Some Words on Comics: Personal Voice

As mentioned earlier, I've been going through old notes written back when I'd be asked to give talks about comics at schools or libraries (and the SF club at New York University, which I signed up for as a student, but was too scared to actually attend any of the meetings). These notes weren't intended for any kind of print project. I cleaned a few things up here and there for clarity, please excuse any typos I missed or any less-than-stellar grammar. Anyway, here's the first post in this series. Hope it's of some interest, and I hope it makes some sense.

PERSONAL VOICE. 

There are a lot of better artists out there than me. And a lot of better writers. And a lot of people write and draw better than me. Better than you, too. But that doesn't make them better cartoonists than me, or you, for that matter. Because there are things that go into comics that can't really be taught in school, and things that some folks can't put into their comics to a degree that separates them from the rest of the pack. I'm talking about personality, about personal voice, something which can be confused with personal style but isn't the same thing. Comics aren't just a synthesis of image and word, or image and idea, they're also a synthesis of image, idea and the individual doing the work, making the art, writing the words. Comics can be exciting, enriching, exasperating, entertaining, they can also be boring, forgettable, staid, dull, lifeless. There are amazing artists out there drawing beautiful comics that do not live and breathe. There are talented writers out there crafting beautifully structured sentences that lie there, dead, unsupported by the spark of life. Breathing life and energy and humor and honesty into your work, your characters, your settings, is not merely a matter of getting the right line down, in ink or pencil or grammatically written on a keyboard. I'm not just talking about the expression of ideas, or the style in which you choose to work, but in how much of your own heart, mind and being goes into your work. Truth, emotional truth, human truth, is not something that comes easily to a lot of people when they take a blank piece of paper or a blank screen and start to make their comics.   

Think about the comics you enjoy, the comics that stay with you, that hit home, that have meaning for you, that have affected you, the comics that are different than everything else on the rack or on the web. What they have in common isn't necessarily their design, their color sense, their dialogue, their genre, their drawing style or subject, unless, arguably, all you like is a narrow style of manga or modern superhero comics or that autobiographical mini-comic that seems like hundreds of people have put their name on for the past couple of decades. What the stronger works likely have in common is a singularity of vision, of strong personal style, of expression, that they are a direct extension of the creator or creators. Because when the personality, the voice, of the cartoonist is allowed free reign, the most creative and bizarre and amazing things often happen.   

There are cartoonists out there who are unique, artists who are not replaceable the way pencilers and inkers and writers often are at the work-for-hire superhero houses or on long-in-the-tooth legacy newspaper strips. They are not line cooks, they are chefs who run their own restaurants, and when they retire, the restaurant closes, because no one can do what they do. At the bigger companies, creators, no matter how popular or talented, are more or less hired line cooks that can be replaced at a whim, because like a McDonald's hamburger, Spider-Man is more important than whoever is making Spider-Man comics, whether anyone wants to admit this to themselves or not. The product is paramount. Whereas those cartoonists who have a unique voice, the ones who have carved out their own trajectory with their own ideas and characters and stories, cannot be removed from their work. 

Dan Clowes, Jaime Hernandez, Gilbert Hernandez, Raina Telgameier, Linda Barry, Matt Groening, Charles Shulz, Bill Watterson, Alison Bechdel, Howard Cruse, Richard Thompson, Posie Simmonds, Chris Ware, Mike Mignola, Jim Woodring, Eddie Campbell, Harvey Kurtzman, art Spiegelman, Charles Addams, Junji Ito, Seth, David Mazzucchelli, Jeff Smith, Keith Knight, Kate Beaton, Bryan Lee O'Malley, Moebius, Jason, Gary Panter, Shigeru Mizuki, Jacques Tardi, Charles Burns, Roz Chast, Kim Deitch. When they retire, when they pass on, the restaurant is closed. Those characters, those projects, those distinct takes end. I'd like to put Jack Kirby on that list, he exists in such a strange, special place in mainstream comics, a creative juggernaut who was constantly removed but never really replaced. Everything he created feels like a legacy strip at Marvel and DC, forcibly taken away from the creator, in some ways more than Stan Lee. Maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part.    

Anyway, the point is: Don't be replaceable. Don't be a line cook. Be a chef. You have to put yourself directly into your comics. I don't mean like the kinda creepy stuff John Byrne and Grant Morrisson would do from time to time (unless memoir or autobio is where you're going, of course)  –  but your opinions, your observations, your anger, your sweetness, your hate, your fears, your anxieties, your sense of humor, your take on life and how it's lived or should be lived. This goes with style, this goes with approach, this is personality, honesty and attitude.   

You might think this sounds simple, that everyone does it, that it's natural to imbue your work with your own sense of self. Go read some comics, read a few issues of this and that, read a few minis and some web comics, especially early work where folks are starting out, and see if you can tell what cartoonists the author is into. Is it obvious? Too obvious? Do they shake the influences off as they build a career? Influences are fine, they're necessary, most of us initially wear more than a few on our sleeve(s) and comparisons are inevitable early on. But influences have to fade and take a backseat, become subsumed into your own style at some point. You need to be yourself, establishing your voice in your work. You shouldn't want to become the next “x” creator -- not the next Bryan Lee O'Malley, the next Darwyn Cooke, the next Kate Beaton, the next Dash Shaw, the next whoever-it-is you admire the work of. You should want to be the first whatever-your-name-is, the first “you”, doing your work, your way, inspiring those who come after you rather than being another creator solely “in the tradition of ”. If you want to be the thirtieth person influenced by a mainstream creator, shake hands with the other twenty-nine fry cooks on the assembly line. All thirty of you are replaceable if that style falls out of favor and you can't adapt. If you can't break away from emulating your small press art heroes, you'll always be doing an impression of them, and there's not much call for that.  

Think about the names you used to see in the credits of the comics you grew up on, and how many of those folks – some very busy and successful at the time – are no longer as busy or as successful. Or aren't making comics or art of any kind.

Comics is a marathon, not a sprint. It's hard to run in someone else's shoes, even it everything seems fine for the first few steps.   

You need to get your own shoes.