A couple of commercial artist acquaintances asked me last night why illustration wasn't covered in their art history class at The Art Institute of Philadelphia. I have touched on this subject before (here and here), but let me see if I can't formulate a more succinct statement.
The short answer would be snobbery. A slightly longer answer is that art is that which rich people collect and educated (and overeducated) people study. An even longer answer might be that art history is extremely conservative and prone to a herd mentality.
Art history before World War I exemplified an Old Master ethos and a preference for allegorical subjects (nude nymphs and the like); at mid-century formalist modernism prevailed; these days it is a kind of theatrical political gesturing descended from Zurich Dada. It is not a question of left or right, so much as whatever the herd happens to be grazing on at the moment (i.e., wherever the funding can be located). Academia is nothing if not overwhelmingly conformist.
Michele H. Bogart is the author of one of the few scholarly works on the subject, entitled Artists, Advertising, and the Borders of Art (University of Chicago Press, 1995), a highly readable account of how institutions like the Metropolitan Museum of Art declined to collect illustration art when it had the chance. A few years ago she lamented to me that more scholars had not ventured into this territory.
Increasing work is being done on popular material of the past, but this is problematic because scholarship is only useful if it enlightens on meanings that have been lost over time. Baxandall is necessary because he reminds us of the lost context of Early Medieval art, but we really don't need scholars to interpret Rockwell or Maxfield Parrish for us, just yet. Although, as print itself disappears, along with the modernist prejudice against commercial art as capitalist commodity, this will change. For today's college students, it is increasingly necessary to explain what print is, and that there were creative minds who created visuals for that lost media, and that some of it is very worthwhile. (Academically, such work is appearing on the radar in something called "Visual Culture Studies," a kind of purgatory for tainted objects that have yet to pass the high-brow cultural snob test.)
The argument that triptychs and other premodern genres of art had not been
created for gallery display, but nonetheless had long incorporated into museological-academic art
history, still does not sway art historians who continue to discount art
made for reproduction on the grounds that, well, it was not made to hang on a gallery wall. Even obvious connections to illustration, such as the early careers of
Winslow Homer, Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol, and other American artists,
are overlooked or given incredibly short shrift. Marxist-inflected critical theory mandates that art intended for mass consumption is not art, while art sold to capitalist art collectors and capital-underwritten institutions somehow achieves ideological purity. In other words, ideological predisposition (snobbery) is still the primary determinant of what constitutes art.
Art that still speaks to us on a gut level does not need a wall text or a journal article. And, as Raymond Williams and Jonathan Miller remind us (in The Long Revolution and Subsequent Performances, respectively), all historical art of the past once spoke to a contemporary audience in an immediately comprehensible way. Paradoxically, and perversely, contemporary art does not speak to us very clearly at all, which is why current scholarship in art history has shifted so heavily in that direction. Such work cannot stand on its own (Tom Wolfe's point in the now dated and somewhat ham-handed The Painted Word). Art has to give writers employment, or, a picture has to be worth a thousand words (or a thesis or dissertation or paper or book chapter), or it's not really art, is it?
Illustration, no matter how skillful or talented or imaginative or creative, is merely illustration unless it can function as a conversation piece for critical theorist to expound a political discourse. We used to ask, "But is it art?" Now we have to ask, "But can it be used in a scholarly argument that advances a professional academic or institutional-museological career?" Once illustration crosses that threshold, it may be permitted to pass through the Pearly Gates into the discipline of art history.
Blurring the Boundaries between Text and Graphic, Word and Picture, Art and Culture
Showing posts with label cultural legitimacy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cultural legitimacy. Show all posts
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Monday, August 25, 2014
Apocalypse Aborted: Philip José Farmer's Literary Plea
Dynamite’s Doc Savage
#8 is now out, completing the series. I have blogged about this twice before;
rather than reiterating those remarks, let me just say that the story’s ending offers
no further introspection into the ideology of its protagonist, who vows “to abide
by the court’s decisions” in the wake of certain scandalous revelations
concerning his methods, and merely sets the stage for new stories set in the twenty-first
century present. Update accomplished. Since most mainstream comics over the
past generation or more seem afflicted with an emphasis on continuity over
storytelling, resulting in mere dry tabulations of events rather than
full-blooded storytelling, it would have been a false hope to expect an adaptation
of this venerable property to buck the trend. Still, as the inspiration of such
diverse and durable pop culture franchises as Superman and James Bond, I was
rooting for Doc. But my basic judgment stands: this was an ambitious project
that would have been better treated as a prose text, and a creditable first
outing for newcomer artist Bilquis Evely, who was confronted with the arduous task of reconciling
the Baumhofer and Bama versions of Doc while evoking nearly a century of eras
from World War II to the present. But the Dynamite Doc reads more like a dry run for a movie bid and a slightly plodding
exercise in revamping. One only hopes that a collection of this series into a
graphic novel package will allow author Chris Roberson to add some textual
background for the reader to flesh out some of the conceptual material he had
in mind.
If this series will be remembered for anything, I suspect it
will largely be for its enshrinement of certain concepts belonging to Philip
José Farmer into the official Savage canon. For, what is not extrapolated from
Lester Dent’s original pulp series is derived almost entirely from Farmer’s Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life and Farmer’s
other original Savage adventures. These
texts are mined for such concepts as Doc’s alleged immortality serum, which
accounts for Doc not aging past fifty and Pat Savage aging more slowly, as
Monk, Ham, and the other Fabulous Five grow old and fade away; and for the
ethical qualms, such as they are, over the Crime College and other practices
deployed by Doc. It is unfortunate that Farmer’s distillation of the pulp
ethos, “to tell a rattling good story,” was not equally taken to heart, nor his
speculation that the only suitable mates for cousins Doc and Pat were each
other (Farmer also points out incestuous themes in the later Lensman novels of E.E. Smith, although I
never made it that far with the other Doc). But the latter probably was not possible under the constraints of a licensing agreement.
But unfortunately, Farmer’s influence on most comics and
fiction fans has always been his penchant for arcane continuity (in line with
industry obsessions) more than his ribald sense of humor. Farmer’s followers
have always taken his “fabulous family tree of Doc Savage,” which they have
dubbed the “Wold-Newton Universe,” far more seriously and reverently than
Farmer himself. To be sure, Farmer’s schematization, not only of Doc’s 181
“supersagas,” but a vast wealth of popular literature besides (including most
of the oeuvre of Edgar Rice Burroughs among others) is done with a great deal
of affection if not obsession and, as Win Scott Eckert points out, without the
benefit of spreadsheet or database technology. The interrelation of adventure
characters such as Doc Savage, Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes, and myriad others has
inspired such projects as Alan Moore’s League
of Extraordinary Gentleman (and will no doubt subtend Dynamite’s Doc Savage
team-up with the Shadow and The Avenger). Indeed, Farmer’s penchant for tying
everything together neatly has contributed not only to the comic book industry’s
mania for continuity, but extended to TV and movie franchises as well, becoming
a general cultural obsession.
Farmer, not as talented a writer as Burroughs or even Dent,
was at least clever enough to realize if he made the sexual drives underlying
the pulps more explicit in the manner of writers such as Henry Miller, William
S. Burroughs, and Norman Mailer, among others, he could unleash more of the sublimated
energy of the genre. Farmer succeeded, not only with the intentionally perverse
and satirical Doc Caliban series (most notably in the homoerotic A Feast Unknown), but eventually
striking gold with his best-selling Riverworld
series, which for a brief moment in the late 1970s dominated the fledging paperback
bookstore market (it was said that the backbone of chains like B. Dalton and
Little Professor, forerunners to juggernauts Borders and Barnes and Noble, was paperback
science fiction, primarily Tolkein’s Lord
of the Rings and James Blish’s workmanlike adaptations of the original Star Trek TV series).
![]() |
| The cover of The Return of Megaton Man #2 (Kitchen Sink Press, August 1988), featuring Doc, Pat, Ham and Monk (or their parodic approximations). © Don Simpson 1988, all rights reserved. |
While I confess an early fascination with Farmer’s Savage family tree, which has played a role in my own work (most notably Bizarre Heroes in the 1990s), I have always valued Farmer’s Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life primarily for reasons other than those valued by the Wold-Newtonians. Having read some fifteen or twenty of the Bantam reprints by 1975, I was at first perplexed by that white-covered Bantam paperback, purporting to tell the true “life story” of this purportedly fictional adventure character. It was probably an overcast, wintry day in suburban Detroit when I purchased this odd little book, but to paraphrase Farmer, I will always remember it as a golden afternoon. I have read parts of His Apocalyptic Life too many times to recall, particularly its opening chapters.
Farmer begins Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life with a mixture of nostalgic sentiment, provocative literary polemic, and a discursus on the apocalyptic aspect of the Savage supersagas, all of which are quite moving. Apart from the emotional recollections of his youthful readings, and the terse litany of plotlines paraphrased from the adventures themselves, Farmer has a serious point to make on behalf of the “ungreat literature” of the pulps. Following a long harangue against academic snobbery, Farmer concludes, “I am convinced that poplit, despite its massive flaws, is worth a serious study.”
However, Farmer declines to develop this argument any
further, sensing perhaps that a literary defense of the pulps is perhaps
unsustainable, least of all by him—he would have had to have read more Joseph
Campbell than Sigmund Freud. Instead, in the very next sentence he intimates his
personal uncovering of several “biographies of so-called fictional characters,”
introducing the fanciful idea that pulp literature is based on factual accounts
of the exploits of living persons. At first, this seems almost a perverse throw-away
joke, but it will soon emerge as a dominant theme for much of the remainder of
the book. This is sad, because Farmer’s critical plea is serious and heartfelt,
and worth far greater development. But Farmer gives up, as if to say that the
only way to take the pulps seriously is to literally pretend that they are
real, to double down on the credulity of childhood.
It is worth quoting passages at length to examine how Farmer
presents, and then aborts, his argument. Farmer begins the book with a moving
recollection of his youth and the magazine rack of pulp imagination awaiting
him at Smitty’s drugstore. “It was truly a vessel for me,” he recalled,
one which I boarded for many a fabulous voyage down the Mississippi of a boy’s mind. […] It was here that I dipped my line into the waters and brought up the fabulous Argosy magazine once a week. […] Those were golden days. At least, they had their golden moments, and these are what I’ve treasured up in my memory.
After a stint in the service and college on the G.I. Bill, Farmer
developes more grown up tastes in literature. “In my young manhood and
beginning of middle age, between 1949 and October 1964, I rarely thought of Doc
Savage. Such childish things were behind me.” Instead he read a litany of
serious authors and critics, until “Bantam Books resurrected the buried
fifteen-year-old” with the reprinting of the Doc Savage series.
I was just beginning to turn back to the “classics” of my childhood and the pop lit of my youth. And as the Bantams came out, starting with The Man of Bronze, I re-experienced the delights of my juvenile days. This nostalgic joy was tempered by a recognition of literary faults which I’d not noticed during the original readings. However, by then I had gotten over my snobbishness. I knew that much of the “great” literature of the world had, along with the great virtues that made them classics, great flaws. Dostoyevsky, Dickens, Melville, and Twain are splendid examples of this. Examples in poetry are Shakespeare, Milton, and Blake.
Farmer continues,
There is a fifteen-year-old in my brain, and he loves Doc. There is also a seven-year-old who still loves Billy Whiskers, a nine-year-old who still loves Oz and the heroes of ancient Troy and Achaea, a ten-year-old who still loves John Carter of Mars, Tarzan, Rudolf Rassendyll, King Arthur, Og, Son of Fire, Umslopogaas and Galazl, the Ancient Mariner, Captain Nemo, Captain Gulliver, Tom Sawyer, Hiawatha, Jim Hawkins, and Sherlock Holmes.
It is then that Farmer proceeds into his most forceful
polemic.
The “ungreat” literature, the poplit (mystery, romance, adventure, gothic) was put down or ignored by most of the literary critics (and, hence, the intellectuals) on the grounds that they had no merit whatsoever. This is just not so, and perception of this has begun to filter into the academic community. […] There are elements in poplit other than just entertainment. […] It was Jung who pointed out that there was more to be learned about the archetypes and symbols of the unconscious from H. Rider Haggard than from any hundred of self-consciously psychological artistes. And Henry Miller seconds this.
Just so, there is much to be learned from the works of the poplit writers, past and present. And the reader, even the Ph.D., can enjoy himself, if he puts himself into the proper frame of approach. First, he has to be able to enjoy the art of telling a rattling good story. Second, on rereading, he has to be able to abstract the elements that make them psychologically valuable. This requires a somewhat schizophrenic mind, but most scholars have this. Third, he has to be able to fuse one and two if he is going to emerge with the pearl of great price from the depths.
Why is it that A. Conan Doyle and Edgar Rice Burroughs, mere romance adventure writers, are so vastly read today, while hundreds of their contemporary colleagues, so lauded by the critics, have dropped into oblivion? Why is it that these two, along with Haggard, will continue to attract larger and larger audiences, while so many so highly praised today will be forgotten? What are the ingredients of their appeal? Why is it that Burroughs, for one, has had a larger readership, and far more influence on literature, than has Henry James, a hyperconscious “psychological” writer? This latter statement will drive the literati far up the wall (where they should stay), but an objective study would confirm it. This judgment, by the way, comes from Robert Bloch, a mystery-horror writer, author of Psycho, and a keen literary critic. He is widely read, knows the classic psychologists well, but brings up his stories from his personal psyche, which has an umbilical attached firmly to the collective unconscious.
Whether my argument is valid or not, I am convinced that poplit, despite its massive flaws, is worth a serious study.
It is at this point that Farmer’s polemic takes an abrupt nosedive.
From this point forward, the conceit that the Savage supersagas are real, and
the “family tree” theme, will progressively take over the book, filling two
entire addenda. In the meantime Farmer will compellingly compare Dent, the “revelator
from Missouri, to Henry Miller, E.E. “Doc” Smith, and William S. Burroughs, and
rattle off a breathtaking synopsis of the supersagas in support of his
contention that they are apocalyptic literature. But he will no longer argue
for the literary merit of poplit in literary-critical terms.
This is disturbing, among other reasons, for what it implies about the creative literary impulse itself. For, in order to take the Wold-Newton concept seriously, we have to posit a world in which mainstream journalism and publishing completely ignore the world-saving exploits of adventure characters, who nonetheless grant permission to pulp and adventure publishers to chronicle their exploits in rushed and sloppy hackwork. Lester Dent, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and other fabulist writers are reduced to mere reporters of actual facts. Indeed, whenever Farmer comes across a moment in the Doc Savage mythos which is either too absurd or irreconcilable with the continuity he is establishing, he consistently chalks it up to writers relying on their feeble imaginations to fill in gaps in the factual account. Of one Savage installment he finds particularly implausible, Farmer asserts,
the ridiculous and badly written Yellow Cloud read[s] as if plotted and typed in one day and sent out by midnight messenger directly to a drunken printer with literary aspirations.
In other words, the best pulp writing is when the writer
sticks to the facts, and the worst is when the writer is just making stuff
up—certainly a paradoxical way to praise the literary merits of creative
material.
![]() |
| Philip José lays out the fabulous family tree of Megaton Man. Spread of pp. 6-7, from The Return of Megaton Man #2 (Kitchen Sink Press, August 1988) © Don Simpson 1988, all rights reserved. |
Perhaps the popularity of the Wold-Newton Universe, and the
mania for continuity in comics and other popular media that has gripped our culture at large, is indicative of some
innate self-loathing expressed by Farmer in His
Apocalyptic Life. In any case, it would be preferable if creative artists
and writers were to keep in mind Farmer’s visionary if not apocalyptic postulations,
and embrace the sheer love of “the art of telling a rattling good story.”
Quotations are excerpted without permission from Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life (Bantam,
1975), from Chapter 1 and 2, “The Fourfold Vision,” and “Lester Dent, the
Revelator from Missourri,” pp. 1-25. A “Definitive Edition,” edited by Win
Scott Eckert, complete with a heavily “Wold-Newtonian” introduction, was
published in 2013 by Altus Press; the ebook version was consulted in
preparation for this post. © 1973, 2013 by the Philip J. Farmer Family Trust.
All rights reserved. Images from The
Return of Megaton Man #2 are © Don Simpson 1988, all rights reserved.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Kunzle’s Pre-History of Comics: But Is It Really?
The scholar David Kunzle declared in 1973 that he was
writing “a history or pre-history” of the modern newspaper comic strip. This
enterprise has come to encompass a significant portion of his professional scholarship,
including four major books with the term “comic strip” in the title: History of the Comic Strip, Volume I: The
Early Comic Strip—Narrative Strips and Picture Stories in the European
Broadsheet from c.1450 to 1825 (1973)[1]; The History of the Comic Strip, Volume II: The Nineteenth Century (1990)[2]; Rodolphe Töpffer: The Complete Comic Strips (2007)[3]; and
Father of the Comic Strip: Rodolphe
Töpffer (2007)[4].
These four volumes are preceded by one of Kunzle’s first published articles, a
translation of Francis Lacassin’s “The Comic Strip and the Film Language,”
which is augmented by almost 4 ½ pages of “supplementary notes” by Kunzle and
amounts to a prolegomena to Kunzle’s own scholarship on pre-twentieth-century
picture stories and their relationship with cinematic history.[5] Such
a sizeable corpus of research and writing,[6]
to say nothing of the publication of these sometimes cumbersome and profusely
illustrated works, would be a worthy if not magisterial achievement for any
scholar, particularly one working in such a pioneering area of graphic art as
pre-twentieth-century printed picture stories. However, the twentieth-century term
“comic strip” figures prominently in each of the titles mentioned, and Kunzle
in his own right has become considered a father of sorts to scholars of comics,
and has had a surprising and unexpectedly substantial impact on the way comics
are being perceived today.
So it may seem impertinent to ask: is Kunzle's undeniable
accomplishment really a history or pre-history of the comic strip? Does it do
justice to the pre-twentieth-century material Kunzle studies to be considered
primarily as comic strips or precursors to comic strips? What are Kunzle’s motivations
for claiming the term “comic strip” as his rubric, and would his material have been
better served by another term, such as “picture story”? What effect has
Kunzle’s work, and his assimilation of his material to the modern comic strip, had
on comics (both on its scholarship and the art form)? Would it be more productive,
in fact, for comics scholars and artists to think, not of earlier graphic
(printed) picture stories as latent comic strips (or comic books or graphic
novels), but of comics as a particular formulation or solution to the problems
presented by the graphic picture story? Would it be more productive for
twenty-first century creators to consider the creative potential of
combining words and pictures freely, with the entirety of the history of
culture offering suggestion, rather than reducing the history of all previous words-and-pictures
experiments down to a teleological, evolutionary drama narrowly concerned with
the perfection of a specific, marketable form of picture story?
| The reference room of the Frick Fine Arts Libary, University of Pittsburgh, which holds a copy of Kunzle’s History of Comics Volume I (not pictured). |
An informal search Google N-Gram search and search of databases at my disposal suggests that the term comic strip did not emerge as a term of description for the American newspaper feature we now know by that name until probably the mid-1910s. All the material Kunzle studies in his four major works dates from prior to the twentieth century. The few times that Kunzle mentions twentieth-century newspaper comic strips throughout this corpus, it is with at least mild disdain; he seems to regard the more popular successors to his material as an attenuated if not fallen and debased artform when compared to the earlier material he finds more richly varied as to subject matter and political and social viewpoint and consequently so much more engrossing. So why does he so emphatically embrace the term comic strip by placing it firmly in the titles of all his works, and why does he so earnestly want us to view the narrative strips, picture stories, broadsheets, and other material under scrutiny as comic strips?
Kunzle acknowledges more than once that his project was
inspired by the art historian Ernst Gombrich, who published his ground-breaking
Art and Illusion in 1960 (which is
still on some required reading lists).[7]
Gombrich is the first to make the connection between early print picture
stories (and specifically the work of Töpffe) to the modern newspaper comic
strip form. Gombrich asserts, “to Töpffer belongs the credit, if we want to
call it so, of having invented and propagated the picture story, the comic
strip.”[8]
Gombrich views Töpffer’s combination of words and pictures as especially prescient,
“In view of what has happened during the last decades,” presumably a reference
to the rising popularity of newspaper comic strips and children’s books
(Gombrich was writing in the 1960s).[9]
Gombrich, however, does not elaborate on the distinctions or definitions of the
terms “picture story” or “comic strip,” let alone recount the evolution from
one to the other.
Enter Kunzle, Gombrich’s student, who does explore this
terrain, and also assumes the elder scholar’s identification of Töpffer as a
key figure in the development of the form(s). Kunzle also, at least at the
outset, also assumes Gombrich’s terminological ambiguity (“the picture story,
the comic strip”). Kunzle himself claims to “use the terms picture story and
comic strip indifferently,” although he frequently refers to “the development
of the picture story and comic strip,”[10]
along with other terms, quite often, as if they were separate and distinct
forms demanding the covering of all bases.
Kunzle establishes his use of the term comic strip in the
Introduction to History of the Comic
Strip Volume I, although he never justifies or explains his choice, or
indeed, that he is making a choice. In the opening section, Kunzle considers a
range of terms used to describe the twentieth century newspaper feature,
particularly foreign variants such as Italian fumetti, the French bandes
désinées (drawn strip), and the German term Bilderstreifen and Bildergeschichte
(literally, picture strip and picture story, respectively), and the French term
bande dessinée. Kunzle blandly
asserts, “Of all these terms, ‘comic strip’ is the most commonly used for the
newspaper strip,” which he describes as “an artistic phenomenon.” He writes,
All over the Western world, the comic strip has become a major form of mass communication, a potent force in molding public opinion, an international language […] understood and enjoyed by the literate and semi-literate alike.
But Kunzle offers no rationale as to why the term “comic
strip” should be favored in describing this phenomenon, let alone why it should
be applied retroactively to graphic material prior to the advent of the
American daily newspaper.
The clear inference is that Kunzle is saddled with the term “comic
strip” whether he finds it appropriate or not for the pre-twentieth-century
material he is studying. And indeed, he finds in completely inappropriate,
arguing, “only the English language […] insists that ‘drawn strips’ are comic,”
while in fact
the truly comic strip [Kunzle’s emphasis] does not emerge until … late eighteenth-century England. At this stage of its development, however, I have preferred to use the phrase “caricatural strip” …. [Therefore] I never refer to the pre-caricatural (i.e. pre-1780) strip as the “comic strip,” even when it contains an element of humor. I generally use the terms “narrative strip” or “narrative sequence,” “picture story” or “pictorial sequence” (depending on the format involved) in order to stress the narrative role of the medium, which I consider primary.[11]
Kunzle finds formal similarities between the material of his
study and twentieth-century newspaper comic strips sufficient to justify the
connection previously made by Gombrich, and constructs a definition of the term
“comic strip” broad enough (most notably by not being dependent on the word
balloons) to justify its application to his material.[12]
However, Kunzle never again employs the term “comic strip” in History of the Comic Strip Volume I following
the Introduction.
Further, Kunzle’s anachronistic application of the term
“comic strip” to the material of his study is all the more puzzling, since he seems
to have little knowledge or interest in twentieth-century material, or in
discussing “comic strips” per se. Indeed, Kunzle rarely discusses twentieth
century newspaper strips throughout his oeuvre, and then only generally and
vaguely, usually only with broad reference to their popularity, and often with
a good deal of disdain for what he sees as an artistic devolution from the rich
social commentary and propaganda of his favored era into banal soap opera and
gags of the time of his writing. Kunzle is also dismissive of the historically uninformed
“Compilers of books on the twentieth-century comic strip” and their “potted”
histories.[13]
For example, Kunzle blasts a biography, “that modern stalwart, Milton Caniff,” for
the name-dropping pretentions of its subtitle (“Rembrandt of the Comic Strip”),
and the author’s ignorance in conflating Renaissance cartoons (preparatory
drawings for paintings or tapestries) with the modern graphic form.[14]
Kunzle expresses no interest in extending his own research into twentieth
century material, to write a corrective history of twentieth century comic
strips, or even to compare examples of the pre-1896 material of his study with
more recent examples.
In fact, Kunzle seems to have regretted his choice of
placing the term “comic strip” in the title of his history of broadsheets and
picture stories. In the Preface to History
of the Comic Strip Volume II (1996), Kunzle goes on an extended,
unscholarly rant about the problems the term “comic strip” has created for the
reception of his scholarship in the intervening two decades.
As a respectable academic I have, I suppose, sought to give the comic strip academic respectability. I doubt that I have succeeded yet. The “scientific literature” of my discipline (art history) has tended to pass by Volume 1, The Early Comic Strip, no doubt because of its frivolous title, which has not convinced even the (nonacademic) celebrants of the genre in the 20th century that there is indeed a comic strip worthy of the name before the Americans “invented” it in 1896 or so. I was recently sent a script for an ambitious television series on the (20th century) comic strip, for which funding was being sought and to which I was nominated a “scholarly advisor.” The script started with the assertion that the first comic strips appeared in American newspapers at the end of the 19th century. Of course. By now I should have learned that to deny in the face of the U.S. media that the United States invented the comic strip is about as pointless as denying that the United States invented freedom and democracy. So I look once more to academe, which should understand that the real title of the present volume is “The acquisition and Manipulation of New Sites of Comoedic [sic] Narrative Discourses and Significations by Volatility-prone Social Sectors.” A big book should have a big title anyway.[15]
Kunzle further laments that his two-volume prehistory of the
comic strip “has been a lonely endeavor in many ways, just how lonely I can now
measure, in retrospect, as I enter the well-established field of 17th century
Dutch art.”[16]
More well established, and presumably more academically respectable.
Fischer von Erlach’s Entwürf einer Historischen Arkitektur (inventive history), 1721, showing the Halikarnassus plate.
|
Nonetheless, Kunzle retains the term “comic strip” for the title of his second mammoth volume, and more freely and boldly uses the term in discussing nineteenth-century material, even while acknowledging its anachronism. He muses,
The comic strip in the 19th century, for all its popularity, is without a recognized name. Töpffer called his comic albums either “picture novels” or, deprecatingly, “little follies.” In the trade they were called “caricatural albums,” or the “série Jabot,” after the initiating title. Töpffer himself pretended anonymity, which the pirates all too scrupulously observed. It is as if Jabot, the social upstart, having forced himself and his upstart graphic genre upon the public, was forever to be denied the dignity of a distinct literary or artistic category.[17]
Kunzle, to his credit, would stick with his guns, and even
more boldly assert the term “comic strip” in the titles of his two subsequent
publications on Töpffer.
But why did Kunzle initially adopt the term “comic strip” in
the early 1970s? Kunzle seems to have made the pragmatic calculation that
labeling his research on broadsheets and picture stories a “history or
pre-history of the comic strip” would be of benefit to his scholarship both
academically and in terms of landing a publisher for what was no doubt a
prohibitively expensive undertaking. In the post-war era, after cinema and
jazz, the comics strip seemed next in line as the American art destined for
academic validation and publishing success. Several decades had elapsed since
Coulton Waugh’s The Comics (1947),
but in the first half of the 1970s, the first of a new wave of comic-strip
histories were beginning to appear, or were being readied for publication.
These included Dick Lupoff and Don Thompson’s anecdotal anthology All in Color for a Dime (1970)[18];
Les Daniels’ Comix: A History of Comic
Books in America (1971)[19];
Marvel artist Jim Steranko’s two-volume The
Steranko History of Comics (1970, 1972)[20];
Arthur Asa Berger’s sociological study The
Comic-Stripped American: What Dick Tracy, Blondie, Daddy Warbucks and Charlie
Brown Tell Us About Ourselves (1973)[21];
and Jerry Robinson’s The Comics: An
Illustrated History of Comic Strip Art (1974)[22].
Kunzle may even had been aware of Maurice Horn’s The World Encyclopedia of Comics (1976), then in preparation.[23]
An important hint may lie in the fact that the Preface to History of the Comic Strip Volume I, dated 1968, contains no reference to or use of the term “comic strip” all, only “picture story” (twice).[24] But the volume was not published by the University of California Press until 1973, a five-year interval encompassing not only the publication of most of the comic strip histories listed above, but also Kunzle’s translation of the Lacassin article for Film Quarterly, also a UC publication (1972). The titling of the History of the Comic Strip Volume I and the writing of its Introduction, which uses the term “comic strip” more than 30 times (nowhere else in the volume does the term appear) may have taken place only after the Preface and body of the volume had been complete in 1968. The foregrounding of the term “comic strip,” for which Gombrich had already paved the way, may have belatedly occurred to Kunzle or been suggested by his publisher in recognition of a “comic strip” trend in publishing that had emerged since 1968. Such a move would not have been merely a cynical ploy to make the publication of the mammoth volume more feasible, but could have also been a sincere effort to connect Kunzle’s rather obscure study of broadsheets and picture stories to more current (and more sexy) scholarly discourses, particularly cinema.
This is most emphatically suggested by Kunzle’s 1972 translation of Lacassin for Film Quarterly. The introduction to the article, set in large bold italic that upstages the body text, presents the article not only as a precursor but also an unprecedented plug for Kunzle’s forthcoming History, and explicitly ties Kunzle’s work to the “intellectual respectab[ility]” belatedly emerging for comics that had been established for film “three or four decades ago.” The notes added by Kunzle, “which qualify some of Lacassin’s findings,” are half as long as Lacassin’s text.[25] Kunzle begins,
This is not the place to quarrel with Lacassin’s
assumption, which is so widely shared, that the comic strip and cinema were
born at the same period. Since the material has simply not been available
hitherto, critics cannot know that, in fact, the narrative picture strip
reached a certain maturity in German, Dutch, and English broadsheets in the
seventeenth century. In my book, which the University of California Press will
shortly publish, I reproduce an extensive corpus of these remarkable early
picture stories, which will thus become available for analysis and discussion.
Nor need we at this point question by what feat of logic Lacassin makes the
“birth” of the comic strip postdate by two generations one of the recognized
“fathers” of the art (for Gombrich, the
father), Rodolphe Töpffer.[26]
Whatever his reasoning or motivation for declaring his work “a
history or pre-history” of the comic strip, Kunzle stuck to his guns, using the
term “comic strip” in the title of two more scholarly publications on Töpffer.
It is now common, in fact, to see references in academic art historical
publications and museum exhibition catalogs to Töpffer as father or inventor of the comic strip.[27]
But as Geoffrey Batchen reminds us in the case of the history of photography,
such determinations are suspect. He remarks that historians
continue to squabble over which of them was the first to discover the one, true inventor of photography. […] [T]his is invariably an argument as much about virility and paternity as about history, as much about the legitimacy of both photographer and historian as historic primogenitors as about the timing of the birth itself.[28]
To the extent that Kunzle’s work is seen as foundational to
comic strip and comic book scholarship, his legacy is a mixed bag. The
unfortunate example of Kunzle’s snarky Preface to Volume II, mentioned above, as well as its Introduction which dwells at length on the status of nineteenth
century picture stories as a “childish genre,”[29]
suggests that a cloying desire for “academic respectability” has been passed
down to more recent scholars who continue to openly bitch, “Why Are Comics Still in Search of Cultural Legitimization?”[30]
On the positive side, as David Carrier attests, “I admire Kunzle, a bold and
original scholar, for gathering these materials, without which my own
philosophical study [on comics] could not have been conceived,” but departs
from Kunzle on the issue of word balloons.[31]
The more substantial implication being that Kunzle’s scholarship is not about
comics at all, but something that predates comics historically, and if anything
chronicles part of a pictorial and textual tradition that is larger than
comics.
To the extent that Kunzle’s scholarship is a rebuke of
twentieth and twenty-first century comic strips, comic books, and graphic
novels (and there is plenty of ammunition for such an argument throughout Kunzle’s four major works on pre-twentieth-century picture stories),[32]
and a prompt to live up to the larger pictorial and textual tradition that is Kunzle’s concern, this
admonition might be stated in a more effective way. Instead of saying comics
should be better than they are, one could simply say, stories told in words and pictures don’t have to be comics. Perhaps
that is the far greater lesson to be derived from Kunzle’s work.
[1] David Kunzle, History of the Comic Strip,
Volume I: The Early Comic Strip—Narrative Strips and Picture Stories in the
European Broadsheet from c.1450 to 1825 (Berkeley, University of California
Press, 1973).
[2] David Kunzle, History of the Comic Strip,
Volume II: The Nineteenth Century (Berkeley, University of California
Press, 1990).
[3] David Kunzle, ed., trans., Rodolphe Töpffer: The Complete Comic Strips
(Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2007).
[4] David Kunzle, Father of the Comic Strip:
Rodolphe Töpffer (Jackson
: University Press of Mississippi, 2007).
[5] Francis
Lacassin, “The Comic Strip and the Film Language,” trans. with additional notes
by David Kunzle, Film Quarterly, vol.
26, no. 1, (Autumn 1972), pp. 11-23. Kunzle’s footnote on p. 11 reads as
follows: “Translated from Lacassin’s Pour
un neuvième art: la bande dessinée (Paris: Union Generale, 1971) and his
preceding article “Bande dessinée et langage cinematographique,” Cinema ‘71, (September1971), by
permission of the publishers. The material has been slightly abridged from its
longer version in the book, but incorporates the refinements Lacassin made in
the book.” Kunzle’s additional notes occupy the final 4 ½ pages of the article,
set at the same type size as translated text, pp. 19-23.
[6] For brevity, these works will be referred to hereafter as History I and II, Complete, Father, and “Lacassin.”
[7] See Kunzle, History vol. 1, preface,
and Father, p. ix.
[8] Ernst Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study
in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation, 3rd ed. (Princeton:
Bollingen, 2000 [1960]) p. 336.
[9] Gombrich, p. 337.
[10] Father, quotes from pp. xi and 53
respectively.
[11] History I, p. 1.
[12] History I, p. 2-3. David Carrier, among
others, takes issue with Kunzle, claiming “The speech balloon is a defining
element of the comic [strip].” See David Carrier, The Aesthetics of Comics, (University Park: The Pennsylvania State
University Press, 2000), pp. 3-4; quote p. 4.
[13] History I, p. 1.
[14] History I, p. 2.
[15] History II, p. xix.
[16] History II, p. xx.
[17] History II, p. 6.
[18] Dick
Lupoff and Don Thompson, eds., All in
Color for a Dime (New Rochelle NY: Arlington House, 1970).
[19] Les
Daniels, Comix: A History of Comic Books
in America (New York: Bonanza Books, 1971).
[20] Jim
Steranko, The Steranko History of Comics,
vols I and II (Reading PA: Supergraphics1970, 1972).
[21] Arthur
Asa Berger, The Comic-Stripped American:
What Dick Tracy, Blondie, Daddy Warbucks and Charlie Brown Tell Us About
Ourselves (New York: Walker, 1973).
[22] Jerry
Robinson, The Comics: An Illustrated
History of Comic Strip Art (New York: Putnam, 1974).
[23] Maurice
Horn, The World Encyclopedia of Comics
(New York: Chelsea House, 1976).
[24] History I, Preface [n.p.].
[25] The introduction or abstract of the article reads, in bolder and larger type than
the article, “The comic strip is now becoming intellectually respectable in
somewhat the same way that film did, three or four decades ago. Studies of
contemporary strips abound; serious artists are using the form for their own
purposes-often, of course, satirical purposes. As the French historian Francis
Lacassin argues in the pioneering article below, the “language” or syntax of
the comic strip shows many similarities to (and certain historical priorities
over) the language of film. The article has been translated by David Kunzle,
author of the forthcoming The Early Comic
Strip: Narrative Strips and Picture Stories in the European Broadsheet, c.
1450-1826—a sociocultural history of the first mass medium’s origins—and he
adds notes of his own which qualify some of Lacassin’s findings and extend them
even further back in time.” See Lacassin, p. 11.
[26] Lacassin, p. 19. The Lacassin article and its influence on comics
scholarships merits a discussion of its own, which in fact I first essayed on
an earlier incarnation of this blog around 2005. I plan to revisit that article
and repost soon.
[27] See for example Laura Hoptman, Drawing Now: Eight Propositions (New York:
Museum of Modern Art, 2002), p. 129.
[28] Geoffrey
Batchen, Burning with Desire: The
Conception of Photography (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1997), p. 35.
[29] History II, pp. 2-4.
[30] Thierry Groensteen, “Why Are Comics Still in Search of Cultural Legitimization?”
in Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester, eds., A
Comics Studies Reader (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi Press,
2009), pp. 3-11. [I discuss this article in a previous post on this blog.]
[31] Carrier, pp. 3-4; quote p. 3.
[32] Not
to mention Kunzle’s translation of Dorfman and Armand Mattelart’s 1973 Para leer al pato Donald into English as
How to Read Donald Duck in 1975,
suggesting that if Kunzle were to regard modern comics at all, their status as
capitalist commodities would be foremost in his critique.
| Back dustjacket flap of Kunzle's History of the Comic Strip Volume II: The Nineteenth Century, at the Special Collections room, Hillman Library, University of Pittsburgh. |
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