Jules Bakes and Niki Smith's middle-grade memoir Sea Legs has a unique hook: Bakes spent much of her childhood as a boat kid. In other words, her parents were itinerant sailors who would rarely stay long in one area, taking on jobs before sailing on to a new locale. This particular narrative begins with her parents deciding to go on a year-long trip to the Caribbean, which meant Bakes (renamed Janey for this story) went along with them, being home-schooled a few hours a day. 

This narrative has a lot going for it. The character hook is irresistible, and Bakes leans into it all the way, in a manner one would expect for Scholastic. Bakes drops all sorts of nautical terms and ocean-related factoids throughout the book, which makes sense given its target audience likely is unaware of this information. Bakes manages to make it a comfortable part of the narrative, given Janey's own obsession with facts and stories. Janey is an amiable narrator; goofy and awkward but also loving, curious, and loyal. Smith's playful, lively, and at times whimsical art is crucial in conveying the narrative, as she fully captures Janey's clunky awkwardness that goes hand-in-hand with her wild, expressive enthusiasm. Smith also has the chops to portray the ship and life at sea, breathing life into the narrative with a blend of cartoony facial expressions and realistic backgrounds. 

The plot is less important than the world-building here; while there's a hurricane that throws everything into disarray, the plot is more in support of the central theme of the book: the matter of being, in the philosophical sense. For a lighthearted book in some ways, Janey's character is one who has a deep sense of the void, of non-being, and she fears it. She cannot escape the thought of it, as it is personified in this cold, blue hole in the ocean that was over an underwater cave. It represented the absence of everything, but above all else, it represented ultimate isolation and disconnection. From the very beginning of the book, Janey values friendship above all else. Leaving behind her best friend from school is devastating to her, even as she tries to stay connected through writing letters. 

Of course, the problem with existential terror is that by its very nature, it is isolating and even solipsistic. Janey's terrible loneliness at sea drives a wedge between her and her parents, but especially her mom. When she makes friends with a cold, aloof fellow boat kid named Astrid, it alleviates her loneliness but not her sense of belonging. Astrid is desperate for her own sense of connection, but Janey doesn't understand why until much later. Bakes hints at Astrid's trauma in being around an abusive and alcoholic father who is charged with taking care of her younger siblings, especially in relation to the things that Janey has but cannot see: loving parents. 

Janey's obstinacy is what she has to work through in the course of the story, as well as the feeling of self-absorption that inhibits her ability to fully empathize with others. This leads to some adventures that she gets into precisely to feel older and cooler than she actually is, to seek meaning, and to fill the gap of existential dread with adrenaline. It is fitting that the ending is an anti-climax in some ways; she never gets to read Astrid's last letter to her, never hears from her again, and even the beloved Merimaid, her parents' boat, is badly battered by the storm. All that remains is to write her a letter and put it in a bottle, repair the ship, and try again--a little older and a little wiser. 

45 Days Of CCS, 2024-25: The Index

Thanks to all who followed this year's iteration of this year's feature on the students and alumni from the Center For Cartoon Studies. Below is a list of every entry and a link to that specific article.

1. Emma Hunsinger.

2. Bread Tarleton.

3. Chuck Forsman.

4. Iris Yan.

5. Daryl Seitchik.

6. Steve Thueson.

7. Jarad Greene.

8. Hannah Kaplan, Anna McGlynn.

9. Ellie Liota, Al Varela, Iona Fox.

10. Andy Warner.

11. Amelia B.C. Dutton (ABCD).

12. Wayne Carter, King Ray.

13. E.B. Sciales, Gabrielle Tinnirello.

14. Colleen Frakes.

15. Ana Two.

16. Faith Cox, Penina Gal.

17. Pat Leonhard.

18. 666 Comics.

19. Annabel Driussi, Tom O'Brien, Ashley Jablonski.

20. Alex Washburn.

21. Crank Case, Iris Gudeon.

22. Filipa Estrela.

23. Riffraff.

24. Violet Kitchen.

25. Adrienne Adkins.

26. Anna Sellheim.

27. Natalie Norris, Keena.

28. Robyn Smith, Dylan Sparks, Kat Ghastly.

29. Michael Albrecht, Ben Adkins.

30. Emil O'Melia.

31. Coco Fox.

32. Em Sauter.

33. Edea Lee Giang, Noah Mease.

34. Sofia Martin, Ria Garcia, Andy Lindquist.

35. Simon Reinhardt.

36. Maia Foster O'Neal.

37. Fernanda Nocedal.

38. Fern Pellerin.

39. Ruby Arnone, Clover Ajamie, Taylor Hunt.

40. Hole.

41. Fantology 4. 

42. Sandy Steen Bartholomew.

43. Rust Belt Review 6.

44. Luke Healy.

45. Kit Anderson.

45 Days Of CCS, #45: Kit Anderson

Kit Anderson's Avery Hill collection of her short stories, Safer Places, is a big, warm hug of a book. Sure, it's barbed, haunted, and even desperate at times, with some characters who are yearning for comfort that never comes. But it's also resolutely compassionate toward all of their dreams, with unusual links between seemingly unrelated stories that build a tapestry of empathy or a house full of the titular safer (not always safe, but safer) places. 

I've reviewed many of the stories in this collection in their original minicomic or short story form, so I'm mostly going to comment on the sequencing and the way the themes were built. There are two different interstitial features in the book, both of which are fantasy-related in their own way. The first is "Quest," a series of anecdotes about a tiny wizard and the shopkeeps who wonder what he does all day. One sneers at this small being doing anything useful with mushrooms and twine, while the other is resolutely certain that the wizard is more capable and powerful than he looks. The wizard is a Radagast-type figure, taking care of nature and helping things grow and heal in the face of war and disaster. Quest appears as the comic the sole protagonist is reading in "The World's Biggest Ball of Twine," which happens to be about a desperately lonely man who is clinging to the memory of a tourist trap trip he spent with a loved one, connecting moments to memories like snapshots. 

The other track of interstitials is the "Sleep Tape" grouping. Each of them is a two-track comic with a narrative that's a classic meditative (and functionally soporific). Each story has a different tone and function for these tapes. "Country Lane" is a story about someone who's unable to fully commit to a relationship, but the gentle tape somehow gently taps into their subconscious to lead them inevitably to the warmth of connection. "Forest Walk" is a futuristic story that grounds an isolated character through their day, substituting the cold efficiency of their routine with the pleasant ambling of a walk in the woods. "At The Seaside" repeats this idea, this time with a man trapped in rigid, cold routine being allowed to expand his consciousness into the night sky. 

There are other stories that explore variations on this theme. "The Basement" uses dream logic and a cat guide in order to have a boy work out grief and the anxiety of living in a transitional period. "Deep Breath" offers a brief glimpse of an underwater world. "Lookout Station" is about a lone scout at a station on another world whose sentient computer tries to guide it in a guided meditation but is resisted by the desperate pull of potential connection. "Wallpaper" similarly uses computer backgrounds in an attempt to enter this meditative state that promises freedom, escape, and safety. "Ride" uses a bike ride to escape an undesired move. "Wonders Of The Lost City" goes in the opposite direction, as the fantastical goal of a quest is too much to absorb, and the characters hastily retreat back to their mundane life.

"Weeds" is the centerpiece of the collection, about a college student who contracts a disease that causes her to sprout flowers from her body. The disease will eventually cause her to turn fully into a plant, so much of the story revolves around where she wants to end up. There's a sweet friend who offers her a place on her table, her overbearing mom wants her in her backyard, and the student is just trying to finish her poetry dissertation. Ultimately, she chooses to lie down in a park, but the transformation is not quite what she expects, as she transitions to a new, unknown phase of her life. Anderson works in a wide variety of visual styles here: sumptuous color for the wizard stories & "Wonders", colored pencil for "Weeds", spot color, color washes, and black & white. It all goes to the same conclusion: nothing ever stands still, no matter how much we might want it to. We either move on or we risk being trapped. 

45 Days Of CCS, #44: Luke Healy

After reading Luke Healy's Self-Esteem And The End Of The World, I thought that the book was the inevitable conclusion to the sort of books he's been doing the past several years. My immediate reaction was hoping that he was done with this direction. The book is so meta that it threatens to disappear up its own ass on multiple occasions, an effect that was not only obviously intentional, it was spelled out on the page. 

Healy reviews the entirety of his published output as part of the narrative, with a particular focus on his first long-form comic done at CCS, Of The Monstrous Pictures Of Whales, which I reviewed well over a decade ago. Healy's stand-in character (one that looks like and is named Luke Healy, of course) notes that this story was a thinly disguised, gender-swapped story about a trip taken with his brother and mother, one that had other implications as he was just coming to grips with the idea that he was gay. This was when Healy was still bothering to conceal that his stories were mostly autobiographical, a disguise that fell away in Americana (about hiking in America and coming to grips on the influence the country had on an Irishman like him) and was further perpetuated in The Con Artists (where Healy puts on a mustache as a "disguise" while alerting the reader of this).

The punchline is that Self-Esteem And The End Of The World is built on largely fictional chronological elements, while the emotional beats feel genuine. None of that is important information for a reader; I'm interested in a story, not a confession or (worse) a series of anecdotes. What is definitely consistent with recent books is that making them at least autobiographical on the surface has led him to indulge some of his worst storytelling instincts. In particular, his relentless self-negativity and overall sad-sack behavior have become less and less funny and more and more tedious. Healy is obviously well aware of this, critiquing his own self-indulgence, albeit in a self-indulgent manner. 

That self-indulgence, ironically is what turns the book around. After a bunch of self-pitying shenanigans with his twin brother and his wedding (where Healy gets humiliated live on camera), Healy keeps jumping forward in time for more self-indulgent shenanigans that veer between self-aggrandizing (and painfully unaware) and self-pitying. However, in the background, the disastrous effects of climate change start wreaking havoc in dramatic ways. Massive floods nearly lead to the death of Healy and his mom after he flees a job that he's messed up. After the death of his brother, he almost dies in a rockslide on a Greek island, thanks to ground loosened by a flood. Even later, he travels to a Hollywood that's mostly underwater in order to visit a movie set adapting one of his comics. Hilariously, Healy doesn't dwell much on these increasingly alarming events, as he never wavers from his self-centeredness (and self-loathing) until the very end: Everything changes; all told, he was lucky. More than any of that, one senses just how exhausting it is to feel that the barbs you aim at the world are really meant for yourself. Outrage is tiring. Self-loathing is hard work. Even when he was being deliberately provoked by the director to lash out in a self-righteous fury, the older Healy expresses and understands, for the first time, the pointlessness of such gestures. 

It's hard to tell the boundary between Healy the person and Healy the artist and provocateur, and it really doesn't matter. This book feels like his attempt to excise feelings that had been festering for a long time, and the ever-clever Healy stretched them over multiple, absurd setpieces that amplified his deadpan but absurd sense of humor while zeroing in on shedding this sad-sack persona. Healy's best work (like in Permanent Press) had tremendous empathy for its many and (presumably) fictional characters, something that he rarely afforded to most of his own stand-in characters. Hopefully, this signals yet another new direction for Healy, one that perhaps returns to more expressive and varied art. Especially in comparison to his earlier comics, this smoothed-out version of Healy's art felt monotonous, something that felt clear with the inclusion of his own work. 

45 Days Of CCS, #43: Rust Belt Review 6

Sean Knickerbocker is always willing to take a lot of chances when putting together an issue of Rust Belt Review. Some of them don't pay off, but some of the anthology's best entries are often among the best comics of the year. In this issue, that's certainly true of Ivy Lynn Allie's story, "The Kingdom." Allie tells what's sort of an anti-coming-of-age story about two pre-teen girls, Nico and Chrissy. Nico is the narrator, and she talks about playing during the summer with a clearly surly Chrissy, who is a horrible friend and a borderline bully. There are a series of events and characters--a sleazy handyman, an overbearing mother, minor crimes--that would seem to indicate a major trauma. Except none of that happened, and things went back to normal. It's a story that is defiantly anecdotal, yet there are aspects of it that hint at lingering personal issues for Nico. As always, Allie's cartooning is expressive and cartoony, with just enough of a fine control on line to contain Allie's flourishes. 

Knickerbocker's own "Best Of Three" serial reaches its penultimate chapter, and the exceedingly seedy quality of the narrative is matched only by the pathetic and self-delusional quality of its cast. It's Knickerbocker's best-realized long narrative, and I'm excited for the final chapter. Knickerbocker's swerves and desperate characters remind me of the film work of the Coen Brothers. 

There are several other very good stories in the anthology. Valerie Light's "How To Walk" is an exceptionally well-drawn and cartooned takedown of the femininity industrial complex, especially with regard to how young women and girls are taught certain "standards" of how to walk, dress, act, etc so that they can successfully marry. Maggie Umber's "Those Fucking Eyes" is another triumph for her, with a series of splash page drawings that tell a loose narrative about desire and being desired. Andrew Greenstone's "Lemurman 2" is a successful bit of horror pastiche that's notable for his grotesque, exaggerated cartooning. Ana Pando's interstitials are all intriguing and enigmatic, especially the piece about finding a double of herself and getting no explanations. 

The rest of the stories are less memorable like Matt MacFarland's unfortunate entry in the "dudes gettin' laid" genre; slight pieces from John Sammis and David Caldwell, a horror parody piece by Brian Canini that felt repetitive in comparison to Greenstone; and a gritty piece by Alex Nall that felt a bit too much like Knickerbocker's piece. There are more misses in this volume than in most of the other issues, but the best pieces are truly outstanding.