Friday, April 3, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo5

The reflections are something else.

There's the obvious:  Dick Tracy & his orphan partner in crimestopping, Dick Tracy Jr: 1933.  Bruce Wayne & Dick Grayson I940.  Easy parallels.  Deathtraps.  Shared (stolen) villains.  The fetish for grotesquery.  The influence shines clear.  But change the angle of the shears in your hand...

There's a weirder, narrower resemblance:  Dick Tracy & Joe Dredd.  Lawmen who've survived countless deadend hells.  Witnessed the devil's worst, climbed over corpses wracked with torment, had the soles of his feet flayed, been starved, blinded, shot in the head and abandoned down cravasses in desert wastes.  Dick & Joe, refusing promotion in favour of staying On The Prowl, On The Streets, forever in syndication, applying the law to scum.

These likenesses neither begin nor end at the chins.  There's an unholy implacability to these characters, a momentum of moral force, that marks them, now.  It was never there in the beginning.  But fifty years on, the characters carry themselves differently.  They are marked by their villains.  They have shaped themselves against their stone & steel & forgotten future metropoli and become celebrated, for better or for worse, as reflecting Us.  We're the cutouts.  We're paper dolls, dressing ourselves to match... 

I'm trying my city on for size.  D.T. contains Chicago, as Wayne contains Gotham, as Dredd contains Meg-1.  Each its own ironic tweak on the times they inhabited.  Tracy, emerging from the ruins of the white city, through the flames of prohibition into the electric light of our present/future police state--  his own creator a kid raised without indoor plumbing.  Of the three the most winking invention is probably Batman, that mob-busting vigilante-cum-rich kid, whose multi-billion dollar likeness was owned & printed by a mob front publishing outfit, looking to launder money--  here's looking at you, Johnny DC  --with Bob Kane's vainglorious signature stenciled atop art he never saw let alone touched:  I'd say Gotham is New York and Manhattan Island and New Jersey in the bargain.  And then there's Joe's sweet Mega-City One, America's terminal Sprawl, a nubbled & mushrooming coastline, as imagined from the Firth of Tay...

The scissors close.  Reflections fall away.

apropos of sweet f.a. except for it's on topic:

Richard Corben gave the Queen all the best fight scenes.

Sincerely.  Corben's a guy who I read a Fight Comic for.  There's a bloody-minded intensity to the fights he stages for her.  In 'Muvovum' the Queen breaks all the limbs on an old man, bites off his finger, and throws him out a window.  She's terrifying.  But that's small potatoes to the HALF-A-GRAPHIC-NOVEL-WORTH of fights he gives Kil, in 'Children of Fire'.  I'm exaggerating because I always do, but for serious, nearly half the page count in this book was Kil curbstomping a murderously stupid lizard man.

GLORIOUS.

yesterday... all my troubles seemed so warm & gay, like a cashmere sweater drenched in mambo by liz claiborne... oh, i believe in yesterday

Yesterday a stranger said to me:


Which I wouldn't have reported, except when I checked their feed they had a slew of racepilled content.  So I did that internet narc thing and went to the principal.  I dunno if YoofTube will actually do anything about him.  The internet is full of this kinda crap.  I hope it keeps Steve-o from ruining the good times of people who actually Do Care when people talk trash.

Anyway.  I went to bed early, just before midnight, when this wizard appeared in my mentions:

It's my fault for posting snarky snippets on the interwebs, 100%!  What kind of fool voices political dissent on Youtube?  The contrary girl strikes and gutters yet again, because I keep inviting the skinheads to bowl.  Apparently.

Maybe I am looking for a fight.  Yet...  If I were, it's no further than the nearest, extremely homophobic, cop bar.  Two blocks!  There the dingleberries would have the chutzpah to call me fag to my face.

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

"Wuxtry, Boy Commandos!" - March 2o26

Concrete, vols. 4-7 (1994-2004) - written & illustrated by Paul Chadwick

Dick Tracy: The Complete Dailies & Sundays 1933-1935, vol. 2 - written & illustrated by Chester Gould

Den: Neverwhere, Muvovum, & Children of Fire (1978, 1983, & 1989, respectively) - written & illustrated by Richard Corben

Why even have notes, if I'm not gonna make notes on these?

Den's a weird comic.  It first began life as a short film, which I've never seen, before today, but have felt indicated via the text.  Repeatedly.  Which is the first weird thing about Den:  it's nodding to its own origins, outside comix.  The second weird thing is it keeps asking:  what the fuck IS this comic, really?

It's only a weird query, inasmuch as there's No Answer.  The closest we can get is, "Den is Den."  Whether you're talking the series proper, or its own satirical post-script, 'Denz', the series is Corben's instincts, at work & play. 

And here's the weird-er, weird-est part--  Den's a queer text.  It's a queer text by a hetero:  a heterodox doc, if ya like...  And me gusta, certainly.  When the Corben library was announced, and I found out Jose Villarubia was in charge of the restoration, I was dubious.  Because Villarubia, lovely as his work can be, is not the original colourist.  I was suspicious.  But Villarubia's not just maintained the faith, he's improved upon the original printings by presenting the cleanest, least censorious version of the work I've seen.

Sure, the colours.  Everybody talks about Corben's colours.  But I'm here for the full-frontal dudity.  Den, the character, isn't attractive.  Most of Corben's faces & bodies aren't sexually appealing-- to me.  But in terms of actually presenting the body in motion, in action, under the influence of momentum & gravity?  Unless it's Muybridge, you're not liable to see this degree of accuracy on paper.  From tumescence to free-floating flaccidity, the constriction of cremaster muscles are observed, testicles descend & retreat, cocks roll lazily, and buttocks tense.

Hey, kids: comix.  

And most of that doesn't happen during sex scenes.  The sex scenes are relatively chaste, really.  The only actual penetration committed to paper, in the majority of instances, is with either blade or claw.  The biggest cock in the second volume, Muvovum, isn't Den's, it's his arch-enemy, Tarn.  As in his enemy morphs into a giant purple people-eating cock.  Spoilers!

If that scans as less-than-queer to you, then you're definitely not the audience for the third volume, 'Children of Fire', when Den basically disappears from the narrative and all the focus turns back onto The Red Queen, the power-mad & physically intimidating villainess of volume 1--  who had a HELL of a fight scene, in v2, where she breaks all the limbs of an old man, bites off one of his fingers, and kicks him out a window.  Volume 3, which dials the Den Saga back to the year dot, doesn't really go out of its way to cater to the original fans.  Den is a desiccated husk of an old man, and The Queen is re-cast as his caretaker & guardian, a spacefarer going by the name Kil.  'Children of Fire' tracks Kil's evolution into the Queen and suggests something deeply genderbent about everything we've seen heretofore.

None of this is explained elegantly.  This is Corben, after all, and nobody can convincingly argue to me that he's a Writer.  He's an ascended fanboy.  He's one of the o.g. fanboys of my parents' generation, point of fact.  His fan fixations aren't mine--  Corben read all of Robert E. Howard, attempted adaptations of almost every Poe or Lovecraft story you care to name, and he loved the John-Carter-of-Mars series.  Madly.  Corben was chasing his own fixations when he got hired on to colour the Warren reprints of The Spirit, and he rode that pack of fixations like baying hounds--  the same fixations which led him to film 'Neverwhere', over time, led him to be obsessed with the pop androgyny of the 80s, same as all were:  Annie Lennox's buzzcut + Kathy Acker's bodybuilding were as culturally ubiquitous as Patrick Nagel prints.

Which is where I'm at, presently, in my reading:  1989.  Year of the Twin Peaks pilot.  Scene of the crime, as 'twere, for my generation to figure out what the crimes against women exactly were.

And there's still two volumes to go.  Den has only begun to warp.  The Big Story will fold-- like origami produced by some blind seer --into itself, in suggestive shapes, inchoate.  Corben kept returning to Neverwhere and asking, "Well, what was that about?" only to produce another, stranger, more gnomic variant on the initial work.  Not because he was huffing Borges & reading french po-mo homos.  Because the entire time he was handcrafting this art, Corben was bluffing his way to market, making & selling these books through his vanity press imprint, Fantagor.

I cannot underline enough:  these are some strange-ass books.  Especially to emerge from '89.  Because 'Children of Fire' was when Corben was serializing Den as a newsstand comic.  Den!?!  A title most famous for being unafraid to depict the male form, re-formatted with a female (but never effeminate) protagonist who wears clothes, like some beachgoing normie!  Of course it's Corben, so the dimensions & proportions of the fantasy are, as ever, fantastical, and consequently threats of sexualized violence are never far away-- but the threats are never given a chance to land, because Kil, not yet the Queen, is definitely more violent & dangerous than Den had ever been.  

O, my trash friends & friends of trash, there are fight scenes.  These are fight scenes to buy a graphic novel by Richard Corben for.  Action like you like it!

Is Kil likeable?  Not as such.  Den's hardly likeable himself.  He's literally a Masculine Fantasy.  But this revised Queen is interesting, in all the ways Den is not.  She's in tune with, in ownership & in control of her body, her sexuality, & her identity-- in all the ways David Ellis Norman is not.  (Have I mentioned how often our acronymic, titular character is sexually assaulted?  Have I mentioned how many times he's been raped?  Nobody ever seems to.  Perhaps I should.  At least the end of v1, which ends with our novice, blundering hero being both raped- and rescued -by women; v2 gives Den close to the full hentai treatment, whereas the worst thing to happen to a female character--  Muuta, disney princess of v2  --is being swallowed whole by a massive parasitic cock.  (Pause for emphasis.  Throat-clearing sfx.)  I wonder why more peeps don't get into the weeds about this stuff...)  Corben, never the most subtle of creators, works harder than most Accredited, Acclaimed, Award-brandishing Writers of Comix to show us, not tell us, who the Queen is.  What's revealed is Kil: a survivor, a striver, an otherworldly--  chthonic, even  --figure of myth.  Corben doesn't tell us much of any of that with dialogue.  Yes, he typesets a lot of text.  His best characterization is, inevitably, illustrative.

A woman arising from the ocean, powerful and athletic, cradling a body so wizened it's virtually a cadaver.  

That's the cover:  that's the story.

You can quibble with my Big Queer Reading.  Because obviously there's a lot of eggy symbolism, and squicky talk about "genetics" from an implicitly matriarchal, eugenicist, spaceclone race, etc.  Which Kil defies, throughout-- matriarchy isn't her destiny.

Now, conquest, maybe...

Den doesn't exist in 'Children of Fire'.  In his stead there's Mal, a frighteningly skeletal figure who eventually cakes up enough--  courtesy of "radiation" and a Neverwhere diet  --to become Den's ringer, in this sci-fi ancestor to a fantasy t&a, beans'n'frank comic that's essentially inexplicable & scripted by the creator's id.  The plotting is on some Dave Sim shit, in terms of a career arc where a creator is tethered to an Ikonic Comic Character: retroactive justification heaped upon retroactive justification, all for making a Carter of Mars fan film in his youth...  Resulting in some very un-Sim self-examination, perhaps.

It's obvious to me that as time did its work on Corben, and Corben did work on himself--  along the way he became a bodybuilder, his own model for Den  --he discovered the Queen to be more compelling & capable than his naive boy-in-barbarian-drag, and so re-configured the Entire Work to focus on her, and her role in redefining Den.  The books all still have Den's name on them, but taken as a whole, it's not about him.  It's about Neverwhere, and why Neverwhere was never quite where he left it, before he returned.

Because, like his Queen, like Den, Corben always returned.  Always in different skin.

Marvel Super Special #33: Buckaroo Banzai (1984) - scripted / adapted by Bill Mantlo, illustrated by Mark Texeria & Armando Gil

ignore it, it's just another public health emergency

Man it will be nice to not sleep on the living room floor.  Soon!

  • Tracing Gould #s 5 & 6 this week.  Still sussing out what it is, besides evidence of brain damage.
  • Finishing The Ascendant (Hierophant) card.  Sometimes the longest task is finding the right pattern to map onto folded fabric.  Figure I'll do full pencils for this & print up the first set of cards.  Inks on The Imp need to finish.  Overdue!
  • The major arcana of my tarot will form the basis for BRIDGE OF MANIPULATIONS, a 22-page Art Comic.  Because fuck narrative.  Build your own!  I'd like to have BoM in print before the end of the year.  Which means I should get crackin'.  If I can, then theoretically I may complete the whole. damned. deck. within another year...  Anyone wanna lay wagers?  (Don't.)
  • Starting proper pencils on THE KILL HOUSE chapter 1.  Should think about serialization schedule.
  • Starting pencils & thumbnails for opening of DENIZEN this week.  Re-read script enough to determine it's as perfect as it's gonna get.
  • The Burroughs Folio portraits are proceeding apace.  Have Mikey working.  Ian or Kammerer next.  Should finish penciling Barlow.  Probably the most technically demanding of the portrait series, next to Ian, which I'm dragging ass on because it involves rulers.  I hate ruling perspective on projected light.
  • AZURE PANTRY needs a full edit & re-type for final draft.  But the script is done...  Need to get back on thumbnailing pages & character sheets.  Have first chapter roughed out.
  • The PAINLESS minicomic / trailer is thumbnailed.  Also needs penciling to officially Start.  This script could also use a full re-type.  Priorities are plainly muddled.
  • PROMISELAND is on pause.  The script is halfway there.
  • And then there's HERO OF THE FEVER, which is in various states of production & reboot for four years.  When I started this thing I could barely bend the index finger of my drawing hand.  Anyway.  There's a script, there are thumbnails, there's a theory behind a webcomic incarnation.  We'll see.

The work-pile:  contains more black widows than a stack of firewood.

(I like black widows.  They're cute.)

Saturday, March 28, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo4

Three of the four corners of the strip clipped at clean right angles, I rotated the sunday supplement and spread the scissors anew.  Paused.  Listening.  Sam's wry eyes a little uncertain.

"Kid, I'm not one to gild lilies.  Further you clip into this thing, the woolier reasoning is liable to get."

From deep in the metal throat and lungs of the house, faint chuckles, repeating.  Heat register flaps chiming, gently resonant.  The subliminal music of the family hearth.  Imp giggles.  Then:  "Neki Hokey!"

"What?"

Elbows on the freed bottom frame of the panel in my hand, Sam sighed a cartoon balloon of smoke.  Hanging his head, rubbing his neck. "Just what we needed.  Comic relief."

"Neki Hokey!"  Shrill with glee.  Bouncing through the ventilation.

"What is that, Sam?"

"Fertheluvvamike...."  Heaving a sigh like a sack of dry cement.  "I thought we left those brats in the 50s!"

The haytangle haired twins tumble, a human wheel free down the sundappled hall adjacent to the kitchen, the pirate map tattooed across their soles flashing.  "Neki Hokey!"  The cackling tumblers reel across the checkered kitchen floor and through the breakfast nook, their wheel breaking on the threshold.  The pair spill against the faux-edwardian walnut chairs and come to a bruised stop.  

Massaging reddened shoulders, the comic relief critically eyeballing the leafy, dark, nubbled motifs of paw-paw's prize furniture.  "Ugly!"  "Dang!"  "Smarts!"  "Neki Hokey!"

"What the hell are they saying?"

In a snit of agitation Sam lunges, groping impotently from his pane for the blunt outer rim of the scissors.  "Just finish, wouldja!?"  The cigarette in his mouth switching corners with an audible click, sounding like nothing less than an automated turn signal in a 60s model Ford.

Hesitant scissor hand dropping.  "Do I recognize these kids?"

"You shouldn't.  But don't let me stop you..."

Friday, March 27, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo3

Forever then, there is darkness.
 
Forever, for how does one measure the duration of immaturity.  Darkness, for ignorance is as vast as the vacuum between stars.  Therefore the original constellation, the original binary out of which "i" arose, in a cloud of unknowing, an Initiate-- and in what a state, o my kin!  A state of darkness, and Mystery:

Mystery moving over the face of the waters of the subconscious.

There is no Gould.  Then there Is, glimpsed, in moments, influence, inspiration, in non-submersible units, in all those artists I love.  I'll never be quite sure where I glimpsed him first.

It's occurred to me that since Gould passed through so many artistic Modes throughout the course of his Great Undertaking--  there is no other way to think of forty-six years of self-enforced productivity, than as a Great Work  --Gould embodies multiple artistic movements.  I do not know the scope of his art before the period beginning with Plainclothes Tracy, so it is possible that he encompasses more than the (conservative) three-to-four I believe Tracy exhibits, overall.

So too, then, with the artists he has influenced:  they contain multitudes.  Gould is perhaps most cleanly glimpsed in Gilbert Hernandez, Beto having boiled to reduction, re-invigorated, and sublimated further still, Dick Tracy back-to-front.  Charles Burns' psychosexually anxious heart is shaped like Dick Tracy's own strangely beaten face.  Art Spiegleman exemplifies, even as he is my least favourite of The Influenced.  But where else might Gould have gotten into the groundwater?

Because in all that you can see I'm talking about Style.  And alchemy: infusing one's style with new shapes, methods & ideas.  Who else really shines on that technical, formalistic, compositional, workaday "live-IN-the-trenches, motherfucker" level?

Keith Giffen.  I mean everyone sees Kirby and Starlin and Buscema and Jose Munoz and Ted McKeever and Simon Bisley and Kevin McGuire in Giffen.  Absolutely.  But they don't see the In The Trenches Motherfucker who rocked at one job after another, forever refining his thing.  They don't see the iterations of Gould mastering ditto machine and Giffen mastering xerox machine in parallel.  They don't see these artists learning, through brute repetition, the music in the dancing motes of stillness as they stamp their way across the sequence of pages.

There is no Gould there, you may say, then there is.  There is Gould (the gimmick, the sales technique, the brand.  witness the example of Capp's Fearless Fosdick, the meta-joke, when Fearless Fosdick usurped Li'l Abner in popularity & brand recognition--  Al Capp losing himself in competition with Gould, losing his satire in self-parody), then there is Gould (the enthusiastic autodidact alone with his pens, paper, and Spirit Duplicator (as the ditto machine was also known) repeating his gags and polishing his schtick).

Then there was Chester Gould, the illustrator and ad hack who pitched sixty-five failed gag strips over ten years at the Chicago Tribune before landing Plainclothes Tracy:  

"I'll change the name."

"That's all to the good.  I want two weeks of pages.  Your deadline's Monday.  I want 'em Sunday.  And lose the straw hat, fer chrissakes, he looks like a fag."

That's the true substrate of all these ruminations on Identity & Style:  Deadlines, and Pages.  No time to really plan.  Big plots only trip you up when the editor's got other ideas.    Pass the hat, take requests.  Stay fluid.  Fuck style, use a ruler.  Hack it out.  Keep it current.  Work the crowd.

Dance, dance, dance like the face of the waters of the subconscious.

I don't know that Giffen actually dug on Dick Tracy.  But we're talking about a guy who drew a double-page spread of every player in the Legion of Super-Heroes like it was a Sgt. Pepper's album cover and he worked fuckin' Garfield in there.  Everything was in Giffen, ergo everything that had been in Gould would be in Giffen, too.  That's kind of how this art & influence stuff occurs.

Gould, in the Great Darkness before I knew him?

Because I really latched onto Keith Giffen, before Los Bros Hernandez or Charles Burns or Jose Munoz--  because Aleck Sinner grew from a grafted cutting of Tracy, no mistake  --before any of the Hep Names I'd check for myself.  I'd scan the Sunday funnies when I was at paw-paw's, impatient to catch a ride with my aunt when she went to Get Her Hair Done so I could sneak off to someplace that Sold Comics.  Didn't matter if it was Big B's stuffed-to-choking with unsold comix spinny rack or K-Mart's magazine aisle or some dusty hobby shoppe.  My mission was always comix.

Maybe Gould was in Giffen.  Maybe he wasn't.  I'll never catch up with where-all Gould's influence was felt.  That's not what this is about.

What is strange to me is the near-religious Recognition I feel, now, examining this comic strip, and seeing its influence refracted throughout my pre-existing enthusiasms.

Where Gould was not, Gould always was.

"Kid, you gonna use those scissors?  Or just find your reflection in 'em?"

Thursday, March 26, 2026

Tracing Gould - oo2

Sam Catchem casts his sardonic eye my way and says "Kid," around his perpetual cigarette.

Retinas gliding across the surface of his whites with ice-skate, stop-motion celerity.  Suppressing a shiver of the uncanny I force my focus in, down, onto the rustling newspulp.  Sam's rheumy gaze locked outwith the frame beneath me, making contact, he raises a hand to cock his plum-coloured trilby back.

"Kid," he says, "you're on the level."  The cigarette clicks from one side of his freckled mew to the other, almost audibly, as he turns, looking up.  "But what level?"

The waxen glow of the hardwood beneath me is gold as sunlight.  Redounding off the cut glass corners of the candy dish on the mirrored tabletop, misting butterscotches wrapped in their crisp whispering cello with particulate rays.  It's always afternoon in the front living room, by paw-paw's recliner.  I'm on my stomach on the floor, elbowpropped, and Dick Tracy's back at war with Big Boy.

"You remember that?" raps Sam.  "I mean, actually remember."

"I believe so," I answer, pulling legs beneath me,  "Like, I think I recall Paw-Paw telling me Big Boy was a Tracy villain from when he was a kid."

"Interesting," not sounding interested at all.  Testing the border of the panel he's speaking from, little exploratory taps with nicotine-stained knuckles.  "Think you can help me outta this rig?"  His cynical kewpie eyes sliding to the scissors beside my hand.

"I believe so," I answer, admiring the sheer glint of forever afternoon all around me.  The reflections off wood and glass and steel all caught and sponged up by the Sunday supplement.  The loops of the heavy scissors immense as trigger guards to my adolescent knuckles.  "I believe so."

Tracing Gould - oo1

In my psyche there is a direct association between my great-grandfather & Dick Tracy.  He used to collect them.  His daughter, my aunt, found them appalling & violent & disgusting, so as soon as he died she threw them away.

I did not know this detail until after my aunt's death.

Throughout my childhood, I spent Saturdays "up the drive" at my great-grandfather's house, the hearth of the Patty Family.  That place is very imprinted on my subconscious.  In my dreams I revisit it, though with significantly less frequency at this distance of decades.  My great-grandfather died in 1988, I believe.  He found the intensity with which I pored over the Sunday funnies, which they collected for me, amusing, and I know he watched me really grapple with the 80s incarnation of Dick Tracy.

I was fascinated by the faces.  Sam Catchem was particularly striking, to my child's eye.  But I didn't really know what I was ever looking at, what the stories were, who these characters were.  I had inherited the Max Collins / Kurt Lochner era of the thing, the attempted "modernization" of D.T., and it was completely impenetrable to me.  I understood Peanuts, and Garfield, and Calvin and Hobbes.  Dick Tracy was just thing full of talking about "cases" and "criminals" and I was just a kid who stared at teevee passively trying to understand what the fuck a Brady Bunch was and why it looked exactly like the Partridge family, and why did adult stuff seem so fucking stuck in the past?

But this was the 80s in Dogwater.  It was a bubble.  I didn't know who Chester Gould was.  I didn't see the effect he'd had on the culture I came to love because I didn't read the creators of my favourite comix lauding Gould, y'know?  I'm sure los Bros were talking about Dick Tracy but I didn't read those interviews.  I just didn't hear people talk about the effects, the influence.  I was a Bat-Fan like anyone who got secondhand toys and books and grew up with Adam West.  I didn't know how rooted in D.T. Batman was--  because DC made an editorial POINT of not talking about Gould, or the debt owed.  Crime fic writ large owes to the popularity of D.T., and the determination of Gould to bluff & hack his way through producing a daily strip for forty-six years.

I feel like I've spent my entire life tracking influence & interpreting the greater historical context of all this mishegas, catching up with the past, in an attempt to understand & accept the present that we've all been borne into.  Surely cooking my brain in the process.  Ah, the joys of being a human, walking to & fro, up & down this wired-ass world.

The point is, there's no one good reason I've discovered the Need to learn more about Gould and his work.  It's what I'm supposed to do.  It's an alternative to the deadspace that daily comix have become, in my attentions.  I grew up reading dailies.  In a way comix are an integral part of how I learned to read.  And probably why I was so credulous and literal-minded in my adolescence.  Not to diss on dailies.  But the stuff kids dig on?  Oof.  I'm not revisiting fucking Garfield, even ironically.

But then Sam Catchem casts his sardonic eye my way and says "Kid," around his perpetual cigarette...