It was a sad moment for my dad when I stayed with him recently and he caught me in bed reading Judy Annual, 1976. It had enraged him when I was sixteen, as he sent me to a “good school” and I “should be reading proper books!” But after studying a whole other world of classics at school and university, I am still like a magnet to comics, annuals and – now the biggest money maker in the publishing industry – the graphic novel.
Words are an imperfect medium. How can we faithfully translate emotions into words when consciousness is infinite and words are finite? In the late 1970’s, Will Eisner created a biography of Dropsie Avenue in the Bronx and “the ethnic and social changes of its stream of occupants”. In the hope of enticing the patronage of a main stream publisher he called it a ‘graphic novel’. The book , A Contract with God , is a series of stories – “some are true, some could be true” – about “life, death, heartbreak and the never-ending struggle to prevail… or at least survive”.
Eisner wrote it after his sixteen year old daughter died. And it’s not a comic nor is it The Year of Magical Thinking. The tales are caught with a cinematic approach to images and a literary economy of words. It’s a man in a metropolis, his head bowed; with “the sewers overflowing and the waters rising over the curbs of the street” exorcising his rage at a deity he believes has violated his faith. The stories are told in the same multifaceted way that they were experienced.
As a dyslexic, maybe it’s only fitting that I deal better with images than straight narrative. Words don’t always suffice. There’s no excuse for Judy Annual- apart from the fact that I just love it. But there’s no excuse for not seeing how skilfully clever a book like Asterios Polyp (by David Mazzucchelli) is. In it, form becomes function. The arrogant anti-hero Asterios Polyp, an architect teacher and womaniser, is at times drawn in red cylinders when arguing with his wife (drawn in blue etchings). And when he asserts his character the make-up of his students physically changes. But Asterios is introduced to us first “standing in the rain watching his home burn up, thinking one thing: Not again.” I am as fazed as he is, trundling through five pages of New York terrain with only the clothes on his back. Sodden and alone in the subway, a small bird flies out of the station (and the page); a woman sits on her suitcase at the bottom of the escalator vomiting on her shoes. Neither is explained. They don’t serve as metaphors but are shown as random happenings, the backdrop to Asterios’ first steps on an epic journey of discovery. Asterios stares out the bus window watching the American landscape shoot past. And it’s the same land Jack Kerouac described- the same fields of dreams and ash heaps from The Great Gatsby, brought to a new audience.
Before Asterios Polyp, Mazzucchelli had the painful, arduous task of working with Paul Auster, adapting City of Glass into a graphic novel. The story is packed with strange metaphysical happenings. A lone man gets mistaken for a detective, decides to play the role, follows a jittering old man through New York, and ultimately disintegrates into the very foundations of the city. Frame-by-frame we see this little figure turn from man to brickwork, literally becoming the wall he leans against.
The latent theme of City of Glass is the word itself. So what better way to discuss our severance from language, our inability to connect feeling with the tool on the tip of our tongue than images? In my eyes, the genre of ‘The Great American Novel’ is all about the dream, the hope and possibility of a new life in ‘the land of the free’ and the loneliness which pays for it. What better way to tell this than through pages of un-narrated frames of a man moving from one disaster in his life into the unknown? Mazzucchelli’s Asterios Polyp and his adaptation of City of Glass force the reader to slowly reflect on his characters and the epic adventures they embark upon. We get to see them wander through inexplicable dreamscapes, shrink in the vastness of the city, or literally become the bricks and mortar which built it.
Graphic novels are not just about girls with blonde pigtails flirting with the neighbour’s son over the garden fence. It’s a medium where anything seems expressible. And if I was to send one to my dad, he might just come round to the idea.
Summer brings the NOISE
In New York Max Neuhaus campaigned for police sirens to be less of an offence. I think we need a Neuhaus in Dalston. From my desk I am getting more and more rattled by the wheeping of police- zooming down Dalston Lane below me. They are set to give me a heart attack, or a twitch. I shut the windows, sit here and slowly poach until I’m a pale pink. Still the noise prevails. It seems worse now than it did a few months ago. Could it actually be noisier in summer than it is in winter? On a day like today (hot) engines sound raspier, more strained, all dried up and on the last rev before burn-out- which will probably happen just outside my window. Right now- it sounds like someone has crashed down there.
“What the f*** are you doing?”
“What- I was just crossing the road mate!”
“Look wha you done. Look! F****** scratched my f****** car!”
Natasha (my Canadian flat mate) stomps into my room. “What’s going on? Is that a fight happening?” We open the window, fold our arms over the ledge and look below. A small blue Citroën is now straddling both lanes. The driver’s door flung open. A black body builder in a florescent T-shirt is furious. A small, wispy haired white guy is looking scared.
“Oh my god. He’s carrying a telescope.” Natasha says. We both giggle.
“I was just trying to cross the road!”
“You want some?”
“Whoa- where did that come from. Hey, dude, stop fighting!” Natasha yells. Despite being ten metres above them, they don’t hear this. Hippie man foolishly places his telescope on the ground in front of Angry Driver; a sacrificial offering, a buffer maybe? A booby trap to either trip or bewilder his assailant? None of these. Driver hops over it, swings his legs at Hippie’s heel. He crashes down, gets up swiftly, biffs Driver’s enormous bicep and gets biffed back. They jump in circles around each other, fists clenched, swiping the hot air. Sweat pours down Driver’s forehead, Hippie turns a deep pink. Driver’s passenger gets out the car, slams the door and storms down Dalston Lane without looking back. The traffic is now at grid lock. I can feel the accumulative throttle vibrate through my body, through Natasha’s.
“Hey! I said stop fighting!” Natasha yells.
“Stop fighting!” I yell.
“We should call the police” She says. I’m on the verge of saying no. I can’t handle any more noise, any more action. But then a ripping WHEEP cuts through the commotion. Natasha and I nearly fall off our perch- struck down by the din. Hippie scoops up his telescope. He wields his tripod at Angry Driver who- in his last bout of rage- kicks his own car. And the whole debacle folds in on itself. No one’s a winner. Hippie is now full steam, hot footing it down Dalston Lane, whipping round, hair flying, punching at the sun with his tripod. Angry (most likely at himself) Driver speeds off to find his now angry passenger. Police reach the scene- which is now just loads of cars parked up on the pavement to allow them through- and fail to shut down their sirens. Wheep wheep wheep. The noise is deafening. Revelry at The Three Compasses has stalled.
“Yo- in Canada- police sirens are not that loud!” Natasha yells at me.
We resume places in our respective rooms. I read online that warm air is ‘stiffer’ than cold. The molecules are (as I’m typing this) moving around with more energy.
“Watch where you’re going,” screams another angry man on this hot afternoon.
The air is not as elastic when warm, I read, molecules are bumping into each other. I can’t help but compare this crashing of molecules to the crashing around of people below me, moving faster, creating more ruckuses. Then there’s global warming. “For each degree rise in temperature, the speed of sound in air increases by 0.6 meters per second.” Does this mean that ‘peace and quiet’ will soon become a fossilised notion? A few generations forward and silence may be a thing of the past. There is no aural rest in the heart of Dalston. There may be less and less to come. Everything- from this moment right here- seems to be heating up. I like peace, and the quiet.
Should I/we be scared?