lila q weaver

Considering the scores of classic and recently released graphic novels begging to be read, my collection of graphic novels is tiny. Each one here contributed at least a morsel of inspiration to my work or guided me through my apprenticeship.

Before I proceed, I’d like to invite readers to tell me about their graphic novel collections.

Persepolis, by Marjane Sartrapi, is where it all began for me. I learned about it in 2004 through my habit of reading the NYT book-review pages. My paradigm for what memoir was supposed to be underwent a dramatic shift as soon as I learned of Persepolis’s existence. Using powerful text and bold, black-and-white drawings, Ms. Sartrapi unfolds an intriguing saga of life in Iran under political oppression and how she joined the ranks of émigrés.

After Persepolis came out, I saw a glimmer of possibility. I could write my own graphic-novel memoir, although all I had in mind at the time was a miniature version. I would first create a forty-page illustrated memoir that I turned in as an academic project for my studies at The University of Alabama. Later, this novella grew into the bigger, published work. But between Persepolis and the completion of Darkroom, I spent some time exploring other graphic novels that captured my fascination.

Two of my earliest purchases were Stuck Rubber Baby, by fellow Alabamian Howard Cruse, and Blankets by Craig Thompson.

Stuck Rubber Baby isn’t a memoir, but it was the only graphic novel I knew of that dealt with the Jim Crow South. Its story may be fictional, but it bears the ring of truth, as if the author lived and breathed the milieu, which it turns out, he did. The art is eye-popping. Howard’s style leans toward strong contrast and tightly controlled stippling and cross-hatching. His use of typography is inventive and exciting to anyone that gets the visual power of text. Every page has a unique design, another point that made a special impression on me. Plus, the story is riveting.

As if Howard Cruse hadn’t already enriched my life enough simply by writing and illustrating a phenomenal graphic novel, a much closer connection formed between us. Dan Waterman, my editor at UA Press, invited him to act as one of the peer reviewers of my manuscript. This is a step required by academic presses before a book is approved for publication. When I received Howard’s response to my manuscript–an early illustrated draft–I didn’t know his identity, nor that of the other reviewer, whose identity has so far not emerged. I was impressed by Howard’s feedback. Several of his points were invaluable to the development of subsequent drafts and I have told him so in writing.

Alison Bechdel has just released a follow-up graphic memoir. Her first, Fun Home, is an intricate piece of writing that addresses complex psychological themes, including failed parenting, suppressed homosexuality and death. Alison grew up in an artistic and literary ambience, and it shows. Her examination of family life borrows narratives from Greek myth as well as modern classics of English literature. The structure of her novel is like a spiral staircase that revisits episodes and observations, but from increasingly higher planes as the novel progresses. As if by design, her drawings are the opposite of intricate. They are straightforward and although well executed, not splashy. The two go well together: a highly elaborate narrative with serious themes and simple, pared-down art.

Lynda Barry’s One! Hundred! Demons! is like no other graphic novel I’ve seen. It’s a combination of joyous collage and diabolically funny drawings accompanied by hilarious and poignant text. Lynda and I share an immigrant background. Her family is Filipino. Her drawings and collages invite the viewer to come closer and study the witty details buried within larger elements. I’m a big admirer of her uninhibited work.

Maus is a tour de force–everybody knows that. It predates Persepolis, but because the author substitutes human characters with animals, I mistook it for a children’s book and paid little attention to it until graphic novels in general became important to me. I’m in awe of Spiegelman’s storytelling. He masterfully weaves a contemporary story with a remembered story. The contemporary drama takes place between the narrator and his irascible father. The remembered story belongs to the narrator’s father and dates back to the hell of Nazi-occupied Europe. Maus delivers nothing short of epic power.

There’s a similar force to Josh Neufeld’s A.D. New Orleans After the Deluge. This isn’t a memoir or a novel, but a piece of visual reportage in the style of literary journalism. It tells the separate stories of five survivors of Katrina, starting from a few days before the storm hit. This book is an eye-opener. It breaks apart myths about post-Katrina mayhem, especially those horrors that were widely reported of Superdome refugees. Among other things, I’m impressed with how smoothly Josh manages potentially confusing story elements. The reader could’ve gotten lost in the transitions between characters or in the shifting passage of time and phases of the storm. But distinct color assignments, calendar-page dates, and strong narrative writing keep everything on track. This is a book with lasting impact.

Just a few words about the remaining titles:

La Perdida, by Jessica Abel is a fascinating fictional account of exile into contemporary Mexico.

The Rabbi’s Cat, by Joann Sfar, has delightful art. It’s a wonderful story with enchanting characters and the full flavor of Algeria.

Incognegro: A Graphic Mystery, by Mat Johnson and Warren Pleece, is based on historical truth.  During Jim Crow’s ugliest years, black newspapers in northern cities sent reporters to gather facts on the grisly and terrifying practice of lynching. Biracial reporters used their near-whiteness to sneak into those southern towns where lynchings were common. This book brings the reporters’ daring work into stark reality.

Stitches is the memoir of David Small, an artist with immense talent who has won major awards for the illustration of children’s books. We learn through this graphic novel that he grew up under horrifying circumstances. I’m not one to shy away from a memoir just because it contains distressing episodes or lacks an unmistakably triumphant ending. To me, David Small’s story is painful, but worthwhile, and artistically and powerfully told.

All Over Coffee is a single-volume reprinting of a series of panels by artist Paul Madonna. They originally appeared in the San Francisco Chronicles. The panels depict architecture, landscapes, streetscapes and interiors from all around San Francisco. Madonna’s ink drawings are washed in sepia and shimmer with beautiful draftsmanship and interesting points of view. They are accompanied by text that seems to bear little relation to the scene, but which offers slices of the personal lives being lived within the city, all around the gorgeous scenery. It’s a book to reflect over, best enjoyed with a steaming mug of coffee.