Here are all of the reviews, features and interviews I wrote for TCJ.com in 2011. Note that the website went through a reboot in March of 2011, with articles from prior to that date appearing on the "classic" TCJ site. My favorites from this year include my reviews of Habibi, Gay Genius, The Collected John G Miller, The Heavy Hand and Habitat #2, as well as my feature on Dave Kiersh. I think both of the interviews featured here (Mike Dawson and Mari Naomi) are worth reading.
Papercutter #17, edited by Greg Means 12/21/2011
Gay Genius, edited by Annie Murphy 12/19/2011
Freddy Stories, by Melissa Mendes 11/30/2011
Pope Hats #2, by Ethan Rilly 11/22/2011
Mark Twain's Autobiography, by Michael Kupperman 11/16/2011
Hark! A Vagrant by Kate Beaton 11/11/2011
Habibi, by Craig Thompson 11/4/2011
The Burden of Promise: Fusion and the Comics of Michael DeForge 10/5/2011
Collected John G Miller, 1990-99 9/30/2011
Little Nothings V4, by Lewis Trondheim 9/13/2011
The Mike Dawson Interview 9/8/2011
Americus, by MK Reed & Jonathan Hill 9/2/2011
Too Small To Fail, by Keith Knight 8/25/2011
I Will Bite You!, by Joseph Lambert 8/17/2011
Island of 100000 Graves, by Jason & Fabien Vehlmann 8/8/2011
Huntington, WV 'On The Fly', by Harvey Pekar & Summer McClinton 7/22/2011
Level Up, by Gene Luen Yang and Thien Pham 7/18/2011
Sundays 4, Forever Changes, edited by Chuck Forsman 7/8/2011
Lost Boy: The Comics of Dave Kiersh 6/30/2011
The Next Day, by John Porcellino, Paul Peterson, Jason Gilmore 6/28/2011
Willie & Joe: Back Home, by Bill Mauldin 6/18/2011
Dungeon Monstres, Vol 4, by Lewis Trondheim, Joann Sfar 6/9/2011
The Heavy Hand, by Chris Cilla 6/3/2011
Melvin Monster Volume 3, by John Stanley 5/18/2011
Habitat #2, by Dunja Jankovic 5/6/2011
Top 25 Minis of 2010 5/4/2011
Blammo #7, by Noah Van Sciver 4/28/2011
Approximate Continuum Comics, by Lewis Trondheim 4/15/2011
Eric Reynolds and the End of Mome 4/12/2011
Gazeta, edited by Lisa Mangum 4/8/2011
The Latest From Revival House 3/16/2011
Switching Between Languages: An Interview With MariNaomi 3/15/2011
Lewis and Clark, by Nick Bertozzi. 3/2/2011
Twilight of the Assholes, by Tim Kreider. 2/28/2011
Interiorae #4, by Gabriella Giandella . 2/26/2011
Grotesque #4, by Sergio Ponchionne. 2/23/2011
Niger #3, by Leila Marzocchi. 2/21/2011
Sammy The Mouse #3, by Zak Sally. 2/19/2011
The Broadcast, by Eric Hobbs & Noel Tuazon. 2/16/2011
Comics as Poetry 2: L. Nichols, Malcy Duff 2/14/2011
Comics as Poetry 1: Jason T Miles, Aaron Cockle 2/12/2011
Mineshaft #26 2/9/2011
Minicomics: Candy or Medicine, Dina Kelberman, Kel Crum, Lydia Conklin, Desmond Reed 2/7/2011
Nipper, by Doug Wright 2/5/2011
Solipsistic Pop, Volume 3 2/3/2011
Tubby V 1, by John Stanley 2/2/2011
Nancy V 2, by John Stanley 1/31/2011
Minicomics from Alexis Frederick-Frost, Sean Ford and Noel Freibert 1/29/2011
Curio Cabinet, by John Brodowski 1/28/2011
Scenes From An Impending Marriage, by Adrian Tomine 1/26/2011
Toner by Jonathan Wayshak; Boston Gastronauts, by C. Che Salazar; Negative Too by Phonzie Davis; The Short Term, by Nick Jeffrey; Interview With Delicious Storm, by Si-Yeon Min 1/24/2011
Big Questions #15, by Anders Nilsen 1/22/2011
Berlin #17, by Jason Lutes 1/19/2011
Palookaville #20, by Seth 1/17/2011
Borderland by Dan Archer, World War III Illustrated #41 1/15/2011
Hotwire V 3 1/12/2011
Eden, by Pablo Holmberg 1/10/2011
Minicomics: Sacha Mardou, Kyle Baddeley, Ryan Cecil Smith 1/8/2011
Minicomics: Francois Vigneault, Johnathan Baylis, ES Fletschinger 1/5/2011
The Whale, by Aidan Koch 1/3/2011
1-800-MICE #5, by Matthew Thurber
Showing posts with label gabriella giandelli. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gabriella giandelli. Show all posts
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Building Story: Interiorae
Gabriella Giandelli's Interiorae was orignally published in duotone as part of the sadly defunct Ignatz line of comics co-published by Igort's Coconino Press imprint. This collection of the original issues adds additional colors, including a rich, kaleidiscopic sequence toward the end. It was one of the quieter, more contemplative comics in the Ignatz line, featuring lush but restrained art and a story that straddled the line between fantasy and quotidian reality. It's a story about the relationships humans have with their dwelling places and the ways in which our collective dreams fuel the life cycle of a building. Interiorae chronicles the decline and fall of one such building, visiting with characters who are either moving on with their lives or stuck in a repeating loop of dysfunctional behavior. After the reader is slowly introduced to the desperate hopes and dreams of several of the flat's inhabitants, one is then introduced to a magical, invisible white rabbit as he closely observes their lives before he relates these stories to his master: a dark, blobbish creature that lives in the basement, hidden from all. The reader learns that this creature fancies itself crucial in the life cycle of humans, purging them of their toxic and weird dreams. There's no question, however, that the creature needs humans in order to exist. Dreams are very much a commodity for the "master", and he despairs that the most recent batch lacks quality control.
There's a real verisimilitude in the way Giandelli depicts the everyday life of her characters, both young and old. Secrets, lies and mysteries all abound here, but the device of an omniscient observer renders them petty and silly. Many of the characters are profoundly lonely and alienated, and deal with it in different ways: drugs, affairs, screaming arguments, and fantasies. The book's iciest character, an executive who's fooling around with a woman who herself is involved in an affair, loves to spy on others with his telescope, desperate to break free of the boredom in his life. There's a drug addict who's been hiding in the basement for much of his life, afraid of the world at large. There's a ghostly family that died in a plane wreck that inhabits an abandoned apartment, reliving their happiest memories. There are housewives who have affairs simply to have something to do with their day. Indeed, even the "master" is tired of their affairs, their lies, and their boring interests.
Giandelli's art is rich and eye-catching, though she offsets that quality with a flat color wash to get at the flatness of everyday routine that she depicts. The flatness of scene matches the flatness of affect of many of the protagonists. The one person who seems to transcend this treadmill is an old woman who is starting to flash back to her childhood. She turns out to be the key character in the book, as her final task in life is to find her way to the other side. She's the only character the "master" finds interesting, because her interests transcend quotidian details. Even as others think she's crazy or confused, the "master" knows that she's a seeker whose presence signals something ominous.
The pace of these comics is rather languid, but Giandelli's pages are beautiful enough to hold one's eye, and the tension between fantasy and reality is thick enough to keep the reader guessing. It's that tension that makes the book worth reading, because either element alone would make for a rather routine read. The greater mystery of the fantasy element of the series gives the book's voyeuristic quality some depth. That fantasy element is used sparingly and mostly as a framing device, allowing the book to unfold as a series of character studies. There's a stirring beauty to be found here in the essential, profound sadness of so many of its characters. This is a comic with a number of sharp contrasts that don't fully emerge until after it's been digested. It's the story of the lives of the people in the building: quotidian dramas that seem like life and death to them, but seem rather quiet and muted when compared to this mysterious, ominous mythological narrative. The figures are simply but expressively depicted, but the intensity of Giandelli's hatching and shading on each page adds a sort of neurotic underpinning to everyone's lives. Though one sense all along that these characters are doomed, there's never a sense of judgment or contempt on Giandelli's part toward anyone in the book, even the pettiest or most selfish of characters. It's a humane and even gentle approach toward dealing with their very human emotions and reactions, even as the end of the book is shockingly harsh and even funny in its abruptness. Those who were ready to move on knew to leave, but those who were trapped were doomed.
There's a real verisimilitude in the way Giandelli depicts the everyday life of her characters, both young and old. Secrets, lies and mysteries all abound here, but the device of an omniscient observer renders them petty and silly. Many of the characters are profoundly lonely and alienated, and deal with it in different ways: drugs, affairs, screaming arguments, and fantasies. The book's iciest character, an executive who's fooling around with a woman who herself is involved in an affair, loves to spy on others with his telescope, desperate to break free of the boredom in his life. There's a drug addict who's been hiding in the basement for much of his life, afraid of the world at large. There's a ghostly family that died in a plane wreck that inhabits an abandoned apartment, reliving their happiest memories. There are housewives who have affairs simply to have something to do with their day. Indeed, even the "master" is tired of their affairs, their lies, and their boring interests.
Giandelli's art is rich and eye-catching, though she offsets that quality with a flat color wash to get at the flatness of everyday routine that she depicts. The flatness of scene matches the flatness of affect of many of the protagonists. The one person who seems to transcend this treadmill is an old woman who is starting to flash back to her childhood. She turns out to be the key character in the book, as her final task in life is to find her way to the other side. She's the only character the "master" finds interesting, because her interests transcend quotidian details. Even as others think she's crazy or confused, the "master" knows that she's a seeker whose presence signals something ominous.
The pace of these comics is rather languid, but Giandelli's pages are beautiful enough to hold one's eye, and the tension between fantasy and reality is thick enough to keep the reader guessing. It's that tension that makes the book worth reading, because either element alone would make for a rather routine read. The greater mystery of the fantasy element of the series gives the book's voyeuristic quality some depth. That fantasy element is used sparingly and mostly as a framing device, allowing the book to unfold as a series of character studies. There's a stirring beauty to be found here in the essential, profound sadness of so many of its characters. This is a comic with a number of sharp contrasts that don't fully emerge until after it's been digested. It's the story of the lives of the people in the building: quotidian dramas that seem like life and death to them, but seem rather quiet and muted when compared to this mysterious, ominous mythological narrative. The figures are simply but expressively depicted, but the intensity of Giandelli's hatching and shading on each page adds a sort of neurotic underpinning to everyone's lives. Though one sense all along that these characters are doomed, there's never a sense of judgment or contempt on Giandelli's part toward anyone in the book, even the pettiest or most selfish of characters. It's a humane and even gentle approach toward dealing with their very human emotions and reactions, even as the end of the book is shockingly harsh and even funny in its abruptness. Those who were ready to move on knew to leave, but those who were trapped were doomed.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Sequart Reprints: The Ignatz Line: Sally, Igort, Giandelli, Sala
I've stated more than once that the Ignatz line of comics are undervalued and underdiscussed. The all-star lineup of artists (matched with an exquisite format, nice paper and top-notch production values) delivers issue after issue of superb reading. It's a particular treat to be exposed to so many non-American artists, especially the Italian artists whose work is particularly flattered by this format. I'm guessing the price point scares off some readers ($8 for 30 or 40 pages), as does the fact that these are serialized comics, not "graphic novels". These books, in my view, have single-handed revitalized the relevance of comics as periodicals, even if their overall impact has been muted.
Let's start with Delphine #3, the latest issue in Richard Sala's demented take on the Snow White fairy tale, told from the perspective of the male lead. The way that Sala obliquely refers to Snow White (a poisonous apple, deranged dwarves, a menacing forest) while reframing the story as a Sala-style tale of horror is truly inspired. As much as this book is a dark reworking of a fairy tale, it's also very much touches on horror-movie tropes. The protagonist experiences multiple dream fake-outs (twice dreaming he was reunited with his lost love Delphine, and twice waking to horror), unexplained danger (he'e never given the slightest clue as to what's happening or why), and an array of grotesque but familiar creatures who dog his every step. Sala's scratchy, wobbly line is a perfect fit for this kind of fractured fairy tale, both cartoony and grotesque. The brown color tone contributes to the dirty, grungy feel of this story.
The main weakness of this issue is that it felt much less like a complete story (which Sala had managed in the first two issues) and very much like a whiplash ride that leads to a cliffhanger. The hero met the one figure from Snow White we hadn't yet seen in the story (the wicked Queen), and it'll be interesting to see how Sala wraps up the story. Sala's protagonists are always very active and propulsive, but their actions don't necessarily always lead up to solutions. Given the relentless darkness of the series to date, it'll be interesting to see if the hero manages to actually find Delphine, and if so, what the nature of their reunion will be like.
Baobab #3, by series editor Igort, is another pitch-perfect, achingly beautiful comic. Igort's sense of composition alone is worth the price of admission; BAOBAB is the most strikingly attractive of the Ignatz books, where every page is worthy of simply being stared at. This is a deliberately-paced story involving multiple threads and locations and will take a while, I'm sensing to fully coalesce. Most of the action has centered on cartoonist Celestino of the fictional South American island nation of Parador. Thus far, Igort has thrown the kitchen sink at the reader in terms of themes, motifs and storytelling concerns.
The storyline involving Celestino is about the power of comics (including many pages of Celestino's own comics), the struggle to create art, the way art survives under an oppressive government, the nature of friendship and family, the relationship between science and spirituality, and the ways in which the unconscious guides everything. There's a sequence in which a mesmerist accidentally coaxes Celestino into confessing his love for his longtime friend Tecla that fits perfectly with Igort's exploration of spiritualist practices of the early 20th century and his obvious affection for his characters. On top of everything else, Igort's use of negative space is ingenious. In one panel where Celestino describes bad news as though he "had been kicked in the face by a willful mule", Igort draws an image of a man being kicked (with a starburst impact) by a donkey, the men rendered only in terms of shadow and light. He returned twice more to that particular visual motif, going from violence to understanding to cooperation.
We also get another glimpse of the young Japanese boy Hiroshi, who learns that his grandmother is dying. These pages incorporate some traditions of Japanese art, like the emphasis on landscape vs figure drawing, where the background becomes an important character in its own right. It's a bit frustrating as a reader to be given so little forward momentum regarding this part of the story, but the key to engaging BAOBAB is simply to enjoy the ride as best as possible without worrying too much about where things are headed.
In the last pages of Interiorae #3, the languidly-paced bit of mythology by Gabriella Giandelli, we finally start to get an explanation of why there was an anthropomorphic rabbit feeding dreams to a creature living in an apartment building's basement. This is a comic with a number of sharp contrasts that don't fully emerge until after it's been read. It's the story of the lives of the people in the building: quotidian dramas that seem like life and death to them, but seem rather quiet and muted when compared to this mysterious, ominous mythological narrative. The creature that feeds on dreams is a kind of godlike being, and the rabbit is his go-between. The implication is that he's performing some kind of service, and the fact that some people are able to detect him is a bad sign. The figures are simply but expressively, but the intensity of the hatching and shading on each page adds a sort of neurotic underpinning to everyone's lives. What seemed like the most rambling and episodic book in the Ignatz line may well end up having one of its most conventional narratives; the next issue will conclude the series.
Zak Sally's comics have always had a powerfully visceral quality to them, especially with regard to pain and confusion. I'm not talking about emotional pain, but rather the feel of splitting headaches, bones splintering, waves of nausea and the like. What's more is that he's able to play these sensations off for dark laughs, like in his gloriously rambling Sammy The Mouse #2. The opening sequence, where poor Sammy is in a field and gets poked in the head by the finger of god, was a hilarious one--especially when he's jolted out of a fitful sleep and awakes with a deadly hangover. Sally structurally takes us back to the first issue, where an unwelcome visitor demands that Sammy leave his house, and a voice from above tells him he must do so.
Like in the previous issue, the person rousting him from sleep is a lunatic. This time, it's a woman that Sammy has never met who insists that she knows him and must drag him off to a picnic. Sally's line is gloriously ragged and expressive, once again evoking a world suggestive of classic comic strips, only much grimier and more frightening. Sammy is constantly being propelled forward against his will, but finds ways to bend back against that influence. The woman (who oddly wears a fake mustache to look more "exotic") is an especially frustrating influence: she claims to know him, demands his time, never listens and never stops shouting enthusiastically. Meanwhile, there's all sorts of weirdness going on in the background: a short man with sharp teeth emerging from the ocean (who in the last issue mysteriously fired a gun), the disappearance of Sammy's friend Puppy-Boy, and some kind of oceanic prison. Above all else, it's frequently gruesomely funny. The scene where a rabbit buries a nail into the forehead of a drunken duck who was taunting him made me both flinch and laugh, which roughly sums up the experience of reading this book so far. I'm not sure where the narrative is going, but Sally's stories, no matter how odd they may seem, tend to eventually cohere.
Let's start with Delphine #3, the latest issue in Richard Sala's demented take on the Snow White fairy tale, told from the perspective of the male lead. The way that Sala obliquely refers to Snow White (a poisonous apple, deranged dwarves, a menacing forest) while reframing the story as a Sala-style tale of horror is truly inspired. As much as this book is a dark reworking of a fairy tale, it's also very much touches on horror-movie tropes. The protagonist experiences multiple dream fake-outs (twice dreaming he was reunited with his lost love Delphine, and twice waking to horror), unexplained danger (he'e never given the slightest clue as to what's happening or why), and an array of grotesque but familiar creatures who dog his every step. Sala's scratchy, wobbly line is a perfect fit for this kind of fractured fairy tale, both cartoony and grotesque. The brown color tone contributes to the dirty, grungy feel of this story.
The main weakness of this issue is that it felt much less like a complete story (which Sala had managed in the first two issues) and very much like a whiplash ride that leads to a cliffhanger. The hero met the one figure from Snow White we hadn't yet seen in the story (the wicked Queen), and it'll be interesting to see how Sala wraps up the story. Sala's protagonists are always very active and propulsive, but their actions don't necessarily always lead up to solutions. Given the relentless darkness of the series to date, it'll be interesting to see if the hero manages to actually find Delphine, and if so, what the nature of their reunion will be like.
Baobab #3, by series editor Igort, is another pitch-perfect, achingly beautiful comic. Igort's sense of composition alone is worth the price of admission; BAOBAB is the most strikingly attractive of the Ignatz books, where every page is worthy of simply being stared at. This is a deliberately-paced story involving multiple threads and locations and will take a while, I'm sensing to fully coalesce. Most of the action has centered on cartoonist Celestino of the fictional South American island nation of Parador. Thus far, Igort has thrown the kitchen sink at the reader in terms of themes, motifs and storytelling concerns.
The storyline involving Celestino is about the power of comics (including many pages of Celestino's own comics), the struggle to create art, the way art survives under an oppressive government, the nature of friendship and family, the relationship between science and spirituality, and the ways in which the unconscious guides everything. There's a sequence in which a mesmerist accidentally coaxes Celestino into confessing his love for his longtime friend Tecla that fits perfectly with Igort's exploration of spiritualist practices of the early 20th century and his obvious affection for his characters. On top of everything else, Igort's use of negative space is ingenious. In one panel where Celestino describes bad news as though he "had been kicked in the face by a willful mule", Igort draws an image of a man being kicked (with a starburst impact) by a donkey, the men rendered only in terms of shadow and light. He returned twice more to that particular visual motif, going from violence to understanding to cooperation.
We also get another glimpse of the young Japanese boy Hiroshi, who learns that his grandmother is dying. These pages incorporate some traditions of Japanese art, like the emphasis on landscape vs figure drawing, where the background becomes an important character in its own right. It's a bit frustrating as a reader to be given so little forward momentum regarding this part of the story, but the key to engaging BAOBAB is simply to enjoy the ride as best as possible without worrying too much about where things are headed.
In the last pages of Interiorae #3, the languidly-paced bit of mythology by Gabriella Giandelli, we finally start to get an explanation of why there was an anthropomorphic rabbit feeding dreams to a creature living in an apartment building's basement. This is a comic with a number of sharp contrasts that don't fully emerge until after it's been read. It's the story of the lives of the people in the building: quotidian dramas that seem like life and death to them, but seem rather quiet and muted when compared to this mysterious, ominous mythological narrative. The creature that feeds on dreams is a kind of godlike being, and the rabbit is his go-between. The implication is that he's performing some kind of service, and the fact that some people are able to detect him is a bad sign. The figures are simply but expressively, but the intensity of the hatching and shading on each page adds a sort of neurotic underpinning to everyone's lives. What seemed like the most rambling and episodic book in the Ignatz line may well end up having one of its most conventional narratives; the next issue will conclude the series.
Zak Sally's comics have always had a powerfully visceral quality to them, especially with regard to pain and confusion. I'm not talking about emotional pain, but rather the feel of splitting headaches, bones splintering, waves of nausea and the like. What's more is that he's able to play these sensations off for dark laughs, like in his gloriously rambling Sammy The Mouse #2. The opening sequence, where poor Sammy is in a field and gets poked in the head by the finger of god, was a hilarious one--especially when he's jolted out of a fitful sleep and awakes with a deadly hangover. Sally structurally takes us back to the first issue, where an unwelcome visitor demands that Sammy leave his house, and a voice from above tells him he must do so.
Like in the previous issue, the person rousting him from sleep is a lunatic. This time, it's a woman that Sammy has never met who insists that she knows him and must drag him off to a picnic. Sally's line is gloriously ragged and expressive, once again evoking a world suggestive of classic comic strips, only much grimier and more frightening. Sammy is constantly being propelled forward against his will, but finds ways to bend back against that influence. The woman (who oddly wears a fake mustache to look more "exotic") is an especially frustrating influence: she claims to know him, demands his time, never listens and never stops shouting enthusiastically. Meanwhile, there's all sorts of weirdness going on in the background: a short man with sharp teeth emerging from the ocean (who in the last issue mysteriously fired a gun), the disappearance of Sammy's friend Puppy-Boy, and some kind of oceanic prison. Above all else, it's frequently gruesomely funny. The scene where a rabbit buries a nail into the forehead of a drunken duck who was taunting him made me both flinch and laugh, which roughly sums up the experience of reading this book so far. I'm not sure where the narrative is going, but Sally's stories, no matter how odd they may seem, tend to eventually cohere.
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