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SEQUENTIAL CULTURE #1 25 Aug 02 |
The Cult of the Writer |
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JULIAN DARIUS |
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One of the major phenomena occurring in
American comic books in the last two decades has been the cult of the writer,
often in competition with the cult of the artist or illustrator. Various years have seen gradual and sudden
shifts of power between these two cults.
It is no coincidence that the cult of the writer corresponds with the
rise of more complex narratives and the growing trend towards more literary
and high art values in American comics.
This essay shall consider the history of the cult of the writer,
examine its alternatives, and then address its implications for the study of
comic books. History |
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It may be
argued that the omission of writers and artists names [in the late 1930s
and early 1940s] was not a grave injustice, since comics were frequently
produced by committee, or more accurately by hurried collaborations. |
In the early days of original American
comic books, after comics were exclusively reprints of newspaper comic
strips, both writers and artists names were omitted from publication. This period, beginning in the late 1930s
and at its height during World War II when American comics sold millions to
U.S. troops, was generally one of great corporate control of comic book
production, though those corporations were often confined to small New York
offices, or rooms passing as such.
Indeed, it may be argued that the omission of writers and artists
names was not a grave injustice, since comics were frequently produced by
committee, or more accurately by hurried collaborations. The stories of comic book artists in the
early forties being given up to 64 pages (then the typical length of a comic
book) to illustrate over a weekend, then calling their comic book artist
friends and frantically producing the comic through an assembly-line process
in which one person penciled most of the figures, the next most of the
backgrounds, the next finishing and correcting the pencils, the next doing
foreground inks, the next background inks, and the next completing the inks,
or some variation on this system, the various artists often tiring and
switching roles, all while eating jury-rigged meals and ironically talking on
comic book theory (though they didnt call it as such) while producing
product -- since thats what it was -- with not only no incentive towards
individual style but actual incentive against it, abound. The dont-ask-dont-tell policy
proliferated with the company: as
long as the pages appeared on the often ridiculous timetable set, no one
cared who had done the actual work, and so long as the art was passable,
which simply meant that someone might buy it after leafing through it. Even Will Eisner, drafted for war while
his The Spirit was appearing as a comic pamphlet inserted into
newspapers, used writers and artists without acknowledging them at his studio,
set up in competition with bigger, more typical companies. Though the likes of Wally Wood anonymously
graced the pages of The Spirit and its quality was decidedly superior
to the comics of the other companies, Eisner did those companies policy of
creative anonymity one better by not only omitting the names of writers and
artists but actually using those writers and artists as ghosts. This occurred despite that those writers
and artists, unlike those working for bigger companies late into the night in
emergency sessions in someones New York apartment, were actually known to
Eisners studio. Incidentally, lest we be too harsh, the
same practice continues today in newspaper strips, for which the credited
creator almost always has assistants, uncredited, to deal with the demands of
a literally daily schedule. Indeed,
the same practice may also be seen in American comic books to this day, in as
much as pencilers and inkers often have uncredited assistants who, say, do a
few pages to help meet the demands of monthly publication. Both are public secrets, rarely
acknowledged but in private, or in interviews after the fact, but known to
all involved. Indeed, one reason certain American comic books are late is not
only because the artists are more meticulous than most but because they
refuse to use assistants. The same
phenomenon also applies to writers, albeit more rarely. It was, apparently
(though not surprisingly), Grant Morrisons bragging to friends that led to
the revelation that he had acted as ghostwriter for his friend Mark Millar on
The Authority #28. |
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Stan Lees
acclaim at Marvel may be seen as an elevation of the position of the
writer but not of the writer as writer. |
In the 1960s, there was the rise of Stan
Lee as writer and Jack Kirby as artist at Marvel Comics, both transforming,
respectively, the writing and the art of the industry. By this time, writers and artists were
being credited, famously at Marvel Comics with superlatives attached in
typical Stan Lee rhetorical fashion:
Sensational Stan Lee and Battlin Jack Kirby, et cetera. That Stan Lee went on to receive
attribution as presenter (as in Stan Lee presents ... ) of all Marvel
comics should be taken at best as a precursor of the cult of the writer: after all, Stan Lee was (and remains, as
his sporadic writing jobs in recent years has shown) not much of a writer in
the sense of the writer as artist, as sophisticated shaper of ideas and
narrative. At the risk of making a
strained comparison, he was the Alfred Hitchcock of comics: he knew how to melodramatically enhance
suspense, crafting tales with a realistic tone but ultimately flawed in terms
of narrative realism (more pronounced in Lees case, though less apparent in
Hitchcocks given his use of genres without flying and metahumanly strong men
in tights with campy codenames). Both
Lee and Hitchcock transformed a medium, but they did so based on their own
admittedly good instincts, constructing melodramatic and entertaining tales
but rarely more than gesturing at philosophical depth. These were not craftsmen but men of gut,
men with a feel, rather than an understanding, of what would make their
audiences react. Lees acclaim at
Marvel may be seen as an elevation of the position of the writer but
not of the writer as writer, at least not in the modern sense as
conscious craftsman. In the 1970s, certain writers achieved
prominence, especially at DC Comics.
One was Jack Kirby, newly writing tales as well as illustrating;
though his comics were a failure commercially, his writing, though more
uneven than Lees, achieved poetic heights far greater than Lee, a
demonstration that says more about Lee as a writer than it does about Kirby
as a writer, for all of Kirbys boldness as a writer (just as he was bold
with his dynamic figures of radically foreshortened limbs). The 1970s also saw social relevancy in
comics, particularly in two stories dealing with drugs, however
simplistically, one at Marvel Comics with Spider-Man and the other at DC
Comics in Green Lantern, written by Dennis (or Denny) ONeil and
illustrated by Neal Adams. ONeil
also wrote, often with Adams illustrating, Batman stories that returned the
character to more realistic tales of detection and death, as well as Superman
stories that eradicated Kryptonite (which had only existed as a convenient
plot device to give a nearly all-powerful character a weakness and thus make
him more write-able), removed much of Supermans powers, and made him a TV
reporter instead of a newspaper reporter (thus updating him for the times as
well as making his frequent on-the-job transitions into Superman more
difficult). The phenomenon of social
relevancy in 1970s American comic books, often studied, has typically not
been tied to the cult of the writer, but social relevancy as a phenomenon was
nothing but an attempt, never embraced but by a few titles, to drag comic
book narrative, bound since Lee to camp, into the real world, complete with
problems, and to address them more seriously than the infrequent instances in
which hippies had derisively appeared in 1960s comics (as when Jimmy Olsen
was temporarily transformed into a hippy and denounced Superman). The late 1970s and early 1980s saw the
first burgeoning of the cult of the artist, which had its roots in Kirby just
as the cult of the writer had its roots, however primitive, in Lee. Not only had Kirbys coming to DC been
proclaimed in advertising -- blurbs read KIRBY IS HERE! -- but Neil Adams
and other artists began taking on higher profiles as well. Adams in particular has been ignored in
the history of this period largely due to his opposition to the two large
American comic book publishing houses, particularly Marvel Comics -- an
opposition which has seen his work occasionally reprinted, though rarely
promoted in industry lore and letters columns, largely the source of comic
book information until relatively recently.
Adams, whose art had innovatively featured panels of bizarre shape and
layouts that began to mirror their contents, left the mainstream publishers
and campaigned for Marvel Comics to return the original art of Jack Kirby,
which was his due under law despite that Marvel owned the copyright on
it. Marvel resisted, finally doing so
only in part and only after certain waivers had been signed. This, perhaps more than Adamss
innovations, fame, or voluntary departure, may be seen as an important step
in the cult of the artist, in as much as Adams and others directly campaigned
for the rights of their prime of the comic book artist. The real dawning of the cult of the writer
came in the mid-1980s with the rise to prominence of Alan Moore. Moore, who had been working in England on
stories serialized in small installments, came to American attention on Swamp
Thing, where his sophisticated writing not only saved a title on the
verge of cancellation but lifted it into critical and commercial prominence,
leading to DC Comics decision to remove the seal of the Comics Code
Authority, the censoring body for comic books established in the 1950s, and
to add the disclaimer / advertisement Sophisticated Suspense to the books
cover -- a watershed moment in the history of American comic book
writing. Moore went on not only to
occasional stories featuring DC super-heroes, most prominently Superman
(including the so-called Last Superman Story and a story in an annual that
featured a dystopian Krypton as well as the implication that Robin lusted
after Wonder Woman) and Batman (in Batman: The Killing Joke), but also to Watchmen, a 12-issue
maxi-series (or long mini-series, or simply a finite series) in which every
issue featured 32 pages of artistic content, a subtle and unique design for
the covers, and a story of astounding depth, both structurally and in terms
of meaning. Illustrated by Dave Gibbons, Watchmen achieved
international critical attention and success, suddenly elevating the comic
book writer, in particular, to a new level of sophistication and celebrity. Approximately during the same time, Frank
Miller rose from penciler to writer as well as penciler on Daredevil
at Marvel Comics. Millers artistic
design, inked by Klaus Janson, featured Eisneresque cityscapes and attempts
to illustrate Daredevils super-hearing on the page. More importantly, however, was Millers
writing, which mixed humor and elements of the absurd with realistic
violence, weaponry, ninjas, and phenomenally powerful gangsters. His character Elektra, a ninja and love
interest for Daredevil, had an apt name and origin, as Millers storyline
featuring her attained a quality of Greek tragedy, ending with her death,
despite her popularity, and later her apparent resurrection, though Miller
subtly had her never speak with Daredevil after being resurrected, instead
laying emphasis on her conquest of her own past weakness and longing. Miller then moved to DC Comics, where his
300-page Ronin, which he both wrote and illustrated, served as an
artistic testing ground for his 200-page Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, which achieved international
critical attention and success with its depiction of an elderly Batmans
return to vigilantism in a tale filled with violence. These works were breakthroughs in terms of
their panel composition and pacing on the page as well as in terms of their
writing, and both would be profoundly influential on American comics, but the
writing would receive more attention.
That Miller represented the cult of the writer can also be seen in
those works during this period in which he wrote but did not illustrate,
including the Born Again storyline in Daredevil, which featured
Daredevils life destroyed and his contemplation of murder when his secret
identity is discovered by a foe, and the realistic Year One storyline in Batman,
which told of Batmans first year as a vigilante and featured a Catwoman who
was a whore, both of which were illustrated by David Mazzucchelli -- as well
as Elektra: Assassin and Daredevil: Love and War, both illustrated by Bill
Sienkiewicz and featuring fractured, if not postmodern, narratives. |
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The mid-1980s, particularly with the
success of Watchmen and Batman:
The Dark Knight Returns, saw the sudden birth of the cult of the
writer. Narrative maturity, as well
as complexity, and works of long lengths became hallmarks of the
sophisticated comic book writer, the cult of which certainly had antecedents
and ancestors in terms of the graphic literature involved, but none that
catapulted the writer as writer to national and international attention. In the wake of this phenomenon, both Moore
and Miller stopped working for DC Comics after disputes with a company
unaccustomed to the cult of the writer, these writers celebrity status and
willingness to make demands upon the previously nearly all-powerful
company. Besides the completion
through DC Comics of his V for Vendetta, actually begun in England in
the early 1980s, Moore went on to mostly independent work, all of which was
published slowly when at all, including the gradual completion through
Eclipse of his three books of Miracleman, also begun in England in the
early 1980s, as well as four new projects outside of the super-hero
genre: the socio-historic retelling
of the Jack the Ripper phenomenon in From Hell with artist Eddie
Campbell (completed after many years and subsequently adapted into film), a
moving tale of repressed childhood with artist Oscar Zarate entitled A
Small Killing (published as a 100-page original graphic novel), a tale of
lesbians in Lost Girls with artist Melinda Gebbie (now stalled for
about a decade), and a complex modern realistic tale with artist Bill
Sienkiewicz entitled Big Numbers (abandoned by the artist, then the
replacement artist, and never completed.
Besides the aforementioned works, Miller went on to write for
Hollywood and to produce comic books at Dark Horse Comics, including most
prominently his black-and-white series of detective graphic novels entitled Sin
City. |
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More on Neil Gaimans The Sandman |
But if Moore and Miller had somewhat
marginalized themselves from mainstream comic books, others took their place,
particularly at DC Comics small line of titles labeled mature readers,
including Swamp Thing, of which the line was the spiritual
inheritor. This line included Grant
Morrison on Doom Patrol, Jamie Delano on Hellblazer, Peter Milligan
on Shade, the Changing Man, and Rick Veitch on Swamp Thing --
prior to his departure over a dispute with DC Comics, following Alan Moores
lead just as he had followed Moore on the title. But no writer of the end of the 1980s and early 1990s would be
more important for the cult of the writer than Neil Gaiman, who wrote The
Sandman for the same line of mature readers books at DC. Gaiman had also written Black Orchid,
a 150-page graphic novel illustrated by Dave McKean and published by DC, and
would later take over Miracleman after Moores departure, but it was The
Sandman that, as it gradually increased in readership, became a
sensation. Never selling as well as the top super-hero titles, The Sandman
was nonetheless a commercial success. Perhaps more importantly, The Sandman
received awards and attention outside of the comics industry and not only
brought national and international attention to Gaiman but to comic books,
all of it focused through the lens of the cult of the writer. Indeed, The Sandman may be seen as
a fine illustration of this cult, since the artists on the title changed
quite frequently, with only one storyline being completed entirely by the
same artistic team. Given the
inconsistencies in illustration within storylines, not all of this turnover
could be attributed to the philosophy that different stories worked best with
different writers, a philosophy, however accurate, that developed as the
series continued in part to justify the frequent turnover. Indeed, Gaiman became a celebrity while
his artists were frequently unmentioned in media reviews and were treated as
of secondary importance. In turn, DC
not only granted him partial control over his characters and allowed the
series to run late without assigning other writers to script fill-ins, but
allowed him to end the series (after 75 issues, a special, and two
mini-series) when his epic reached completion, despite that it sold well and
American comics custom demanded that the title simply be passed to another
writer. |
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Read
the Vertigo Chronology More
on Grant Morrisons The Invisibles More
on Warren Elliss Transmetropolitan More
on Brian Azzarellos 100 Bullets |
Here was the cult of the writer in its
full implications. The artist was, by
contrast, disposable. It was the continuing
narrative of the series, its literary values and scope, which were of primary
importance. For his part, Gaiman
customarily praised the artists, fully aware that without them his scripts
would never have been transformed, complete with the idiosyncrasies of the
illustrators, into the comics so many loved and for which so many praised
him. But The Sandman
(typically referred to as Gaimans Sandman) was a literary endeavor,
increasingly written and marketed that way, and its relative successes and
failures illustrate the relative strengths and weaknesses of the cult of the
writer as a practice in American comic books. Certainly, the constantly shifting artists decreased the power
of the series, particularly in the first half of its run, during which an
artist frequently changed for no discernable narrative reason. In this, the elevation of the writer and
attention to literary or narrative concerns over those of the illustrator may
be seen as having a discernable downside.
But the final years of the series -- during which the shifts in
illustrators became attuned to the narrative and actually began to inform the
reading of the text, marking changes in narrator, for example -- may be seen
as arguing that the downside of shifting artists, when properly controlled,
may be transformed into an advantage.
This was especially true in a series in which the main character is
literally seen by different characters and having a different appearance,
depending on the viewers cultures.
Moreover, in as much as comic books tell stories, The Sandman
was a stunning narrative success -- a sustained narrative of high literary
quality, voraciously taking in not only DC Comics history but also
Shakespeare, Milton, Marco Polo, Augustus, and high literature and history
in general, typically with little or no explanation offered for those who did
not catch the references, although Gaimans tales were written so that such
readers could enjoy the stories anyway.
The all-but-universally acknowledge masterpiece that is The Sandman
owes its success in tremendous part precisely to the cult of the writer. It is no coincidence that DCs Vertigo
line, launched in 1993 with The Sandman as its flagship title, focused
rather heavily on its writers over its artists. The works of Grant Morrison, Garth Ennis, and Peter Milligan
were prominent among its first few years. 1994 saw Mark Millar begin an
extended run on Swamp Thing.
1995 saw Paul Jenkins begin an extended run on Hellblazer, and
2000 saw Brian Azzarello begin a two-year run on the same title. Following The Sandmans example,
Vertigo has published and is publishing several extended finite series; all
are creator-owned, doing Sandman one better. Grant Morrison began The Invisibles, his extended finite
series featuring the work of multiple artists in the model of The Sandman,
in 1994; it would conclude (after 59 issues and a few short stories) in
2001. Subsequent extended series
would attempt to address the problems with illustrators on The Sandman
and the commercial failure of that scheme on The Invisibles by
retaining as much as possible a single artist; although ownership was shared
between creators in such instances, not only did the same writer write all
issues while each series featured supplemental artists at some point, but it
would be the writers who would be remembered most as defining the series and
whose careers would receive the most benefit. Writer Garth Ennis would begin his less brilliant but funnier
and much more commercially successful Preacher, another such finite
series, in 1995; it would conclude in 2000.
Running 66 issues, a mini-series, and several specials, artist Steve
Dillon illustrated all of the issues and one of the specials. Vertigo inherited Transmetropolitan,
writer Warren Elliss extended finite series, in 1998, after the Helix
imprint under which it had been previously published (since 1997) for twelve
issues was eliminated; it would conclude in 2002. Running 60 issues, two specials, and a few short stories,
artist Darick Robertson penciled all but one issue and the two specials. Writer Brian Azzarello began his extended
finite series, the still-continuing 100 Bullets, with Eduardo Risso as
illustrator in 1999. Presently
consisting of 37 issues and a short story at the time of writing, all but one
issue has been illustrated by Risso.
Admittedly, other extended finite series have failed to reach the
designed completion, but these extended works stand among the most important
works of American graphic literature, not only for their length but for their
quality, and it is distinctly the writer who has received the best treatment
and the most fame for these accomplishments. |
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Virtually all of these writers have gone on
to receive high-profile writing assignments, and the cult of the writer that
was a mainstay at Vertigo has infected the industrys most mainstream
titles. Grant Morrison was catapulted
to super-stardom on JLA, a mainstream super-hero book at DC, the radical
success of which led to his landing the high-profile writing assignment on
Marvels New X-Men. Following Preachers
success, Garth Ennis has received a number of assignments at Marvel, most
prominently on Punisher.
Though Mark Millars work on Swamp Thing failed to propel his
career, his breakthrough work on The Authority for DCs Wildstorm
imprint has led to work for Marvel, most prominently on Ultimate X-Men. Even Paul Jenkins, whose hit-and-miss run
on Hellblazer disappointed many fans, has received high profile work
at Marvel. 1999, the year after DC
inherited his Transmetropolitan, saw Warren Ellis rocket to
super-stardom with The Authority and Planetary at Wildstorm, as
well as an abortive run on Vertigos Hellblazer, leading to
high-profile contracts with both Image and DC that essentially let him write
whatever he wants. Brian Azzarello, a
relative newbie, received mini-series work from Marvel and an exclusive
contract from DC. Indeed, Marvel
Comics has aggressively recruited writers from Vertigo, known for nurturing
many of the best writers of the last decade, so much so that Brian K.
Vaughan, who wrote a revived Swamp Thing series -- launched in 2000 by
Vertigo and that was a decided critical and financial failure --, has been
recruited by and received work from Marvel. |
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Alternatives If the cult of the writer may be
juxtaposed to the cult of the artist, we have ample evidence of the artistic
superiority of the cult of the writer.
The clearest example of this is Image Comics, founded in 1992 by the
top artists at Marvel Comics at the time, including Todd McFarlane (Spawn),
Jim Lee (WildC.A.T.s), Jim Valentino (Shadowhawk), Rob Liefeld
(Youngblood), and Eric Larsen (Savage Dragon) -- quickly
followed by Sam Kieth and Marc Silvestri.
The early Image Comics, in 1992 and 1993, were largely unreadable:
artists drew splash pages just because they liked a particular pose, and the
pacing, even the story itself, became muddled in image after image of
ill-proportioned, exaggerated figures.
Often even well-schooled super-hero comic book readers could not
deduce the plot, and when they did they were often embarrassed for the
creators, after, say, a character walked into the story without explanation
in the middle of a fight and a new fight began. This occurred despite the use of writers, some credited and
some as ghosts; these early Image writers were hardly the top in the
business. Nonetheless, the early
Image Comics sold like tulips, largely to people too unsophisticated to
realize the comics poor quality as narratives, but also to many who were
simply stunned and ecstatic to have a third publisher that could suddenly
compete with the duopoly of Marvel and DC.
Moreover, the success of the early Image Comics led to the creation of
an Image style -- full of the exaggerated musculature and cleavage, bodily
proportional distortion, and panel after panel of dramatic poses that were
commonly found at Image -- in many non-Image books, including at Marvel and
DC. To be sure, time improved things at Image
as the companys chronic lateness and farming out of their books, and their
many spin-offs, to inferior artists and writers gave way to higher-profile
writers, including James Robinson and Alan Moore, newly re-interested in
super-heroes and their imaginative possibilities, denouncing Vertigo as a
line of comics based on a bad mood I had a decade ago. Over time, Rob Liefeld was kicked out; Jim
Lee sold his line to DC Comics; Todd McFarlane, rich from his toy company and
movie contracts, stopped all but the most cursory of involvement with his
line of titles, the policies of which led to numerous disputes with creators
(including Neil Gaiman); and Jim Valentino shifted to an administrative post
within the Image company, illustrating only sporadically. The departures of founders and their
respective universes played havoc with the backstory to many books at Image
Comics, which had optimistically featured characters from the entire
companys lines, though owned by different creators, in the early years of
Image. Images checkered history,
however, has been somewhat redeemed by its increasing emphasis on
creator-owned books not belonging to the founders but published under the
Image umbrella with its distribution power for a flat fee. Jim Lees Wildstorm Studios, both before
and after being purchased by DC Comics, featured numerous creator-owned
books, most prominently Kurt Busieks Astro City. Image Comics has proven
itself a valuable addition to American comic books, but the record of
illustrators gaining control over the means of production has left something
to be desired. If the cult of the writer has proven more
sustainable and artistically profitable, it has done so with the help of the
cult, or at least the power, of the editor and publisher. Certainly, stories
abound of brilliant writers' ideas being squashed by corporate policies,
sometimes due to other plans (typically less interesting and less memorable)
from the same characters, sometimes due to the radical nature of those ideas
themselves (which corporations, typically conservative in their thinking,
tend to feel would damage the marketability of the characters involved or
tarnish the companys relative family-friendly image), and sometimes simply
due to squabbles between writers, illustrators, editors, and corporate
higher-ups. But it should also be
noted that writers, given great control over their own production, have
sometimes faced problems not so dissimilar to those experienced by Image
Comics, including chronic lateness and occasional inability to complete
projects. Contrast, for example, Neil
Gaimans sometimes late but prolific and consistent work on The Sandman
at DC Comics with his work on Miracleman at Eclipse Comics, plagued by
delays in paying their creators before going bankrupt before Gaimans run
could be completed. Contrast, for an
additional example, Alan Moores late but nonetheless quickly completed work
on Watchmen -- or, for that matter, Swamp Thing -- with his
work for independent publishers, including Miracleman before he passed
it to Gaiman; From Hell, which by its first publication as a complete
collected edition had been through four publishers (Aarvark-Vanaheim, where
the prologue appeared in Cerebus; Tundra, where chapters appeared in
the occasional anthology Taboo; Kitchen Sink, where the series
appeared as its own title; and finally Eddie Campbell Comics, the
creator-owned publisher of the seriess artist). It should be clear that the deadlines imposed (and perhaps even
input offered) by an editor or publisher, if not the editorial intervention
that often frustrates writers designs, certainly have benefited American
comic books. In the last few years, another factor has
developed as a major influence on American comic books that may ultimately
affect, or even upset, the cult of the writer: computer technology.
Long gone are the days when comic books were printed on newsprint in
Ben Day dots that combined four colors, frequently inexactly applied, over
artwork that had been thickly inked so that it would print by such a cheap
process. The 1980s saw the first
computer-generated comic books, drawn entirely on the computer, though they
look painfully crude today, when entirely computer-generated comics, still a
relative rarity, use fairly finely-detailed 3D-modeling of figures and
backgrounds. Though the transition
has been gradual, contemporary American comic books from the mainstream
publishers are predominantly slick, computerized works printed on glossy
paper stock, that not only shows off the art better but also preserves
better; almost all coloring is done on computer and all art, however
produced, is scanned and sent to the printers electronically. This still presents certain problems, as
when the pixel density (or DPI, dots per inch) of the pages images is not
great enough, leading to visible pixelation on the page, which I frequently
observe in many comic books today, sometimes only on a few pages or in a few
areas, particularly in word balloons or captions, where the effect of
pixelation is most discernable. There
has even been open debate about whether inkers should be used or will often
be used in a few years, since penciled art can be scanned and have color applied
to it digitally, as all color at the major publishers and most color at the
minor publishers is produced. Color,
in fact, has been the area in which American comic books have most excelled
with the advances of computer technology:
many of the books from major publishers feature glorious color and
computer-generated fading effects that surpass any coloring job of even a few
years ago. In a sense, this is only
an extension of those who have previously used photographs, such as of the
Earth from space, as did Jack Kirby in his 1970s comic books for DC; indeed,
computer-generated images of planets and clouds of differentiated color are
frequently among the computer-generated effects in comic books today that
still stand out from drawn artwork, looking out of place in books that do not
elsewhere employ such montages. There
has been some concern that such computer-generated coloring, including
shading and beautiful glowing light emanating from flashbulbs and reflective
metal surfaces, is being used to disguise a lack of artistic quality in
certain books; the eye wows at the computerized effects laid over the
illustrations, but the illustrations are in some cases not as good as the
effect the eye perceives. In any case,
increasing attention is paid to colorists, including Laura DePuy, whose
impressive work on the hit series The Authority was not only noticed
and praised but warranted her name being included on the cover; more and more
colorists, who work entirely on the computer, are, in fact, receiving the
same treatment. It remains to be seen
whether we shall see something of a cult of the colorist, or a cult of the
entirely digital illustrator, or simply a cult of technology that has readers
purchasing books more based upon the technology utilized than the writing or
penciled illustrations. It should be noted, however, that whatever
the technological developments affecting comic books, those developments are
likely, as with the occasional cult of the colorist, within the larger cult
of the artist. That is to say,
technological advancements are, at least in their present orientation, more
likely to affect the art and overall appearance of comic books than their
writing. (I can certainly imagine computer programs that write, or use
algorithms based upon other writers to generate new stories or revise
writers scripts, but such applications of computer technology have lain,
perhaps fortunately, comparatively unpursued compared to flashy new
graphics-processing applications.) It
is no coincidence that the majority of colorful computer-illustrated
comics, or comics for which the illustrations have been produced entirely on
the computer, have been lacking in narrative substance; like Hollywood
big-budget special effects, focus too often goes into the visual effect of
the computer illustration -- which is, after all, the selling point of the
book -- and not enough into the scripting. Implications |
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There is a
whole field of existential stories of super-powered individuals just waiting
to be told. |
Throughout the history of original
American comic books, then, a tension has existed between reading, and
creating, comic books as a literary art and as a visual art. Indeed, this tension may be traced back to
the comic strips that preceded original comic books, particularly in the
adventure serials of the 1930s, which balanced the demands of continuing
narration with those of enough visual action to attract readers to each
particular strip. Mainstream comics
have traditionally catered more toward the visual, providing interesting
ideas at times, though often with a visual component or organizational
strategy (as with Kandor, the shrunken Kryptonian city), typically filling
themselves with colorful costumes, dramatic fights and explosions, and
super-powers such as flames or strength that make for good illustration --
over, say, super-thinking or guilt-inducing vision. Indeed, there is a whole
field of existential stories of super-powered individuals just waiting to be
told, and we may well hypothesize that the implicit cult of the artist that
has dominated, however slightly, mainstream American comic books has helped
keep those comic books predominantly trapped within the super-hero
genre. While the most literary comic
books have typically been the most successful as art, there remains room for
new sorts of comic books that reinvigorate the visual while remaining in a
narrative format. |
|
We may well
hypothesize that the implicit cult of the artist that has dominated, however slightly,
mainstream American comic books has helped keep those comic books
predominantly trapped within the super-hero genre. |
Frank Millers Sin City may here be
considered an inspirational example.
Filled with splash pages and minimalistic yet dramatic (and sometimes
stunning) entirely black-and-white imagery with no greys, Sin City
nonetheless offers narratives, however more casually paced and varying in
appeal. In my own comics writing, I
began with dense tales designed to tell complex stories in as economical a
way as possible, filling each page with as much narrative importance, though
not necessarily words, since too many bog down the page. Over time, I have sought more expanded
forms that lay renewed emphasis on the visuals while retaining sophisticated
narrative structure. The danger of
the cult of the artist is that narrative finds itself sacrificed and the
question is begged: why not just
publish collection of art, whether in book format or as comic books, with no
narrative whatsoever? That is to say,
if an artists followers are buying his books for the art, why bother with a
third-rate narrative? The solution for artists actually might be
exactly a move in this fairly indulgent direction, however tempered. For example, an experimental narrative
might consist entirely of a character walking into a garden. The characters dress is shown in detail,
complete with large close-ups. There
might be twelve pages of various shots of him walking into the garden. At this point, the garden, or rather the
experience of the garden, takes over.
A series of various shots of the garden, lavishly illustrated,
follow. Double-page spreads of
portions of the garden might abound.
Some might feature the character subsumed within the landscape,
evocative of the Japanese tradition of landscape illustration. A few might feature the man more
centrally. Perhaps one shot could be
of his looking up at two apples, or figs, in the foreground, reminiscent of
the Garden of Eden and suggesting limits to this lush experience, perhaps
even that it may not last forever. A
frontispiece, or final panel, could explain in a single sentence or two that
the character is an emperor enjoying his garden for the last time before an
invasion, a deposition, or his death, expected or not -- but no such
frontispiece, or final panel, is necessary; the work is an experimental
narrative unto itself. I have tried
to get at this new sort of visual narrative in my comics scripts of the past
two years or so (particularly in the Esprit Noir series), and I
believe that I have found considerable success, creating a new synthesis of
writing and art that celebrates, on sophisticated terms, both the cult of the
writer and the cult of the artist. |
|
We read comics
by ourselves. They move, like literature,
at the pace we, as readers, want them to move. They are supremely a literary experience. |
In the end, however, the cult of the
writer must find dominance. This is
solely because the medium itself is more literary than visual -- and I
maintain that this is true even when there are no words, or all we remember
are the visuals. Comics are
approached like books: we read them
alone, generally. They are a solitary
pursuit. We can come together to talk
about them, but they are not the group experience that movies in the theatre
are or television can be. Painting
and photography, as experienced by most, is a group experience as well, given
that most people encounter such images in public places such as museums or on
billboards while driving. Such visual
media have, because of their present usage, social dynamics that comics and
literature lack. To be sure, this is
all generalization: visuals are sometimes experienced alone, and the world
wide web has totally thrown off our definitions of those media, what
constitutes moving or static, visual or literary. But you know what I mean, and its true: we read comics by ourselves. They move, like literature, at the pace
we, as readers, want them to move -- the opposite of film, for example. They are supremely a literary experience,
however necessary -- and wonderfully so -- visuals are to the equation. |
|
Institutions
such as libraries, people citing comic books, and even those soliciting comic
books for release must all navigate the cult of the writer and the cult of
the artist, sometimes mediating between the two. |
I wish to note, in conclusion, that the
cult of the writer is inherently acknowledged within the very structure of
The Continuity Pages. The informational
files on comic book series that is the mainstay of this site are organized in
their listings by their most basic component. In the case of most popular series, this most basic unit is a
shared corporate world. In cases of
independent works, however, of tales existing primarily in their own world, a
choice must be made. The inclination
to list by most prominent creator dominates.
In some cases, there are multiple writers and artists, and a decision
must be made within either category.
In any case, a decision must always be made in terms of the relative
prominence of the writing and the art.
Even if one wanted to list both writers and artists, as in a library
catalog or a citation, moreover, one creator must still be chosen as primary,
his name listed first. In almost all
cases, The Continuity Pages lists the work according to its most prominent
writer. |
|
Read every Sequential Culture on
ContinuityPages.com! Read about the author on our contributors
page. Julian Darius can be reached at julian@continuitypages.com. Discuss this column online on
ContinuityPages.coms messageboards. |
This is more than an explanation of The
Continuity Pages and how its philosophical underpinnings are put into
practice. It is a demonstration of
how these issues, and our takes on them, are subtly put into practice all the
time -- and necessarily so.
Institutions such as libraries, people citing comic books, and even
those soliciting comic books for release must all navigate the cult of the
writer and the cult of the artist, sometimes mediating between the two. Writers typically win, though they have
not always done so and occasionally do not always do so today. However we answer these questions, the
cult of the writer affects not only the history and reception of comic books,
but even how we reference them and consequently think about them, in myriad
subtle ways. |
|
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