Michael Moore: Art & Politics

(I apologize for the late post on Michael Moore’s presentation and reading – good thing I took notes!)

It was a very eye-opening experience for me when I went to see Michael Moore present his views about life and politics and then do a reading from his new book, Here Comes Trouble: Stories from My Life. I didn’t realize how intertwined art and politics was for him, even from an early age.

Indeed, the first fifteen to twenty minutes of the presentation was basically him talking about the Occupy Movement and how he was at the one held in Oakland just before coming to do his presentation at Stanford. Initially, I was thinking, “what had I gotten myself into?” because I assumed from briefly scanning the flyer for this event that he was going to do a talk mostly on his art form and his documentaries. Instead, by opening with his thoughts and views on the American government, the Occupy Movement and a whole plethora of American political issues, I was able to see the source of motivation for his films and his art form, and how he utilized his talent in film as an instrument to get his audience to think about important issues, however political.

Michael Moore was very blunt and outspoken about anything political, and he came not just to do a presentation, but to also send a message to students like me. He believed strongly in the Occupy Movement and the idea that the public should find any means possible to show to those in authority and power that they are dissatisfied. His method was through art and film, and that is when his politics became woven with his art. I always believed that his art came first and then the politics associated with the subject of his art but I found that it was actually the reverse.

Then I began to really think about all the non-fiction novels we’ve read in this class, especially the memoirs. Michael Moore’s reading from his own memoir focused on a high school boy who saw the injustices of the highly selective and discriminatory Elks Club, who sought to reveal their faults through a publicized and public speech. This was the source of his later use of film to highlight various injustices in America and other parts of the world. Although many of the graphic novels we read were simply authors who had a story to share, I can’t help but wonder why there aren’t more non-fiction graphic novels out there who will take the time to illustrate the political injustices out there as well. Sacco did it in his own way, but as a journalist, he was more limited than Moore in using his art form; where Sacco presented his subject, Moore took a definite position. In fact, Moore actually believes that schooling hinders creativity by teaching consistency, complacency and conformity, which is very interesting.

Being a filmmaker, Moore also had a different take on his own art form. He spoke extensively on students “learning to march to a different tune” and “doing your own thing.” Moore emphasized the need for people like us to use art to tell the world something they don’t know. He states that through your chosen art form, “Get us mad about he problems in the world. Make us jump up and make people want to go do something.” On film itself, he insists that students “be subjective. Don’t separate your films from politics. It’s a great art form, non-fiction film. Don’t make a documentary. Make a movie. People love movies. Honor the art form. Put the art first and politics second.” The last line especially intrigued me because although his art is fantastic, from his reading and presentation, he seemed primarily focused on the politics first and the art second. I guess this statement, like most art, is open to interpretation.

Very rough draft of my thoughts for feature story- please comment!

A graphic novelist, a political cartoonist, and an illustrator join a collective part of an entirely new form of journalism. Though they are defined differently by the outside world, these three artists are part of a new style of journalism that could change the way we see the news. Each is a member of Graphic Journos, a collective dedicated to promoting new narrative forms in a world with “new technology and economic constraints.” (graphicjournos.com) Dan Archer is the graphic novelist, Jen Sorenson the political cartoonist, and Wendy MacNaughton the illustrating documentarian. They are artists with a knack for storytelling, though each of them talks about their artistic inclinations first. Each started drawing at an early age, then developed a desire to document the world around them. Though they’ve all become experts in some niche of illustrating, they are doing the work that goes beyond today’s definitions of journalism. Thus they become Dan Archer, Jen Sorenson, and Wendy MacNaughton: pioneers of nonfiction graphic communication.

Dan Archer has been drawing since he was a child, especially during his middle school years. He says he was always editorializing as well, but it wasn’t until he saw Joe Sacco’s work during his gap year in Spain that he realized the potential for the graphic format. Joe Sacco is a famed comics artist and journalist who has pioneered nonfictional graphic expression. His book Palestine played a part in convincing Dan Archer to pursue his drawing more seriously. He soon enrolled at the Center for Cartoon Studies to learn the form of comics journalism. Unsatisfied with freelance illustration work, Archer seeks to tell compelling, true stories through his graphic works. Both Jen Sorenson and Wendy MacNaughton share the same desire- to showcase people and issues to the world so that people must pay attention. They’ve all simply combined their artistic qualities with their journalistic impulses.

Jen Sorenson spent her childhood drawing comics, then spent college submitting graphics to the school newspaper, then promptly resisted comics artistry as a career. Like any finicky college student, Sorenson contemplated many different majors at the University of Virginia before deciding on anthropology. She then

Wendy MacNaughton’s childhood obsession with drawing led her to the Center College of Design in Pasadena. “Art school kicks the drawing out of you,” she says of her years there, where the curriculum was focused more on conceptual art than illustration. Immediately after graduating from art school, MacNaughton became a copywriter for an advertising firm. Though she reflects on the stint as a ‘dream job’ to land right out of school, she hated it. Soon she was presented with the opportunity to illustrate promotions for democratic elections in Rwanda. Her reaction at the dream job: “I’m outta here.” Such is the impulse of all three of these storytellers- to illustrate and inform the stories that might otherwise go untold.

My Thoughts on Kafka

I know Adam said we didn't have to blog about this, but in light of the fact that I didn't get to express my views in class on Monday, I figured I'd take some time to talk about Kafka here.

Now let me preface this by saying that prior to this book, I had never read, heard, or watched anything by or about Franz Kafka. The only thing I can confidently say I was familiar with was his name (which I probably only remembered because it sounded cool - Mairowitz really hit the nail on the head when he discussed the intrigue of that "K" sound on page 156 - "Kutting their way like Kutlasses through our Kollective Konsciousness"). That being said, I must say I really liked this book as a window into the life of Franz Kafka. His morbidity, his social commentary, his daddy issues, and his self-hatred and self-abuse all were fascinating aspects of his life which made me want to look even further into his works. In that way I feel this book would be a perfect precursor for someone new to Kafka and his fiction.

As a graphic novel, I also must say that I really admire Crumb's work. He maintained the perfect balance of horror and humor from start to finish. Literally. The first page with its image of a butcher cleaving into Kafka's skull and the last page with Prague depicted as touristy and commercialized both prove to be perfect examples of the skill and ability of Crumb to get that "Kafkaesque" feel. Bravo. Also, he did a great job of adding to the text and complementing it, rather than just illustrate it, something I've found myself looking for more virulently since Working and Anne Frank. I must say, Crumb, I am a fan.

Now about the stories, I unfortunately can't say I didn't feel a little ripped off. I know this is supposed to be about Kafka and his life and all, but at times I feel like this was done at the expense of Kafka's fiction. It almost felt like I was reading the SparkNotes versions of Metamorphosis of The Trial, or like I was watching a documentary of Kafka's life on A&E where no-name actors attempted to give real life portrayals of his stories. I almost wish the stories were just alluded to rather than summarized but I realize that may have been trickier to pull off. I don't know, it might just be that I don't like to know anything about the books I read before I read them and now I feel like the surprise has been ruined.

Overall though, I did enjoy the book a lot, and I recommend it for any Kafka or Crumb newbies.

-David

A Difficult Challenge: Seeing Life with a Cold Eye in Special Exits

After reading this graphic memoir, I must first commend Joyce Farmer for attempting to provide a genuine depiction of the last years of her parents’ lives, something that I’m not sure I would be able to do. This may explain why it took her so long to finish the memoir. I think Farmer gave herself a difficult challenge in pushing herself to present her parents under such a harsh light and I think in turn it made it difficult for me to go through her memoir because I found myself wondering about how I would approach similar situations with my parents.

I found myself really enjoying the beginning and end of this memoir, because I expected Farmer to give a gradual introduction into her parents’ daily lives and to slowly illustrate how they slowly wind down. I really liked how Farmer set up the story for the difficulty readers will face later and I thought the pace at the beginning was also really well done. After the first few chapters, I was able to get a feel for what it is like to live in South Los Angeles, the daily lives of Farmer’s parents, a bit of their history and also get a glimpse of Farmer’s personality. The ending was hopeful and full of acceptance of her parents’ death, which I think is appropriate after spending so many years writing about such a difficult time in her life – anyone’s life.

I believe that much of my confusion, and in some cases, frustration, stems from the bulk of Farmer’s memoir: the middle. I share a lot of the sentiments others have brought up in regards to this graphic memoir. I think it is at least in part my lack of understanding about some of the choices Farmer makes in representing herself and her parents and partly the narrative itself that prevented me from feeling moved by a story that should have moved me to tears like Maus, Safe Area Gorazde, and Stitches did. I feel terrible and guilty that Special Exits did not have the expected affect on me, and after flipping through the memoir again, I began to understand why.

Part of the reason was the way in which her parents lived and Farmer’s acquiescence in allowing to increasingly live in their own filth, even though she does increase her visits in order to compensate for this. I understand from her parents’ point of view that they feel they must be a burden to Farmer if they ask for too many “favors” or bother her with their issues, but I don’t understand why Farmer did not insist on them having someone around to help with meals and cleaning and overall general hygiene. I was appalled when I learned Rachel didn’t leave the couch for a year and bathed only every so often after Farmer began visiting more frequently. How could Lars allow Rachel to live that way? How could Laura not insist on hiring more help after seeing her dad fall to the floor? Or when they weren’t sleeping well or eating well? Why did she take her dad to the same doctor/hospital that obviously neglected to care for Rachel? It was very difficult for me to read through the memoir when I realized that Farmer gave in to her parents’ wishes to remain independent even after seeing how they lived, or didn’t try to provide better care for them. It may be the nature of reality and it might just be how Farmer normally interacted with her parents, but it was unfathomable to be. In addition, I share Lee’s comment on how Farmer depicted herself in the memoir – or how she didn’t depict herself. There were some thought bubbles throughout the memoir but for the most part, we as readers don’t really get inside Farmer’s head about how she felt about her parents’ lifestyle, the fact that they were near the end of their lives, or when she was making the tough decisions that changed everything. In providing a cold eye to her parents’ lives, I believe Farmer herself became cold when it came to depicting herself in this memoir, to the point where I don’t feel the tumult of emotions she must have been feeling. In fact, it was difficult for me to feel the emotions her parents must have been feeling as well, and I am not sure whether it was because it was hard for Farmer to get inside her parents’ heads or if it was a stylistic/narrative choice to only include insightful moments here and there. I think this is where I as the reader became perpetually disconnected with Farmer as the narrator/author of this memoir. And although I liked the ending, I think the suggestion that Farmer had accepted her parents’ deaths came too fast for me. I would have wanted to see her grieve (and grieve with her) for a longer period of time before reaching the last few panels.

Overall, what Farmer tried to accomplish is really commendable and remarkable. I constructively criticized her work with the mindset that what she is doing is something that I probably would not be able to do, mostly because I don’t think I would want something so private and so sad to made so public.

There is a coin of no value in his mouth. Please leave it there.

To be an artist means never to avert one's eyes. - Akira Kurosawa

Adam asked us to think about how Kurosawa's axiomatic expression functions in Special Exits. I must say, when I began reading this memoir, I expected to be looking for the ways in which the artist/author, Joyce Farmer, would use the means provided by the graphic format to illustrate the process of the end of life; I thought I would be looking for the ways that pacing, space, time, and composition would function to reveal her parents' deep and tumultuous--and slow and painful--transition into death. But I found myself thinking more about the way that art functions, as a plot device, in the memoir, and how, more existentially, art functions as a facet of life and an affront to death. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, I am drawn to a quote about the relationship between art and death from an article I quoted in one of my first posts on this blog. The article is a chapter from Andre Bazin's book, What Is Cinema? In it, he writes about the function of art, historically, as a means of defeating death. Bazin points to the role of sculpture in the burial rites of the ancient Egyptians. He says: "[N]ear the sarcophagus, alongside the corn that was to feed the dead, the Egyptians placed terra cotta statuettes, as substitute mummies which might replace the bodies if these were destroyed. It is this religious use, then, that lays bare the primordial function of statuary, namely, the preservation of life by a representation of life." This preservation of life by its representation seems to me to find an interesting, but complicated, place in a work like Special Exits. I am left to wonder if a work of art, even and especially a work of nonfiction like this one, which deals with the end of life, or seems to be oriented towards a telling of the deaths of two people is alike the Egyptian use of terra cotta statuettes: that is, does Special Exits, or any work about the death of its main characters, work as a meditation meant to preserve them and protect them against death? or does it work simply to preserve their deaths instead?

I am left wondering whether Lars' growing superstition towards the end of the memoir (is this the right word for his growing sense of the hereafter? Is a term like Nabokov's potustoronnost' a better one?) is meant to function as a kind of attempt to negotiate with the ways in which the living, with no epistemological surety about what comes after death, if anything does, themselves negotiate with the coming ends of their lives. I think it significant that Lars, towards the end of the memoir, seems to imagine Charon in his ferry beckoning him towards the hereafter, and that he chooses to make ready payment for his passage across the river Styx. I think it is perhaps more significant to remark that Joyce Farmer seems to think it important, both for personal and for literary reasons, to include and extend the function of Greek mythic elements in both her real life (see the scene at the mortuary in which the title I take for this post comes) and in the work itself, embedding the notion of her father's superstition in the text and adopting it for herself in his memory in real life.

Perhaps there is no experience more universal than death. But can we call this an experience? Is something which we have no ability to talk about once we're gone something we can call an experience? That is, don't we have to have the ability to communicate experience for experience to be constructed in the ways that make it experience? This is where and why I think that Farmer's literary and artistic efforts in a work like Special Exits are perhaps more important and more significant than other works we've read for this class. That she is able to communicate the experience of death for her parents, means that she has both demonstrated and conquered the fundamental paradox of narrative's relationship with death. That is, however secondhand this process of communicating the experience of death must necessarily be, however refracted it must appear to us, and however fleeting and ultimately unknowable the experience actually is, Farmer shows us the power of the artist's eye to capture, through narrative, the incomprehensible, secondary relationship between art and the inevitability of death that it is meant to, or has been meant to, obstruct.

by Kyle O'Malley

Studs Terkel's Working: Representation of Self

Out of all the portraits in the graphic adaptation of Studs Terkel’s Working, I found the portrait of “Dolores Dante, Waitress” the most moving. I think it speaks to an important aspect of work, which I find most alluring, and which is the condition of loving what you do. Now I was tempted to write about a more stereotypical portrait of “loving one’s work” in “Bud Freeman, Jazz Musician” but I think the difference lies in loving one’s work as an artist and finding the art, finding the thing to love, or finding the art in work that is not commonly associated with creative interpretation. “Dolores Dante, Waitress” adapted by Lance Tooks, I felt, was human in its quest to find meaning in the mundane and the necessity of finding meaning in one’s work.

And it takes a sort of philosopher in order to find meaning like Dolores does in her work. Also, what I found really interesting is this concept of the “social actor” or the popular saying, “the world is your stage.” I used to have a favorite quote that a friend of mine shared with me. A bum on the streets of San Francisco once told her, “Hey baby. It’s yo’ life. I’m just passing through.” It’s interesting for me to think about everyone as an actor, playing the lead role in their life movie. I read recently a chapter in Bill Nichols Introduction to Documentary Film where he spends a lot of time on the social actor. This also brings to mind another quote that I really like, which is, “An artist’s greatest work of art is her own personality.” There’s this conscientious shaping that goes on in every social actor of how they wish other people perceive them.

That’s what I find so fascinating about these kinds of “documentary interviews” which is essentially what Studs Terkel’s Working is comprised of. In the past, I would have argued that they don’t get us past the speaker’s own act of self-representation. They annoyed me to the extent that we are viewers, listeners, or readers are forced to hear how a specific character tells his or her story, and as the filmmaking adage goes, one ought to “show and not tell.” Given the chance to observe someone’s behavior, and draw our own conclusions, or to arrive at conclusions about the character’s motivation through a gentle and non-overt prodding by the storyteller, often can tell a lot more about a person that words spoken within their own framework of how they relate to the world.

Bill Nichols talks about the gap between representation of self and the actual person. He also talks about a “front” which serves as a way to negotiate the nature and quality of human interaction as it unfolds. As such, individual identity is not a permanent, indelible feature, rather, it is a response to others, a flexible means of adaption. I think this gap is what is interesting about watching an act of self-representation—where does it conflict in a meaningful way with a non-subjective reality? How does what a character says and does not match up? When and how does the self-representation or “front” come down? Is it a change that we can see once the speaker gets more familiar with her interviewer? That discrepancy between self-representation and “actual person” is what I want to see.

In the beginning of Dolores’s profile, she is mistress of her world. She knows what she likes, what she doesn’t like; what she’ll stand for, what she won’t. She states clearly her boundaries, her idiosyncrasies in a take it or leave it manner. She talks about the mental games she plays, the theatre of the restaurant, the adrenaline rush of being “under the spotlight.” (Actually, I feel it might have been more apt for her profile to be included under the “In the Spotlight” heading.) She talks about not doing it for the money, and she talks about how her own interpretation negates any function of being demeaned or belittled in her job. In the beginning, it’s a testament to how a free person can define her own world. We’re amazed by, how we might see her world vs. how she sees her world, and we’re humbled.

I think what really does it for me about Dolores is how her profile takes a down turn from all this “hype” that she’s espoused in the beginning. She starts to bring it home when she starts talking about the forces that threaten her “theatre” – jealousy, backstabbing, loyalty, tension, politics, her exhaustion. Lance Tooks renders her in silhouette, head in hands, looking exhausted. And that’s when she gets honest. “Aw hell, why am I trying so hard?” That was very real for me. I can’t speak for others, but I know that my manner of working, the pressure I put on myself, the perfectionism I seek, sometimes you hit a low and you ask yourself, “Why am I trying so hard?

I don’t know who to applaud for this feat of storytelling and the authenticity it lends to her story—is it Studs Terkel’s who edited the interview? Dolores herself for telling her story? Lance Toons for rendering it graphically? But in the end, it was all bright lights and at the end of the night, “I feel drained.” And Dolores is depicted back towards us, curled up over the counter, heels slipping out of her shoes. And I think it says it all—right there. That’s the discrepancy I was looking for between the actor and the real person.

U Mad? Yeah Kinda... (David Bell)

Frustration. That emotion pulsated through me strongly throughout this entire book. And I felt bad for feeling it. Really though, so much that this old couple went through was unnecessary. I guess it’s hard to understand if you are not in their shoes, but I don’t know. I was just frustrated. Why were they constantly living in filth? Why were they always so resistant against seeking medical help? Why did they eat like crap? But my frustration is not only towards Lars and Rachel. I was also frustrated at Laura who put waaaay too much on her own shoulders (I understand she loved them but she put her life on hold for 4 years…or maybe I just don’t understand) and at the severely flawed system in place at the hospitals and nursing homes especially toward the end (You’re really going to leave the railings down and not feed a patient who is blind? Especially when there is a sign right above her head? Seriously?)

Overall, however, I believe I feel this overwhelming frustration because I care for Lars and Rachel so much. They truly are sweet people, and they deserved so much more than what they had to go through. However, I do find some comfort in the fact that, for the most part, they did not feel too troubled by their situation. They transitioned so slowly and gradually into senility: “Things get worse in such small increments that you can get used to anything.” But still, why did it have to be that way?

Maybe that is the effect Joyce Farmer was trying to convey. Maybe her experience brought her intense frustration too, and this book was her catharsis. The passivity and inattentiveness at hospitals, the overwhelming obstinacy of her parents, their increasing senility, her never-ending sense of duty and guilt; it all took its toll. It all makes me wonder how much I could handle. And then I realize that I would do anything in the world for my parents. Hmm…interesting.

Also I wanted to quickly comment on the depictions of the characters themselves. Many, if not most of the expressions are (I hate to say it) just plain ugly. And I know these are not ugly people; why were their faces always so grotesque at the slightest inclinations of emotion? I feel like it was definitely done on purpose, but I’m not sure what Farmer’s motivations were.

Special Exits (Raymond Jeong)

Joyce Farmer was extremely lucky. Yes, it is very painful to witness your parents’ slow departure from the physical world, but to spend your parents’ last years with them can be only gratifying. Initially appearing to be a story of misery, Special Exits quickly proves to be an extraordinary balance of two parents’ struggles and Laura’s lucky chance to spend time with them.

As a narrative, Special Exits first appears to be extremely bleak. It does an excellent job of employing a very depressing Ticking Clock. Although the very first page of the book is deceiving with Ching’s mildly violent antics, the reader eventually realizes that Lars and Rachel’s deaths are inevitable. By the last panel on page five, he/she understands that Lars and Rachel are extremely old, and the look of desperation on Rachel’s face in that panel allows the reader to know that only death can end Lars and Rachel’s story. The reader becomes tense with anticipation of Lars and Rachel's fates. In the second-to-last panel on page 6, my understanding of what filmmakers call The Act One Lock, the point of the movie where the character is forced to take the hardest path toward restoring his status quo, compounds the despair that I feel for Lars and Rachel. I see that Lars and Rachel’s lives will become only harder and possibly more miserable. Such a realization powerfully adds to the amount of tension that the Ticking Clock has already created for me, and I expect to experience a difficult ride before I reach the end of the book.

However, soon, I see that the book has a much more hopeful trajectory. Laura’s constant visits prove to be very meaningful for her. Laura learns of their pasts and, from their stories, gains a deeper understanding of her parents. She had zero idea that her father owned guns, and her discovery of them in the garage brought her ancestors into light. Lars’ adjustments to his will resulted in Laura’s appreciation for Rachel as a stepmother. Laura’s involvement with her parents’ steady decline deepens as her visits become more frequent. By the end of Special Exits, Laura experiences an incredible journey, during which bathing Rachel and debating with Lars are only two ways that she expresses how much she cares for her parents. In addition to Laura’s efforts, Joyce Farmer puts an immense amount of detail in each panel’s imagery. The characters’ faces are very distinct from each other, void of the cartoonish characteristics that allow readers to identify with the characters. My guess is that Farmer wants the reader to know that her experience with her parents is a significant period in everyone’s life with which nobody can identify until the time arrives. Although the illustration of each character is intensely individual, I don’t believe that Farmer wants to claim that her experience with her parents before their deaths is particularly unique. I think that she wants the reader to know that her experiences cannot be understood until the reader experiences a similar journey. Farmer also uses an immense number of details to show how dedicated Laura is to her parents. The hypnotizing mess in the rooms that she cleans, the overflowing pile of groceries in her shopping carts, and the towering stacks of dishes highlight the phenomenal amount of effort that Laura gives to taking care of her parents. By the end of Special Exits, I can tell that Laura has accepted her parents’ fates and has extensively grown as she developed that acceptance. In fact, she originally says that she “always kept mother on too high a pedestal” and “couldn’t allow [herself] to love [Rachel]” (72). However, in the second panel on page 146, she refers to Rachel as her “mother” when she asks for her whereabouts. I’m not sure whether such a subtle contradiction holds significance, but I found the occurrence to be extremely strange, considering the fact that she still refers to Rachel by her first name in the next panel. Even if the instance of Laura using mother to refer to Rachel isn’t an indication of her development, the single panel on page 196 of her saying good-bye to her father is definite proof. Dedicating only one panel to Laura’s good-bye shows that Laura has expressed most of her farewell long before her receiving the news of her father’s death. I originally have found that panel to be extremely sudden and too abrupt, but I realize that the use of only one panel is appropriate. Ultimately, Special Exits is a beautiful story that expresses Joyce Farmer’s last heartbreaking memories of her parents. Farmer provides a wonderful account of returning the care that her parents have given to her, in an ironic but lovely way.

I don’t know whether I can be a Laura for my parents. When I graduate from college, I will face the same problems that my parents faced. My parents will return to their homeland and be located 7,000+ miles away from me, and I won’t be able to be by them as frequently as Laura was by her parents when they become old. Joyce Farmer is extremely lucky to have had the opportunity that I will probably miss.

Special Exits: a cold look at life?

When reading Special Exits, I didn’t really feel that Joyce Farmer was casting a cold look at her own life in creating the book. For one thing, she changed most of the characters’ names, giving her memoir a fictional feel to it. I didn’t fully get the sense that this was her life that she was depicting; it almost seemed like it could have been someone else’s. There was a certain distance that she kept which prevented the book from becoming overly invasive and personal. She rarely depicted scenes from her home life, choosing rather to show the lives of her parents in great detail but distancing herself from the reader by not putting herself under such a close microscope. As a result, the reader learns much more about Lars and Rachel than about Laura, who seems more like a regular visitor than a main character. Furthermore, Farmer rarely documents personal scenes or conversations; most of the book just consists of everyday struggles like cooking, bathing, and cleaning, without focusing on the emotional connections between the characters. The interpersonal relationships are touched on but not fully explored, which to me left the characters feeling not fully formed and thus, in some way, fictional. It seemed like, had the characters been real people (as they supposedly are), their representations in Farmer’s book would have felt more lifelike and less two-dimensional.

Also, in terms of an author averting his or her eye, I felt that there was some of that going on regarding Farmer’s depiction of her decision to put Rachel in a nursing home. Farmer didn’t show much debate or discussion on Laura’s part, and she certainly didn’t represent much guilt about the decision. There were a couple panels that showed some internal feeling, but for me they really weren’t enough to convey what I thought must have been a very emotionally difficult decision. Farmer seemed to avoid depicting a lot of her own struggle during her parents’ decline and death, and while she showed their physical struggle, I didn’t feel like I fully witnessed their emotional journey and trouble. Therefore, I can’t say that I consider Farmer to have cast a cold look on her parents’ deaths and on her own life in this book, because it seemed like there were some topics that she often avoided.

David Sedaris Reads On Campus (And I Document It One Week Later)

David Sedaris is clearly a funny guy, and maybe he’s just dedicated himself wholly to this personality trait. We briefly discussed in class that part of his talent lies in his ability to perform his stories well and the other part lies in his dedication to write down the funny things he sees. From this assessment, it does not seem that his work is particularly extraordinary. I’ll be honest: I’d read only about three of his short stories from the collections he’s printed, but more often I’ve heard him through readings and interviews on the radio. Some people just have the gift of telling a great story. I think a lot of that is the desire to entertain people. David Sedaris seems to fit this description. Yes, his stories are oftentimes hilarious, but he will stop at nothing to entertain people. His reading included several dirty jokes, passages from his diary, and some painful memories he’d put into funny story form. His willingness to pull from the depths of his personal life to entertain others shows an audacity that is at once respectable and appalling. Does he document his life with the intention of showing it all to the public? I assume it’s become exhausting at times. I’m not decrying Sedaris for exploiting family members and innocent members of the public, but I do think all of us are loaded with these ridiculous stories, and perhaps we are more reticent to share them. As a writer and a great storyteller, Sedaris has simply found the way to document daily life and share it with a larger community. His unique voice and apparent immunity to laughter certainly helps the delivery of it all.

Though Sedaris has capitalized on the humorous narration of ‘everyday life,’ I must also give him credit for being somewhat of a cultural anthropologist. Sedaris talks about some of the most preposterous human behavior I’ve ever heard and he seems to track it through different populations. Enter the stories of people ‘shitting on their hands’ as a normal bathroom routine. I do apologize for typing such horrid things, but I’m only writing what Sedaris must have repeated fifty times during his reading. Perhaps people are just more willing to tell Sedaris their own strange anecdotes, after hearing so many from him. If he has made himself a magnet for such stories, then he has certainly earned them. Or perhaps David Sedaris has always had the ability to draw these stories from people through his personality; onstage he seemed a very inquisitive person and bold enough to ask people anything. Regardless, Sedaris chronicles strange human behavior I never would have dreamed to exist. Alongside his humorous and silly readings, I also appreciate that Sedaris suggests a book for the audience at his readings. It’s always interesting to see what people do with their celebrity power, and it only seems right for a writer like Sedaris who has ‘hit the jackpot’ to suggest books and even to say “I would buy this book before I’d buy anything I’ve written. It’s much better.”

Dealing with the end of life

My first reaction to reading this work was an overwhelming feeling of sadness. As I flipped from page to page, the heaviness of death weighed heavily on me. I felt, and still feel, envious of my own youth and feel that I should be demanding more from my able-bodied, able-minded self. The illustrations in the novel depicted a type of unavoidable sadness that comes from losing the abilities and luxuries of youth. Farmer’s story itself, very detailed and personal, bravely communicated the story of two parents dying. The illustrations added a depth of understanding, providing the visual representation of two elderly people literally wasting away. The graphic novel seemed so deeply personal and true, yet I wonder why Joyce Farmer didn’t use her actual name or the real names of her parents, husband, and presumably other characters. The drawings were also perhaps, not so true to form. As we have discussed in class so often after McCloud’s suggestion, the cartoonish natures of the characters allow their stories to apply to any person, giving them a type of Everyman quality. Perhaps this also applies to naming of characters. Assigning names and profiles already taken in the real world might limit the reader from imaging this story in their own life; Fake names could allow the reader to imagine assume the role of Joyce Farmer. After all, this story describes a situation we may all face as children.

My parents are currently at the age where their parents are starting to deteriorate mentally and physically. As a grandchild, I feel somewhat removed and ‘safe’ from dealing with the situation, though I see the mental toll it has taken on my parents. Joyce Farmer’s experience seems very similar with the emotions of helplessness and shame in handing the care of her parents to someone else. Perhaps this book also weighed so heavily on my mind because it makes me consider the future of caring for my own parents. The alternative of their premature death is a far heavier thought, so I suppose long life and old age are mixed blessing at the very end. Like Farmer’s father in the graphic novel, my own parents tell me now that they don’t want to be a burden when they get older. They’d rather I hire someone to care for them than spending my time with them. However, Farmer’s father expresses this and then must accept his daughter’s help once a week, then more frequently until he completely relies on her. She stumbles through all this and seems to manage, but shows that it is not an easy road despite being such a common road.

It is amazing that all of this is expressed in a graphic memoir, where Farmer draws the naked truth of the situation, sometimes portraying her parents in less than dignified positions. Portraying her naked stepmother several times certainly communicated the daily routines necessary to care for the very elderly. Near the end of the story, on page 165, Joyce’s character tells her father that he must start wearing diapers. He replies with an accepting smile, “It took fifty-five years to make the turnaround,” in reference to the time span between father putting diapers on daughter, and then daughter putting diapers on father. The entire story follows this motif of parents returning to an infantile state while children assume the role of caretaker. Joyce Farmer’s illustrations follow a predictable comic style and pacing. The story follows a four-year time span on a fairly regular time scale, except for the couple remembrances of the past, clearly defined by the cloud-like frames. Farmer consistently used phrases like “Time moves on…” to describe the passage of time from her occasional visits in the beginning. Such a simple phrase expresses how her parents’ lives could go unnoticed before she had to take care of them. Once she becomes emotionally and physically invested in their well being, specific phrases such as “One month later…” demarcate the passage of time, showing she must now pay specific attention to time, and hold onto every last minute while her parents are still alive. Her drawings are amazingly detailed and wonderful, and yet, I felt that her portrayal of facial expressions is confusing or simply too comical at times. Though Farmer expresses the complexity of emotion through the events and characters of the story, the facial expressions seem too simplistic, either happy or sad, to detail the feelings one has when they know death is coming. However, the graphic memoir was still completely moving and brave as a memoir, as Joyce Farmer was willing to tell such a personal story.

STITCHESSSSS!!!

There is so much that I love about this book. And I know I talked about silence a lot in my presentation so I’ll try to abstain from talking any more about it…. No I can’t. I have to talk about it. Just a bit more though, I promise. Silence is so appropriate here I can’t get over it, and not only after David’s vocal chords get removed. He never had a voice in that house to begin with. No one did. The significant lack of text made the silence and tension in that family so sentient, their dysfunction so palpable; I don’t know how any of them could stand it. But enough of that now.

On to a few questions I have which I’ll attempt to answer now, but will probably bring them up again in class. First of all, what the hell was that little demon creature??? At first I thought David was just schizophrenic and was seeing beings his disturbed mind had created. But now I have a better theory. I think that creature was just a manifestation of his anger as a child. So much had been suppressed and bottled up, it was only a matter of time before it broke free. And maybe that’s why the creature lost its “demon-ness” towards the end of the book. David had come to terms with his past and was beginning to finally lose the anger he had built up. What about the angry Jesus though? Was that the same thing? Or am I missing something?

I also want to talk about something that was mentioned toward the tail end of my presentation but did not get the full attention that it deserved. And that is Small’s use of aspect-to-aspect transitions. The heavy, disturbed tone of the book is brought on heavily by the use of this transition. Small was able not only to give setting and establish the emotion of the book, but also he was able to slow down the pace of the book and allow the reader to fully dive into David’s world. Most notably, this is found after David’s visit with the psychiatrist (as the White Rabbit which is SO COOL!). David’s emotional breakdown is followed by nine pages of pretty much nothing. Rain. An empty kitchen. A TV no one is watching. More rain. But it was all necessary. I felt David’s hurt in those raindrops; I felt his betrayal, his loneliness. Words could not do that. One picture could not do that. I needed to feel the length and breadth of his sadness.

I also appreciated the use of moment-to-moment transitions. Everything felt deliberate. Every action felt meaningful, even something so simple as putting a yellow towel on his head. But he sure loved that long. Blond. Hair.

Okay well I’m done rambling on for now. I’ll continue in class; there’s still so much more to say.

Another Slightly Delayed Response

To be perfectly honest, when I first started reading Working, I wasn’t too excited about it. The first couple of stories I felt were either too cliché or mundane (don’t get me wrong I have immense respect for coal miners or farm workers, it’s just that their plight is nothing new) or too cluttered with text. I also shared Raymond and Lisa’s sentiments about it feeling kind of picture-booky. But then I came to some of the stories where the illustrations actually enhanced these accounts. My three favorites which were able to do this, which were able to take the comics genre and push it towards its potential, were Farmworker, Organizer, and Waitress.

The appeal of Farmworker is obvious. Though it is still heavy in dialogue (something I’m not very happy about) it makes up for it with fascinating images. The portrayal of the protagonist using ancient Mixtec codices juxtaposed with coddled “Anglos” (who looked like their brains were cooked in microwaves) and Spanish phrases in my mind redeemed the story. The words were brought to life and given greater and deeper meaning. The great separation between Mexicans and Anglos was made wider by the barrier of language. The irony of the fieldwork they were boxed into was heightened by their physical depictions as ancient royals. The comics done in this story were not just illustrations of what had already been said in the dialogue boxes. They enhanced the words and did what I expect them to do in graphic nonfiction. I am not six. I am not reading Dr. Seuss. These images have to do something more, and in Farmworker I feel they did.

Organizer was also well illustrated in my opinion. When the main character describes his dad cutting coupons and getting worked over by the myriad companies he admired, Peter Kuper doesn’t just show the dad cutting coupons but goes one step further and has scissors cutting the entire panels in half. The gravity of those cut coupons is amplified. Not only are pieces of paper getting torn apart in the face of these companies, but so also are hopes and dreams (kind of cheesy sounding I know but what can I say I was impressed). I also appreciated the use of very basic and angular shapes in this piece. I don’t want to say too much about it but I felt it very appropriately symbolized the protagonist’s strong and solid views on society and what needed to be done to improve it.

Finally I want to talk a little about Waitress. I really appreciated the depiction of her as both an artist and a work of art herself. She is her own masterpiece. She is that Venus de Milo, that ballet dancer, that high-energy performer, and she works hard everyday to make it that way. I feel the illustrations were able to capture that well. Also I agree with Lee; the progression of her character was really fascinating. What starts out chipper and upbeat slowly morphs into exhaustion and anxiety, and it was nice to see that vulnerability. I feel it grounded the story, validating its realness.

Overall, there is no denying that the lives of these workers are each fascinating and worth investigating. However, in adapting their stories to a graphic novel format, I feel it was necessary to have the illustrations not only stand up to the stories but also enhance them, and I felt only a select few were able to do that.

David Sedaris (a slightly delayed response)

I loved hearing David Sedaris read in MemAud on Sunday. I’ve read some of his stories before, but it’s a really different experience to hear him read them aloud. He has excellent comedic timing, and separate from the amusement value of his work, it’s always great to hear an author read his or her own writing.

On one level, I found Sedaris hilarious, as I’m sure many others have previously. And he really tries to be funny, by telling dirty jokes that he’s heard or relating ridiculous stories. To be sure, his essays are humorous in and of themselves, and reading them on paper often produces a laugh or two per page, but when he reads them live he really goes for all-out comedy. In a way, when he reads his stories to an audience, he seems more like a comedian than a writer, possibly because he brings up topics that seem common to comedians (things like family issues or the struggles of traveling). Now that he’s famous and is well known for his readings, I wonder if he takes that into account while writing his stories; that is, if he thinks about the effect of reading an essay aloud while he’s writing it. On some level, I think it would be difficult for him to eliminate any thoughts of an audience, since his stories are so well suited to live readings and since he’s become so accustomed to delivering his work.

What I found most interesting in Sedaris’s reading wasn’t his dirty jokes or his diary entries, but was rather his personal story about his childhood experiences with his father. Although this essay certainly contained its fair share of humor, it was really moving on a deeper level. It reflected his extreme feelings of inadequacy as a child, which generally resulted from his father’s refusal to be proud of him. Honestly, I had trouble laughing sometimes during Sedaris’s reading of this essay. It didn’t seem all that funny to me. It seemed utterly depressing. It revealed some serious parenting problems in his family, namely his father’s disapproval and his mother’s apathy, and at some points it was painful to hear the extent to which Sedaris’s father criticized him and praised others. Worst of all was the fact that these memories have clearly stuck with Sedaris for a long time, revealing his painful experience of growing up with his father’s disapproval. When Sedaris said that to this day his father refuses to be proud of him, even to the point of denying the legitimacy of being on the New York Times bestseller list, I could find nothing amusing in such hurtful parental treatment. I can, however, see the therapeutic value in writing about his childhood and his relationship with his father. I’m often impressed by how much writers are willing to share about their personal lives, and in this case I thought it was very brave of Sedaris to discuss these childhood emotions, which clearly troubled him for a long time. But I guess once you reach fifty you’re probably better able to talk about problems from when you were ten or eleven. Still, though, I could fully understand Sedaris’s satisfaction in learning that Greg Sackis is currently selling sex toys.

The Organizer & the Idle: Finding Meaning in Work

First of all, this graphic adaptation really makes me want to read Terkel’s original book about the lives of these people. I thought the people and their stories were so real, poignant and profound in the messages they pass along to their readers. The inclusion of Terkel’s original introduction provided a very good account as to why he decided to interview these individuals and how he views work. I was moved from the first sentence.

That being said, I do agree with what Raymond said about some artists depicted word-by-word what the storyteller is saying, which made me realize I was only reading and not seeing the interplay between the graphics and text. Prime examples would be the stockbroker, the garbageman, and the carpeter/poet. However, I also think the success in utilization of sequential art also comes down to the artist’s art and the large range of stories you’re given. I think it is an entirely different art to stay true to the storyteller and still render an interesting piece, especially when the format you’re given is in a narrative format. Some of the artists did it better than others; some got creative and even though they depicted word-by-word, they made the graphics interesting enough that I wanted to read the text and look at their art side-by-side. One favorite example is the Farm worker. Although there is a good amount of text, I thought Miner’s choice to base his drawings on Mixtec codices was innovative and fitting for the text he was given. In many cases Miner wove the text into his graphics, which really pulled me into his art. I also think Tooks’s art in depicting the waitress was also fitting because the juxtaposition of Dolores with the background visuals which range from cartoons to clip art-like images to photographs helped her stand out. Of course, here is a good example of a good story as well. I believe that Dolores’s story and personality fit with Tooks’s art well but I didn’t get the same draw with the Jazz musician or the bar pianist and I believe it was due to the combination of story and art.

But I digress. I believe the most important part of this adaptation is the text itself, because they represent word-for-word the voice of these individuals and this is what ultimately moves me. The graphics bring the storytelling to life and an individual with a good story and message that is depicted by an artist well-informed and innovative artist will make a bigger impact on the reader, in my opinion. The organizer’s story, and how Kuper complements Talcott’s strong voice with his art, was what really produced an “aesthetic response” in me, to use the words of McCloud. First of all, being in the midst of job recruiting and job searching, especially when I don’t really know what I want to do with my life but desperately wanting a job that is both stimulating and allows me to “make a difference,” I found myself envious of Talcott. It is obvious that he has a strong ideology and sense of purpose and his words on pages 33, 37, and 39 really hit me. But what made his story come alive for me was the art. Kuper’s illustrations are strong; he utilizes multiple thick lines, harsh, blunt angles, and lots of black to add to the sense of ruggedness, determination and influence I sense from Talcott’s words. In addition, the imagery and symbols Kuper includes really reinforces Talcott’s message and makes him real to me. For example, the motif of text bubbles in the shape of gears illustrate that the narrator gets his hands dirty and produces something tangible. The image of the scissors cutting up the panels as Talcott talks about his family getting “clipped” alongside the falling money emphasizes the powerlessness and dissatisfaction they feel. The power pyramid with the struggle for power by opposing parties ad the exertion shown on their faces helps me visualize with the masses in this dog-eat-dog world. It is obvious that Kuper has really thought about how to represent this text when he switches from panels to a splash page (31) to simply juxtaposing insets and Talcott with plain text, especially when the text itself is already powerful and needs less imagery to make its impact. I love the imagery of the arm and fist and the symmetry on page 35, the juggling of so many contradictions and further symmetry on the next pages. The use of time images and gears on page 38 really reminds me of how McCloud depicts his art because McCloud is able to bring alive simple narration through interesting art forms. I also thought the ending was perfect, which shows the work of the adaptation of Pekar. Through these techniques, the storyteller is now “Bill Talcott” to me, not “the Organizer.”

As for a story/art that is closest to McCloud’s definition of sequential art, I believe the story about idleness did it best. Many of the artists in the adaptation used the text they were given to illustrate the actions of the narrator that he or she is describing. Essentially, many are a graphic representation of the past. In this sense, Rudahl does it best in weaving images of the past with the text; my favorite is the Mail Carrier because the story length is just right the fluidity of the images match the fluidity of Fuller’s words. However, Reilly’s decision to depict the interview itself as Terwilliger tells her story sets it apart from the rest. Kuper does it a little bit with Talcott but in that vignette, it wouldn’t have worked to approach it the same way Reilly does with Terwilliger because of the content of the story. Terwilliger is idle so it is fitting that her story is represented through a conversation with a few flashbacks. I like that the text bubbles are actually Terwilliger speaking in real time and that we can see her moving around her home as she relives her past and talks about what she thinks of work and love and idleness. Terwilliger is talking to the reader indirectly and the art is sequential because as she talks, she is moving around and there are close-ups and flashbacks. The flashbacks are nicely placed to further illustrate her words, but is not overwhelming; rather it reinforces her story like Kuper did with Talcott, but in a much subtler way.

I’m drawn to these two stories really for the impact it makes in the combination of the storyteller, his or her message and the “perfect” graphic representation of their story. But overall, every one of the stories tell me something about the individual, the working world, and life itself.

The Farm Worker and the Organizer

This form lends itself well to the portrayal of Working because it provides a stage for each individual character. I’ve seen the collection stories performed (but perhaps a high school play is not the best) but the graphic novel form forced me to focus on the words of the story as opposed to the character telling the story. In the theatrical format the individual person seemed more important, but the graphic novel focused on the representation of the person. Like McCloud discusses, portraying a character with less realistic futures allows the viewer to imagine them as many people. This seemed to be the case with Working- I could envision each narrative as applicable to many other workers because of their somewhat cartoonish representation. The blocks of text as opposed to dialogue bubbles also changed the reading of the graphic novel. Pure adaptation of another work seems more difficult for the form of the graphic novel. I’ve read the adaptations Working and Genesis now, both of which are text-heavy and focused more on narrative than dialogue. In the previous stories I’ve enjoyed the blend of reading one character’s perspectives then seeing perspectives of others through their dialogue bubbles. Pure adaptations seem to lack an important element of the graphic novel, in which there is a consistent blend of narrative and dialogue.

The individual stories vary so much because they are told by different characters and illustrated by different artists. Even the convention of the graphic novel form with fairly consistent frames differs in each story- some artists go outside the frame more often than not. My favorite two stories are from the farm worker and the organizer. I think both of these stories lend themselves to sequential storytelling, but not purely in order of events or natural order of time. Perhaps I also like the stories best simply because of the artists’ portrayal and style of drawing. This book also shows how much of an impact the artist has on the words of the story. All of these artists are clearly talented, though their portrayal of a character and their drawing style affected how I interpreted the character. In the case of the farm worker and organizer and a few others, perhaps I liked the stories because my perception of the character was the same as the artist. However, I could see, especially in the story of the proofreader and the securities broker, how my understanding of the character could change because of their representation. The proofreader is presented as a cartoonish man, perhaps someone who should not be taken seriously. The broker is presented in darkly shaded and conventional frames. I viewed him as a very conventional and somewhat boring man, and I attribute some of this to the drawing style alongside his own narrative, which also seems pretty ‘conventional.’ I don’t think the graphic novel form lends itself well to pure adaptations because it is augmenting the work of another, affecting how every word is seen. Though, I suppose this is an artistic process of interpreting another’s work, and could emphasize parts of the story a reader may not have ‘seen’ before.

Returning to the discussion of sequential storytelling, the stories of the farm worker and the organizer seem to progress through time with the most ease. I don’t think any story in the collection actually follows a time sequence where events follow one after another, and the story heads towards a conclusion at the ‘end’ of the time sequence. Instead the stories follow the sequence of a character’s thoughts about their lives and work. The story of the farm worker works well as a sequential story in graphic form because the reader can follow the storyteller as he travels, seeing what he describes. His story also contains many anecdotes. When portrayed pictorially, the anecdotes don’t seem out of place or out of sequence, instead they enhance the story because they provide small and informative diversions from the farm worker’s life story. Page nineteen through page twenty-one provide sequence in the form of his new realizations, where the conventional form of the frame is broken and even some photographs are introduced. The story of the organizer works sequentially because of the form the artist uses, where we are following the narrator through his own story. By watching the organizer tell his own story, we are on the sequence with the organizer, instead of seeing the action of his words portrayed. This emphasizes the importance of the organizer instead of following the action of his stories.

Didn’t we say, in class, that the better graphic novels avoid illustrations that depict their corresponding texts word-by-word? Many of the adaptations in Working failed to provide for that expectation. In fact, they merely appeared to be picture books whose images exactly followed their texts. I felt that I could have read many of the stories in Working without looking at the images because they constantly used the word-specific combination. “Nick Salerno, Garbageman” is a good example. The pictures in “Nick Salerno, Garbageman” either exactly follow the text or don’t even relate to the text in a significant way! I found “Nick Salerno, Garbageman” to be one of the blandest stories in Working. Although I thought that many of the “graphic nonfiction short stories” (a term that I’m going to use for this blog post) in Working failed as sequential art, I did think that the stories adapted by Danny Fingeroth, drawn by Bob Hall, and lettered by Janice Chiang to be the best for sequential storytelling. These stories include “Rip Torn (Actor).” They fulfilled my strongest expectation of graphic novels because their stories did not completely depend on word-specific combinations.

“Rip Torn (Actor)” is filled with subtle representations of its text. In the third panel on page 95, Rip Torn is shown speaking into a microphone in front of a window, behind which a crowd of people stare at him. Although that panel appears to be following the text “There must have been forty people in the control booth. There are usually about five,” this panel helps the reader to understand the following line: “I didn’t get the job. They came to look at the freak.” The drawings of the people behind the window’s faces emphasize the excitement that the people are experiencing, the same excitement that many people would feel when they are attending a showcase of a freak. They are jam-packed in the control booth, crowded against each other as they try to get a better look at the “freak.” The third panel on page 96 presents the first pieces of Rip’s conversation with the producer. The smoke from the producer’s cigar is purposefully drawn to be in Rip’s face, demonstrating the producer’s higher status encouraging his rudeness. The producer’s chin is also raised, allowing the reader to feel annoyed by the producer and to increase his/her support for Rip in his bet. The second panel on page 97 wonderfully portrays the bewilderment on the party attendees’ faces, something that text would weakly convey by itself. (In fact, a single word of text isn’t even used in that panel.) In the third panel on the same page, the background of the crowd staring at Rip and the Producer helps the reader to see Rip’s predicament that is represented by the first block of text “...and Nobody would speak to me the rest of the night.” The crowd behind Rip looks at him as if he were an outcast who had performed a terrible deed, and the second panel, in which people’s facial expressions can be seen, now has a different meaning: The people in the crowd weren’t bewildered.. They were scared for and of Rip. In the third panel, the artist very skillfully draws the pictorial representation of the text “The guy very angrily gave me a dollar.” Not only does the artist employ a tempered facial expression, he also shows the producer handing the money to Rip with his back turned to him. The combination of the facial expression and the position of the producer’s body exaggerates the producer’s disgust for Rip. The last panel on page 97 is an illustration of Rip’s Pyrrhic victory that strongly depicts the first block of text “I had committed some social gaffe.” Although he is surrounded by people, Rip’s head is bowed and he is isolated by everyone around him. He is seen staring at the dollar that he has won, and he is surrounded by what he lost. The reader doesn’t need to be literally told what has happened to Rip after he won the bet. He is allowed to use both the text and the picture to glean a suitable interpretation.

Although I said that I found many of the stories in Working to fail as sequential art, I still found them to be interesting. They were compelling looks at people’s lives, and I don’t believe that I can ever receive more realistic tellings. However, I honestly don’t see how stories like “Nick Salerno, Garbageman” and “Nick Landsay” had the right to be made into “graphic nonfiction short stories.” I know that many graphic novels have illustrations that follow their texts word-by-word, but are word-specific combinations the majority of their word-and-picture combinations? Do other graphic novels depend so much on their texts? “Rip Torn (Actor)” and “Steve Hamilton (Baseball Player),” the other story by Danny Fingeroth, Bob Hall, and Janice Chiang, are very skilled representations of how a graphic novel should work by decreasing their pictures’ dependency on texts to an appropriate amount.

I think that I found Ryan Inzana's illustrations of Harvey Pekar's adaptation of Brett Hauser, "Supermarket Box Boy," to be the most compelling linear narrative in Working. It had trace elements of noir which I found to be especially effective as a means of conveying linear time, and I think that, over all, Brett's narrative played still moments and whole illustrated, but immobile, ideas off of segments of progressive time in very interesting ways. Inzana's use of black ink lent the whole vignette a distinctly dark and heavy composition and contributed to this section's noirish feel.

From the very first bit of script, Inzana and Pekar created a sense of movement and of sequencing which mimicked the illustration and mobilized the overall composition. The first text box, "People come to the counter and you put things in bags for them" is followed by "You carry things to their cars" and "It was a grind." These boxes move left to right, top to bottom, and follow the progression the two figures--one Brett, the other the customer--as they make their way through the parking lot. From the very outset, the text (ostensibly belonging to Brett as speaker) follows the movement of the two figures, establishing the progression of time and space as they walk through the parking lot. This scene shifts to another in which Brett lists explains a main complaint of the chapter: "You have to be terribly subservient to people," he says, "'Ma'am, can I take your bags?'" At the bottom of an illustration in which Brett leans over, a grimace on his face he says, "Being subservient made me very resentful." Giving us what is perhaps best described as montage, he elaborates on the characters with whom he comes to interact, saying, "They'd go shopping and hit their kids and talk about those idiots passing out grape petitions" (Terkel 65). All of his language is clipped and short, reemphasizing the noir-like composition of the entire section. As the paid help at the bottom of the social hierarchy, Brett is constructed as a picaresque hero, the anti-hero and the underdog, whose position is seedy at best and whose movement through the structure of his employment is stifled by the very structure itself.

After the first page flip, Brett says, "Everything looks fresh and nice. You're not aware that in the back-room it stinks and there's crates all over the place and the walls are messed up." Language like this, which establishes a sense of temporality by referencing things in spatial relativity (while everything looks nice and fresh, behind the scenes, separated by space and one's access to it, the grocery store is really a stinking, filthy hovel), gives the section a linear feel by revealing what is hidden through a narrative mode that interposes the speaker between the worlds accessible to the average shopper (and average reader) and those which require special access such as that which would be knowable to the box boy or other employees "behind the scenes." Then Brett launches into another anecdote--one which deals explicitly with the sense of separation he feels which is engendered by the dehumanizing conditions of the world of work: "I once met someone a knew years ago. I remembered his name. We talked about this and that. As he left he said, 'It was nice talking to you Brett.' I felt great, he remembered me. Then I looked down at my name-plate. Oh shit. He didn't remember me at all, he just read the name-plate. I wish I put Irving down on my name-plate. If he'd have said, 'Oh yes, Irving, how could I forget you?' I'd have been ready for him. There's nothing personal here" (Terkel 66).

Pekar and Inzana's adaptation and illustrations for Brett's vignette work with language--a language that comes from their subject--that reinforces the sense of isolation and alienation that their subject feels as a member of a work force which thrives through its making use of its subject's inferiority. As such, it must straddle the line between allowing the reader too much awareness of its subject's situatedness and allowing him none. In order allow sympathy between the reader and the subject to manifest, the language and the illustrations must give just enough away for the reader to understand, on some base level, the inequality and humiliation that Brett must face while maintaining the fundamental difference between Brett and his reader. The reader must feel other and separate from Brett in some way for the basic argument (that this job is demeaning and that it functions as a facet of fundamental power differences between customer and box boy) to work on a narrative level.

Page 69 does this incredibly well. Brett and his customer are in the parking lot and Brett is explaining (as the illustrations simultaneously demonstrate) to the reader that he cannot accept tips. The two images juxtaposed on the page--one which shows his customer holding out a quarter as the threshold of her open trunk, the other the very same customer speeding away in her car--create a sense of time, in an action to action juxtaposition. This sequence's closure creates a sense of time lapse in which the customer tips and flees, demonstrating a situation in wich Brett is still powerless to divert or avoid the actions of the customer, whose sense of propriety is invested in her ability to tip the paid help.

-Kyle O

The Wonder Waitress

When reading Studs Terkel’s Working, I found myself most drawn to the oral history of the waitress, Dolores Dante. I’m not entirely sure if her story is the one that best fits a linear narrative, because she didn’t exactly tell it in a chronological format that would be most conducive to sequential storytelling. However, it was certainly the story that I most enjoyed reading, and her character was by far the most fascinating one for me personally. I was first interested by the fact that she worked in the same restaurant for twenty-three years, which to me seems incomprehensible (most likely because I’m only twenty-one and can’t imagine doing one thing for a full twenty-three years). But even more amazing to me (at least initially) was that she loved her job! I think it’s common for people to consider waitressing a temporary job, not something that you’d want to do for an extended period of time. But Dolores was a waitress for (at least) twenty-three years, and she was really enjoying herself. I thought that was incredible and really fantastic. She explained that she loves talking to people, at which point I partially understood why she would enjoy waitressing so much. If she’s a really social, outgoing person, then being able to interact with so many people every night must be really fun and exciting for her. I was quite surprised when she then said that she always spoke her mind to the customers, in spite of the fact that her bosses didn’t like it. It seems most logical to keep your mouth shut about certain things if that will help your job, but Dolores clearly doesn’t see it this way. I appreciated her fearlessness and her refusal to keep quiet because she has “an opinion on every single subject there is.” She seems like she has a very strong personality and a determination to express herself whenever she is given the chance. I love it!

One thing that I really appreciated about Dolores’s story, which I didn’t find in most of the other narratives, was a certain character progression and a development in terms of the information that she reveals to the reader. Initially, she talks extensively about how much she loves her job and why she takes such pride in her work, but then she tells us that it’s really exhausting to be a waitress and that at the end of the night, she feels completely drained. Dolores then explains that there are so many things that happen every night of her job that make her angry or frustrated, but that she can’t express her anger because she has to please the customers and her boss. She also describes her dread that something will go wrong and her sense that her work is like a performance, and at the end of the night the curtains close and the act is finished. I really liked this comparison and I found it very relevant to her other descriptions of her job. I was also interested by the fact that she reveals these tiring aspects of her job later in her narration, after talking about how much she enjoys her work. It seems like she initially felt the need to defend her job as a waitress, and then after expressing how much she likes her work, she explains that it’s exhausting and very difficult. Ultimately, I appreciated her story more because she had shown these two sides to her job. I’m impressed by the fact that she loves waitressing in spite of all of the difficulties that she faces every day. She clearly likes to challenge herself.

Separate from Dolores’s actual story, I really liked Lance Tooks’s rendition of her oral history into a graphic narrative. I loved the parallels that he drew between her job as a waitress and fine art pieces. In the first panel, he drew Dolores in a pose similar to that of an ancient sculpture, and in a later panel (on page 85), he posed her identically to a sculpture by Edgar Degas called The Little Dancer. Tooks also included photographs of each of these sculptures to show the similarity of pose and to emphasize his comparison between Dolores and a work of art. I really appreciated his artistic decisions here, and I thought that it showed a lot of respect on his part to depict a waitress as a famous artwork. It really added to her level of dignity, which she firmly asserts in her story. Dolores says that people often tell her, “You’re great, how come you’re just a waitress?” To which she replies, “Why, don’t you think you deserve to be served by me?” She explains, “I don’t feel lowly at all. I myself feel sure. I don’t want to change the job. I love it.” I think that Tooks’s representation of her emphasizes her pride in her job and her dignified attitude toward being a waitress. She feels that she has nothing to be ashamed of by working as a waitress, and he demonstrates this confidence in his drawings of her and in his comparison of her to an artwork. Dolores herself says, “To be a waitress, it’s an art,” and that is made very clear in this graphic version of her narrative.

I also thought it was great that Tooks made some amusing editorial decisions about representing the customers. On page 78 he depicts a particularly annoying customer as George W. Bush, and on page 84 he represents a table of wealthy customers as the Monopoly man surrounded by other rich-looking capitalists in a formation similar to that of the Last Supper. I liked that Tooks chose to draw random customers in this specific way, creating certain associations in the reader’s mind, and I found Tooks’s comparisons hilarious. It’s also a great way to make a story about ordinary people (who would otherwise be anonymous) much more interesting for the reader.