1. Anonymous said: yooo not only are your fucking strips unappealing as fuck to look at, they're wordy and end up going nowhere. this is total shit, and i can't believe people buy your shit. have fun never being remembered for anything worth-while.



    The nonsensical anger attached to the criticism in this message makes it my favorite present.

    sum1 is mad that they are not as cool as dane

    but srsly internet strangers always b getting mad over dumb shit. i get mad over genocide and suffering and people in power looking away from it all but w/e

    Never trust any critic whose primary mode of engagement with art is fury

  2. franksantoro:

    for new followers - thnx


    I thought Pompeii would be all airy, open images like Frank’s Incanto and Chimera.  Instead, he gave us a great character play, about an artist’s bond with his mentor and how it affects his romantic relationship.  The character’s faces are all 100% real and expressive in a way that’s absent in nearly every other comic I’ve ever read.  Most cartoon character’s faces are made out of cardboard.  The people in Pompeii actually seem to have a soul behind their eyes.  Incredible.  It’s an amazing, heartfelt book.  

    (above image from Pompeii)

    The thing about flat, uncommunicative faces in comics is on point. I say uncommunicative rather than inexpressive because an expressionless face can obviously communicate something as a drawing; often, though, the inertness of comics faces comes across as a lack of consideration of how a face can be made to work within the larger context of the artist’s style. That’s a surrender of a huge amount of potentially useful territory.

  3. The first moment — but certainly not the last — that made me stop reading How to Be Happy, turn back the pages, and immediately re-read them came early. “In Our Eden”, the lead-off piece in Eleanor Davis’s masterful new collection of short stories, concerns a back-to-nature commune driven to dissent and dissolution by its founder’s purity of vision. Some members chafe at the convention by which every man is called Adam, every woman Eve. Others fall away when the leader, a towering and barrel-chested figure with a ferocious black beard like something out of a David B. comic, takes away all of their prefab tools. The rest depart when he insists they neither farm nor kill for food, literalizing and reversing the Fall’s allegory of humanity’s move from hunter-gatherer to agrarian societies. At last it’s just this one Adam and the Eve he loves. By the next time we see them, Adam’s gargantuan physique has been pared away, his ribs visible, his nose reddened for a sickly effect, demonstrating Davis’s remarkable ability to wring detail and expressive power out of the simple color-block style of the piece. He comes across Eve, nude and stork-skinny, washing her long hair in a river. He goes to her, nude himself. “I’m ready for the bliss to come,” he says right to us in one of the recurring panels of first-person narration that have been peppered through the comic. They embrace. “I’m ready for the weight to lift.” They kiss.

    I turned the page, curious as to how the story would end. Some final irony? Some subtle but biting indictment of utopian folly? A widening of the view to deny the lovers centrality in their world? None of the above: the story had already ended. The build-up I’d read into it — a crescendo of extremism that would end with Adam’s hubris exposed and exploited — didn’t exist. The easy climax, the stacked-deck scenario so common in stories about true believers in which author and audience get over at the expense of the characters when the latter are made to look foolish for foibles the former recognize instantly, never comes. The climax had come two pages before, when I turned from one page to the next and reached a splash-page image of the moment when Eve turns to see her Adam. This moment of connection is the story’s resolution. The use of Adam and Eve’s human bodies to communicate to one another, to seek the bliss that’s coming, to lift that weight, is the image Davis wants us to leave with. No moral, no punchline, no muted epiphany — discarded along with all the other distractions, they leave only Edenic bliss behind.

    I reviewed Eleanor Davis’s masterful comics collection How to Be Happy for The Comics Journal.


  4. "

    Sorry Kid folds out like a 22×17 broadsheet. When examined closely, it reveals itself to be two 11×17 pages, their surface murky with black xerox ink, joined together by sparkly rainbow-silver tape. This juxtaposition in its construction encapsulates the eight-page whole, which sees Clark alternate heartrending grappling with the overpowering grief of her father’s death and small welcome gestures in the direction of comfort.

    All of the text is borrowed from apparently much-loved sources: Inside, writer Hélène Cixous’s novel on this theme; Ursula K. Le Guin’s fantasy classic The Farthest Shore; the Cocteau Twins song “Know Who You Are at Any Age”. It’s a tacit acknowledgement that recognition of your pain in painful work is often as comforting as can be.


    Sorry Kid | The Comics Journal

    I reviewed my first comic in ages, Sorry Kid by Katrina Silander Clark, for The Comics Journal.

    (via boiledleather)

    (via boiledleather)

  6. thetrueblack:

    What Is Nigeria?

    Sean T. Collins, script

    Colin Panetta, art

    based on "9 Questions About Nigeria You Were Too Embarrassed to Ask" by Max Fisher, vox.com

  7. doopliss:

    "I think this might be the bleakest thing you’ve ever written, kid, and that’s really saying something." (Sean T. Collins)

    Palm Ash is my new minicomc zine about brutality and compassion, the very real threat of being gored to death by a bull, and the bad habit of martyrdom, both interpersonal and religious, set during the Diocletianic Persecution. Xerox printed on lime green text weight paper, 20 pages, $5. Buy it from me this weekend at CAKE, table 68A.

    If you can’t make it to CAKE this weekend, you can preorder Palm Ash from my etsy store and I’ll send you a copy on Tuesday when I get back.

  8. boiledleather:

    I should not have been trusted with this.

  9. thespithouse:



    Listen: I love superhero comics. I have loved them for most of my life. My desire for more women in superhero comics—writing them, starring in them, drawing them, whatever—is all-consuming. I love the silliest excesses of the genre. I love its history. I love sound effects and ridiculous origins and the Merry Marvel Marching Society. I have six books on comics history in this room with me alone. I love superhero comics.

    But I want to emphasize something that I don’t think is said often enough in the women-in-comics sphere: the endgame is not female superheroes. I mean, I want them. Like, really, really badly, with the kabooms and the day saving and the underwear on the outside. But superhero comics, at their core, are still fundamentally masculine. They’re about victory through force, they’re about saving those you perceive as unable to save themselves—they are, as they have always been, male power fantasies. And that’s not all bad! I love fight scenes and rugged individualism—honestly, I still love Lois Lane swept to safety in Superman’s arms. And I want comics about women that involve and even embrace these values—we need stories about competitive women, violent women, brash women, domineering women, even chauvinist women. 

    But honestly? We cannot operate entirely within the arena of superhero comics as they exist now and consider that “winning.” 50/50 gender parity within that slim slice of genre will be wonderful, but if it exists alone, it will be a failure. I want comics—tons of comics, enormous chunks of the industry—devoted to women and female concerns. I want classically feminine values to be celebrated. I want stories about sisters and wet nurses and cleaning ladies. I want Wonder Woman to save the day through empathy and I don’t want it to be seen as the lesser option when compared to victory through force. I want introspective meanderings devoted to a sixteen-year-old girl’s crush on Penny who lives next door. I comics that look nothing like comics do today.

    Victory for women in comics means exploding the concept of “superhero comics” as we know it. It means comics like Spider-Man Loves Mary Jane, which look at the genre from a radically different perspective while leaving it intact—but it also means comics like Utena, which burn conventional notions of womanhood and storytelling to the ground. It means “revolutionary,” “transgressive,” and “alternative” comics that feature more than one female character and don’t include a rape scene to up their grit quotient. It means hundreds of pages devoted to Boring Chick Stuff, the type even the most ardent male feminists tend to shy away from. It means hearing about Phoebe Gloeckner just as often as we hear about R. Crumb. It means reimagining what “good” “exciting” and “worthwhile” means. We need to create comics—lots of comics—that maybe don’t appeal to men. We don’t have to have to trash cape-and-cowl fare entirely—but we need to surround it with other stories, other perspectives, and massively different definitions of heroism. Different definitions of story. The rules of the game are rigged. We have to write new ones.

    Fuck yes.

    It means hearing about Phoebe Gloeckner just as often as we hear about R. Crumb.”

    I love Gloeckner and Crumb alike, and for what it’s worth so do both Gloeckner and Crumb

    (I prefer Gloeckner though; one of the two or three best cartoonists alive)

  10. (Source: boiledleather)