Professor Don Ault passed away on April 13, 2019. The following is a memoir he wrote for IJOCA sixteen years ago. We plan to have a remembrance of him in the next issue.
Pioneers
of Comic Art Scholarship Series
In
the Trenches, Taking the Heat: Confessions of a Comics Professor
Donald
Ault
originally published in International
Journal of Comic Art 5:2, Fall 2003: 241-260
(figure numbers refer to the original article)
In 1968 it was
unthinkable to me that as a beginning literature professor, I could incorporate
comic books -- especially Donald Duck comics (1) which I had admired since I
was a child -- into upper division and graduate courses at a major research
institution. 1968 was the year I started my first teaching job as assistant
professor of English Literature at the University of California, Berkeley,
after completing my Ph.D. dissertation at the University of Chicago (published
in 1974 as Visionary Physics: Blake's Response to Newton and later
characterized as "the single most difficult book ever published on
Blake").(2) For the previous three years I had been totally consumed with
negotiating the high-speed Ph.D. program at Chicago, one of the most
intellectually rigorous universities in the United States. During 1967- 1968 I
had buried myself in the John Crerar science library, ferreting out obscure
pathways through which "Newtonianism" had traversed the 18th
century. My mentors cautioned me against introducing the study of comic books
into my professional profile for university teaching because, as Arthur Asa
Berger has noted,(3) popular culture studies were looked down upon at that time
by "serious" scholars at research institutions. Drawing attention to
my interest in Donald Duck, they said, would surely jeopardize my chances of
getting (and keeping) a high-powered teaching job. Consequently, though I had
been reading and collecting comics for over twenty years, my academic studies
had sequestered me from comic "fandom" and the intellectual
movements, especially in Europe, that had made great strides in legitimizing
comics and raising their cultural profile through exhibitions such as those
organized by Maurice Horn and others.(4) I knew nothing of the various comics
"clubs" formed at private universities including Harvard,(5) and I
was unaware that Terry Zwigoff (later the director of "Crumb" and
"Ghost World") had already been teaching non-credit courses that
focused on Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge comics at the University of Wisconsin
in 1966-1967.(6) At that time it would have been inconceivable to me to learn,
as Wolfgang Fuchs has remarked, that Donald Duck comics were already one of the
"darlings of [European] intellectuals."(7) Even though I was just
across the Bay from San Francisco State, I didn't know that Arthur Asa Berger
was teaching courses in comic strips using diverse analytical tools such as
semiotics. (8) In 1968 I did not yet know Carl Barks 's name, and I feared the
anonymous author, who I was sure had both written and drawn his own stories,
had died, or certainly retired, since the steady flow of his comic book work
had suddenly stopped in mid-1967, replaced at first by reprints and later by
pale imitations.
1968 was dominated
by so much sufficiently well-known cultural turmoil that it requires only the
barest rehearsal here: the May-June student strikes in France, which spread
throughout the working classes and shook the world, the assassinations of
Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy and the subsequent violent upheavals
in the USA, and the massive demonstrations against the war in Vietnam. In late
August 1968, my wife Lynda and I drove across the country from Chicago (where
the violent police brutality toward antiwar protestors at the Democratic
National Convention was being televised to the chant, "the whole world is
watching") to Berkeley (where we learned upon our arrival that the Bank of
America had just been blown up). Every academic term during my first two years
at Berkeley was marked by major disruptive events -- the Eldridge Cleaver and
Angela Davis academic debacles, reactions to the Cambodian invasion, the
shootings at Kent State (where I happened to have done my Bachelors and Masters
work), and the potentially catastrophic "reconstitution" of
Berkeley's academic structure itself under the massive pressures of student and
faculty protests. During those years the faculty parking lots were filled with
National Guard vehicles, and campus tear-gassing was a regular occurrence.
Voluntary "teach-ins" by faculty had become a staple of campus life,
and there was a great demand for me to lead sessions on William Blake, who was
predictably seen as a prophet of radical political activism, mystical vision,
and psychedelic consciousness (rumor had it that Blake's body automatically produced
LSD). It was in the context of this social turbulence when normal academic
activities began to break down that I seized the opportunity and began to
incorporate Donald Duck comics (which I considered to be every bit as radical
as Blake's works) into my teach-ins.
In addition,
students in "regular" classes in those days at Berkeley were a heady
bunch. I found they could move seamlessly between Zen and Tibetan Buddhism,
astrology, Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind, contemporary poetry, and
quantum mechanics, and they were intensely committed to discussions rather than
lectures. As teach-ins and the extraordinarily imaginative and eclectic
students that populated the classes at Berkeley liberated me from what I had
myself experienced as a student at Kent State and Chicago, it dawned on me that
this was a unique historical moment and academic site where I might actually
fulfill the dream I'd had in the back of my mind since I was a child reading
(and explaining) Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge stories to neighborhood kids
back in Ohio. In 1969 I began tentatively incorporating comics -- not only
Disney comics but Marvel comics and underground comix as well -- into my
two-term freshman composition course.
Despite my
ignorance of Carl Barks's name and of all that was going on in comics
scholarship at the time, the convergence of several fortuitous events
strengthened my confidence that comics could indeed be objects of "legitimate"
critical activity. One of my early students at Berkeley was a gifted young
writer named Geoffrey Blum, who already had an intense interest in Barks's
work, and my willingness to validate academically Blum's already detailed
knowledge of Barks's work apparently contributed to his professional career --
he later became one of the most prolific writers on Barks's work and is
currently penning scripts for Egmont, the Disney publishing giant in Denmark.
Blum was, I guess, the first potential "comics scholar" I taught at
the university. At this same time, my immensely talented office mate at
Berkeley also revealed an enthusiasm for the duck stories. One night when he
and his wife came over for dinner, I pulled out a stack of Walt Disney's
Comics and Stories and Uncle Scrooge; we pored through the comics,
and he kept repeating, "I remember that one ... and that one ... and that
one ....” What struck me about this event was that he and I had come from the
opposite ends of the social spectrum. He was the product of the most elite
schools in the USA -- Deerfield Academy, Princeton, and Harvard –while I had
come from a working-class environment and attended a vocational high school,
majoring in mechanical and architectural drafting. I had worked my way through
college as a junior draftsman at the Hoover Vacuum Cleaner Company, as an
assistant project engineer for torpedo tube development at the E.W. Bliss
Company, and as an equipment designer at General Tire. Despite the divergences
between our economic and academic backgrounds, we both had sustained a passion
for the duck comics over a long span of time. I sensed there was an iceberg
there whose tip I had barely glimpsed.
In 1969 and 1970 I
was haunting the Alameda Flea Market near Berkeley where I went to find, and
occasionally try to sell, comics. There I met Allen Dodge, who first told me
Carl Barks's name and address. In short order I'd written Barks, and Al Dodge
and I went to visit him in late August 1970. The moment I met Barks in person
-- he had not died as I had feared, and I'd never seen such an ebullient and
productive "retired" person in my life (9) -- something snapped
inside of me. I knew I had something like a "mission" to carry out,
no longer limited to incorporating comics surreptitiously into my courses. I
decided to create entire courses with a central focus on comics (and animation,
which I had also devoured with intensity as a child and which I learned Barks
had worked in from 1935- 1942). I knew, however, that I couldn't propose a
course in "Carl Barks" (after all, who in the American academy had
ever heard his name?), nor could I propose a course in "Donald Duck,"
because everybody thought they knew what that character stood for, and it definitely
was not academic respectability. So I realized that I had to teach myself the
history of comics and animation in order to create a course that would
contextualize Barks's work and be approved by the English Department. (I was
still unaware of much of the work that had been done in these areas -- even the
work of Barks expert Michael Barrier, whose Funny World was a
breakthrough resource of information about both fields.) I knew I had to
emphasize the "literary" aspects of comics and animation (as indeed I
wanted to), which I accomplished by focusing on a conceptual framework of
"narrative" in my course proposals. I also knew that it was essential
to embed the study of comics and animation in rigorous methodological contexts,
both to satisfy my own addiction to theoretical complexity and to convince the
powers that be that the course would be intellectually respectable. I used
texts ranging in complexity from those of John Cawelti, John Fell, Northrop
Frye, and Stanley Fish to those of Norwood Russell Hansen, Edmund Husserl,
Alfred North Whitehead, Roland Barthes, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Fredrick
Jameson, Michael Polanyi, and many others.
I first received
permission to sneak in a "Special Topics" course that would emphasize
comics during the 1972 summer session at Berkeley, primarily due to the amazing
openness of Professor Tom Parkinson who was acting chair for the summer and who
took my proposal seriously. The general topic for the course was
"Literature and Popular Culture," but it focused on the narrative
parameters of comics and on Barks and other comics artists as literary figures
-- as far as I know, the first upper division course at a major university on
comics (and Barks) with such an emphasis. One of the most notorious events
surrounding this first incarnation of the course (memorialized in E.B. Boatner's
Harvard Magazine essay): "[A] Berkeley professor brought $2,000
worth of his comics to teach a class, only to find the next morning that an
overachiever had jimmied two locked doors to steal them from his office. (10)
In the spring of
1973 I co-taught an evening University Extension course with Thomas Andrae, who
was then a graduate student in political science and philosophy. The topic was
"American Popular Culture from Dracula to Donald Duck," and it was
well received. In the summer of that year I also taught another "Special
Topics" course with comics and animation at its center. 1973 was also the
year that I first published anything on comics. Although I didn't feel
(conceptually and methodologically) ready to write about comics yet, I wrote
these two pieces in response to requests, because the venues I was offered were
too good (in the sense of being "subversive of canonical academic
propriety) to pass up. I felt it was important to keep my work on comics
somewhat under cover until I had developed a theoretical framework and a
student following sufficient to justify proposing a "standing course"
to the English Department (i.e., one that would be offered over and over again
with the same "legitimizing" course number). When I was asked to
write a piece on Carl Barks for the Berkeley Con Program (for the 1973
underground commix convention in Berkeley), I accepted. When novelist and
Professor Leonard Michaels asked me to do a piece on R. Crumb (11) for the
newly resurrected literary magazine Occident (second series), I again
jumped at the chance –with the proviso that I could write on both Crumb and
Barks. These were publications at the opposite ends of the comics/literary
spectrum -- the Con Program being almost exclusively for fans and
collectors, while Occident was exclusively a "literary"
magazine. The editors provided titles for these two essays. The straightforward
title "On Carl Barks" suited the non-academic atmosphere of the Con
Program, where the editors could assume the audience knew who Carl Barks
was. The title of the essay for Occident, however, was conjured up by
Michaels to sound as academic as possible and as a kind of inside academic joke
that potentially disguised the subject matter of the essay except to the
initiated: "Librorum Comicorum Explicatio" (Latin for
"Explication of Comic Books").
The covers and
layouts for the two publications likewise reflected this radical difference (Figs.1-5).
Unlike the Con Program cover, the cover of Occident is void
of any images, sporting only a list of the literary figures featured in the
magazine. The name "R. Crumb" is listed as if there were no distance
between his cultural status and that of Hugh Kenner, Ezra Pound, Raymond
Carver, Thom Gunn, and (translations from) Horace. Another revealing difference
between my experience with the two publications was that the Con Program essay
appeared almost exactly as I had I written it while the Occident essay
-- as befits a literary magazine -- was edited almost beyond recognition,
incorporating a rather defensive opening I cringed at. Also -- and this is
something I thought at the time was very important –I managed in these two
essays to get previously unpublished Barks art into print for the first time. Occident
contained the originally censored opening panel from "Trick or
Treat" (with the "Donald Duck" logo deleted per request of
George Shennan at the Disney Studio as a condition of allowing it to be
published). The Con Program contained Barks's concept drawings of Snow
White and the Seven Dwarfs, which he sent to the Disney Studio when he applied
for his job, as well as examples of the risque drawings he had done for the Calgary
Eye-Opener in the early 1930s. My determination to get unpublished Barks
art into print reached its apex with the centerfold of the January/February
1976 issue of California Monthly devoted to "Pop Culture in the
University," where I was able to get Barks's previously censored
"barroom brawl" splash panel from "Back to the Klondike" published
for the first time at the center of the large two-page spread (Fig. 6).(12)
Disney's was unaware that the panel had previously been censored as "too
violent," and their only concern was with what I had to say about it.
Since I was contrasting Barks 's technique of "symbolic simultaneity"
with the more "filmic" techniques of Foster and Raymond, no one at
the Disney Studio objected to the "brawl's" publication, and in fact
they didn't charge a penny for its use -- unlike King Features, which demanded
a hefty payment for inclusion of "their" images. 
After teaching the
course as a "Special Topic" a couple more times, I decided in 1974 to
bring it before the English Department for approval as an ongoing course. I had
recently presented a paper at the three-day seminar in San Francisco on
"The Contemporary American Comic Book," where artist Barb Brown in
the audience drew a not-so-flattering but conceptually accurate and insightful
caricature of me giving my lecture in which I discussed the "non-Euclidean"
nature of Barks's ducks (Fig. 7). She presented it to me after my
lecture and then disappeared. The positive responses I got at that time to my
complex (some thought outrageously convoluted) theoretical approach to comics gave
me a brainstorm: the comics course (to be called, I had decided, simply
"Literature and Popular Culture") would more likely be approved if I
brought it before the department along with a proposal for an equally
innovative, but much more academically respectable, course in "Literature and
Philosophy." It's difficult to believe now, but at that time, there was
considerable resistance to both courses. Even at UC Berkeley, "cultural
studies" was not a central defining aspect of the English Department, and
"literary theory" had not yet significantly "invaded"
literary studies (as many conservative faculty members saw the emergence of
theoretical developments initiated by Jacques Derrida, Jacques Lacan, and many
others). After considerable debate, the faculty approved both courses, and both
went on the books in fall of 1975. The Daily Californian carried a piece
on the course (Fig. 8) and, as noted above, my brief essay on Barks,
Foster, and Raymond occupied a central place in the California Monthly special
issue on "Pop Culture in the University." Again the editors supplied
the title for my essay, "Comic Art and
How to Read It," a very pretentious title for a short essay on
three comics panels. In the summer session of 1976, I simultaneously taught
both courses I had created -- "Literature and Popular Culture: Comics,
Film, and Animation from Chaplin to Donald Duck" (ENG 176) and
"Literature and Philosophy: The Phenomenology of the Contemporary Novel
and Film" (ENG 177) -- before I bade farewell to Berkeley and headed for
Vanderbilt (Figs. 9 and 10). (13)
I need to note
here that the practical and technical problems involved in teaching courses in
comics, animation, and film during my years at Berkeley were formidable. At
first the English Department didn't even have its own movie projector, so I had
to lug my own from home for screenings in my classes, and many faculty members
were suspicious of my wasting valuable class time showing movies and cartoons.
Filmed material was not available on videotape -- indeed the convenience of
home video equipment had not yet been invented, and the Berkeley media center
had only inch and half-inch reel to reel black and white video machines -- so
films had to be rented (paid for out of my own pocket). Back issues of comics
were not yet readily available in quality reprints (with the exception of the
groundbreaking Smithsonian reprint collections of newspaper strips and comic
book stories), so I had to put my own copies on reserve in the library. When
these were stolen, I had to resort to putting photocopies on reserve. When the
photocopies were stolen, I realized some more secure framework, along the lines
of special collections or rare books had to be devised if the courses were to
be practical at all. (14)
My letter of
appointment to Vanderbilt acknowledged that I would be teaching courses on
comics, animation, and film there on a regular basis. The resistance to
converting such subject matter into a repeatable course as an official part of
the English Department curriculum was much greater at Vanderbilt than at Berkeley,
however. It took 11 long years of teaching the course as a "Special
Topic" and submitting proposal after proposal until in 1987 when ENG 277
("Popular Narrative") was approved.(15) Ironically, by this time
Joseph (Rusty) Witek had served as my teaching assistant in several versions of
the comics and animation course, and I was already directing his dissertation
on Art Spiegelman, Harvey Pekar, and Jack Jackson, which in short order became Comic
Books as History, one of the best books ever published on the analysis of
comics. (16)
Moving to
Vanderbilt exposed more clearly the deeply entrenched ideological opposition to
making comics a central focus of academic study and alerted me to the fact that
much more was at stake than I had been aware of at Berkeley. Vanderbilt was
perceived by the American culture at large as a conservative, elitist
institution -- hence the prolonged resistance to acquiring approval of a course
focusing on comics as a standard fixture in the English Department.(17) The
daily Vanderbilt student newspaper (The Hustler) carried a story about my course as soon as it was
taught (Fig. 11), and a few years later, the Vanderbilt literary
magazine Versus ran a very accurate
essay on the relation between my work in Blake and in comics ("The Four-Color Zoas: Donald Ault
on Popular Narrative" by Steve Freitag [Fig. 12)). (18) It became progressively
clear, however, that teaching courses in comics at Berkeley was one thing, but
teaching them at Vanderbilt was a different story entirely. Comics were the
"whacko" kinds of things that the news media expected would be taught
at a "radical" institution like Berkeley, where I had acquired what I
considered to be a badge of honor when Stephen Greenblatt proleptically dubbed
me "the Departmental trash man." Very few of my colleagues at
Vanderbilt were initially so imaginatively engaged with what I was trying to
do. (19)
I had felt all
along that there were subversive dimensions to challenging the academic
literary canon by treating comics with respect and intellectual rigor, but I
got the chance -- quite by accident -- to find out just how the public might
respond to my unconventional take on academic appropriateness, now that I was
at an institution where propriety was the presumptive norm. In 1982 I was in
California for the "Blake & Criticism" conference at Santa Cruz
when Al Dodge (who, as noted above, was the person who initiated my personal
relationships with Barks and Crumb) invited me to Dixon, California, to
participate in an interview for the LA Times that was the founding
moment for the public emergence of the "Couch Potato" movement. (20)
Also present at this historic occasion were Kim Deitch (whose recent Boulevard
of Broken Dreams comic book has garnered high praise from all comers of the
literary world), Bob Armstrong (creator of the underground comic character
Mickey Rat and ultimately one of the prime movers behind the spread
of"Couch Potatoism" in the early 1980s), and Jack Mingo, who was
instrumental in producing the Couch Potato Handbook, a text I used in my
comics course as soon as it was published. The LA Times article (Fig.13)
spread through the country and alerted me to the publicity value of
juxtaposing the name of Vanderbilt University with a potentially radical, if
ironic, social vision. (21) After the story broke, I was bombarded with
requests for interviews, but the derisive nature of the questions ("Are
you really fat and lazy?" "Are all Couch Potatoes fat and
lazy?") began to bum me out, and I lost interest in trying to explain to
them the Zen theory of "bathing in the blue light," "transcendental
vegetation," and "the recline of Western Civilization,"(22) and
I simply began to decline them all. 
Then in 1985 the
publication of a volume of The Carl Barks Library, to which I had been
regularly contributing essays, coincided with an interview I did with the
Associated Press about teaching a course in comics at Vanderbilt (which in the
press release became simply "a course about Donald Duck") led to a
massive publicity blitz (l 5 minutes of fame if there ever was one). News
stories that derived from two different interviews I gave got edited, riddled
with errors, and circulated under the most outrageously contradictory headlines
imaginable (Figs. 14-15). (23
)Most of the articles treated teaching comics as a symptom of the
final deterioration of the American academy. Several television news anchors
attacked the idea of the course, and one specifically pointed out that it was
more of a travesty because it was being taught at Vanderbilt (Fig. 16). The
tone of most of these pieces ranged from ridicule and scorn to disrespect and
contempt. One particularly hostile review referred to me as a
"quack," and another either accidentally or intentionally contained
so many typographical errors (including grotesque misspellings of
"absurd," my name and Barks's) and insults (I was fixated on the duck
because I had the same first name as he did), that it was either a satiric
piece or an insult to the readers (Fig. 17). A few journalists took the
issue seriously, however, and actually confronted the possibility that there
might be something to what I was saying about comics opening up new regions of
the human imagination.
The hubbub was sufficiently intense
to bring about my appearance on the weekend edition of Entertainment Tonight
(broadcast October 5 and 6 in 1985). The actual interview process was very
positive, but what was made of it on ET was not. Dick Heard and the ET
news team followed me around for an entire day at Vanderbilt, shooting
footage of me in the classroom exhibiting full-size originals of Barks pages,
walking on the campus, and talking in my office. After 12 hours before the
cameras -- during which time I believe I at least partially
"converted" Dick Heard to the possibilities of comic art -- I had
sprouted beard stubble and was so extremely exhausted that I couldn't remember
anything of the last few hours of the interview. The ET piece itself was
presented by Dick Shoemaker, who obviously had no sympathy for the idea at all,
and his "commentary," often lifted from things I'd actually said, was
delivered in such ironic cadences that any intellectual claims I might make
would be seen as overblown and ridiculous. At the end of the 1:15 residue that
was broadcast of the day-long interview, Shoemaker asked the audience,
"But what, then, does Donald Duck mean to you and me in the long run? Well
that" -- interrupted by a clip of a manically infuriated animated Donald
Duck smashing things -- "is a Duck of a different color." In essence
Shoemaker attempted to negate all I'd tried to convey in the interview about
how the comic book duck differed from and exceeded the possibilities of the
animated duck. Bad publicity is often better than no publicity, and the media
blitz did have some salutary effects. One of the things my notoriety with
Donald Duck brought me was the opportunity to serve as editorial reviewer for
the manuscript of Vol. 2 of David Kunzle's magisterial history of the comic
strip, which was then being considered for publication by the University of California
Press.(24) I felt privileged to have given the manuscript an unequivocal
recommendation and thereby had some small part in the book's publication.
When
I moved to the University of Florida in 1988, the atmosphere was so entirely
different from Vanderbilt that I realized I probably had found my academic home.
A graduate course in "Communication and Popular Culture" was already
on the books, and the undergraduate course in "Forms of Narrative"
made my tracing of characters and plots through comics, film, and animation
seem quite the "normal" thing to do. The Freshman Composition program
contained ENG 1145 ("Writing About [different topics]"), and I
initiated a version entitled "Writing About Comics." A significant
number of graduate students subsequently taught the course under that rubric.
During my years in the Graduate Coordinator's office at the University of
Florida ( 1991-1997), I helped in the development of new courses in theory and
cultural studies and in the initiation of a "track" model for graduate
study in which students can construct their own intellectual trajectories.
In the past two
years, with the unrelenting financial and moral support of John P. Leavey, Jr.,
chair of the English Department, Neil Sullivan, dean of Humanities, and the
"nascent Center for Humanities and the Public Sphere," my exemplary
graduate student John F. Ronan and I have succeeded in organizing the first two
"Conferences on Comics and Graphic Novels," which have become an
annual event here at Florida. The inaugural conference was an homage to Will
Eisner, featuring, along with Eisner, Joe Sacco, Eddie Campbell, Terry Zwigoff,
and Dan Clowes, and a host of young (and seasoned) comics scholars from
universities all over the world -- an event that Eisner referred to as the
"Manhattan Project of comics scholarship." The second focused on
"Underground(s)" with Robert Williams, Kim Deitch, Bill Griffith, and
Diane Noomin (Art Spiegelman, who was scheduled to come, got snowed in at the
airport in New York and was unable to make it). Again an unusually fine array
of comics scholars contributed papers on a wide variety of aspects of
underground comix worldwide. From 1972 until today, I've taught a course
devoted centrally to comics at least once every year and sometimes four times a
year as I've integrated my work in Blake, Romanticism, and comics through the
analysis of visual narrative. During those years I've been regularly presenting
papers on comics at a wide variety of conferences (25) and publishing essays on
various aspects of comics, especially problems of temporality and spatiality of
comics narratives, the ontology and phenomenology of characters, and the
theoretical problems of visual texts. (26) Despite the upsurge in recognition
of the legitimacy of comics scholarship in certain academic circles, however, there
still remain vast pockets of resistance to treating most comics as canonical
literary texts. When he gave his keynote speech at the first annual conference
on Comics and Graphic Novels at Florida, even Will Eisner himself shied away
from using the term "comic book" to describe his work, preferring
"graphic novel." Dan Clowes, on the other hand, fought long and hard
to have the term "comic book" appear in the credits to the film
"Ghost World," whose Oscar-nominated screenplay he co-wrote,(27)
indicating the extent to which the term "comic book" has come to
designate an inferior form of narrative and character construction. Film
critics often use the term as a shortcut for flat, cardboard, stereotypical
aspects of movies.(28) There is still a deep suspicion and at best an
intellectual ambivalence attaching to comics that make it all too easy for
cultural critics to dismiss them en masse.(29) Only the most
"prestigious" forms of visual narrative expression –specifically work
by artists such as Art Spiegelman, Dan Clowes, Joe Sacco, or Chris Ware -- are
accorded serious attention by the media. All of these artists work (or are
perceived to work) outside the mainstream of comic book production. (30)
In the face of the
waxing (and more often waning) fate of comics in public consciousness, I have
remained blithely optimistic. Because I was able to carve out a career in
comics scholarship, often against considerable odds and before it was
technologically feasible and intellectually respectable, I have seen
generations of students transformed by thinking through the implications of the
narrative possibilities of the comics format. A comment by a student in my most
recent comics and animation course perhaps says it better than I can:
Delving
deeper into the world of what lies between the panels, I feel as if my mind is
either radically expanding or drastically drawing in on itself. I have never
experienced the effects of a mind-altering drug, but I believe studying your
work while attempting to include my own thoughts is as close as I have come.
Consequently, it's incumbent upon
comics scholars to stay in the trenches and take the heat whenever and however
it might come. Heat is evidence of energy flow. Abandoning the task of opening
the minds of academics to the narrative riches of comics entails too great a
risk. The value of using comics in the academy returns unexpected rewards,
often many years down the line. If enough academics remain true to their
beliefs in the intrinsic value of comics scholarship, the day will come when
"Comics Studies" will carry the same kind of cultural capital that
"Film Studies" has built for itself over the past 40 years. I'm as
confident that such a day will come as I was when as a child I pondered the
mysterious power of comics to alter my consciousness and shape my vision of the
future.
Endnotes
1 At that time I did not know the
name of Carl Barks, the artist writer who had single-handedly produced over 500
comic book stories between 1942 and 1966.
2 Stuart Curran, "Recent
Studies in the Nineteenth Century," Studies in English Literature, 14,
1974:639-70. It was my penchant toward conceptual and syntactic complexity that
complicated my writing about comics.
3 Berger, "Is This the Kind of
Thing That Serious Academics Do?" IJOCA, 4:1 (Spring 2002):41-47.
4 Hom, "How It All Began, Or
Present at the Creation," IJOCA, 4: 1 (Spring 2002):7-22.
5 E.B. Boatner, Comix 10lb (half
term): Why a Duck: Homage to the Works of Carl Barks," Harvard Magazine
77:9 (May 1975):40.
6 Zwigoff, personal telephone
conversation, June 14, 2003.
7 Wolfgang Fuchs, "The Story
of an 'Anatomy' That Gave Recognition to
Comics as a Mass Medium," IJOCA
4: 1 (Spring 2002):51.
8 Berger, 45.
9 For 30 years after I met him,
Barks continued producing artwork related to the Disney ducks -- including two
series of oil paintings licensed by Disney that were commanding prices in the
six figures by the time of his death in 2000.
10 Boatner, 40. I never knew who
stole them, but it must have been one of the students -- who else would have
known they were there? It was not a happy thought. This theft Jed to Carl Barks
stamping the covers of all of his comic books with this message; "This is
the personal file copy of Carl Barks. Anyone else possessing the book has
stolen it." (Published in Michael Barrier, Carl Barks and the Art of
the Comic Book (New York: M. Lilien, 1981):111.
11 I had met Crumb at Al Dodge's
house in 1970.
12 These drawings have now become
commonplace knowledge among Barks scholars and fans by virtue of their
circulation in The Carl Barks Library, but when my essays were first
published, this material was new to most audiences.
13 ENG 176 is still on the books at
Berkeley, but ENG 177 has disappeared from the curriculum.
14 Around 1972 I had written to
George Sherman about the possibility of getting permission to publish
collections of Disney comics ( especially by Barks and Gottfredson), as well as
getting permission to use Disney images in a videotape project I was planning
on Disney comic artists, but I never got any response back. It would be ten
years before Bruce Hamilton would negotiate the production of the Carl Barks
Library.
15 ENG 277 no longer refers to
"Popular Narrative" but to "Asian American Literature." The
word "popular" no longer appears in the title of any course in the
Vanderbilt English Department catalogue.
16 Comic Books as History: The
Narrative Art of Jack Jackson, Harvey Pekar. and Art Spiegelman. (Jackson:
Univ Pr of Mississippi, 1989). Rusty Witek recently insisted that he himself
met little opposition when he told faculty members that he planned to write his
dissertation on comics ( email, June 16, 2003).
17 Indeed, many faculty in
Vanderbilt's English Department themselves saw the inclusion of a regular
course on popular culture as relinquishing their authority to the barbarians.
At the meeting where my course was finally approved, more than one faculty
member uttered this kind of decree: "I will never vote for admitting a
course into the English Department curriculum where Krazy Kat and Mickey Mouse
are being taught." (This is a direct quotation as I can best remember it.)
18 I was working on my seemingly
interminable study of Blake's manuscript poem "The Four Zoas," which
was published in a 500+ page book (Narrative Unbound) in 1987.
19 Notable exceptions were Roy
Gottfried, Vereen Bell, Rupert Palmer, Elizabeth Langland, and others I may
have forgotten.
20 Most people today are unaware
that there ever was a founding moment of the "Couch Potatoes" because
the term has infiltrated the American vernacular to such an extent that it
seems to have "always been there."
21 TV Guide later ran an
article by Jerry Camarillo Dunn, Jr. entitled "The Invasion of the Couch
Potatoes" (October 22, 1985:20-22).
22 The first two phrases are from
the Couch Potatoes themselves; the third is from Will Tomlinson, a former
student and life-long friend of mine, who made brilliant contributions to a
piece we wrote for The Tuber's Voice ( or TV) the official Couch
Potato journal ("The Tuber Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology
ofTele-Leisure" TV 1:2 [1982]: 8).
23 In looking back over these
headlines, it seems as though it might be possible to do a demographic analysis
of cultural differences in different parts of the country based on the particular
spin that local newspapers gave to the story.
24 Kunzle himself was, of course,
deeply associated with Donald Duck in an entirely different cultural venue as
translator of and commentator on Dorfman and Mattelart's How to Read Donald
Duck, perhaps the single most widely-known and influential cultural
analysis of comics. I was given to understand by the Press that my expertise in
Donald Duck had qualified me as a knowledgeable reviewer of Kunzle's
manuscript.
25 Including conferences sponsored
by the International Society for Narrative, the Center for the Psychological
Study of the Arts, the Society for Utopian Studies, the Society for Literature
and Science, and the South Atlantic Modern Language Association, as well as
annual conferences on Jacques Lacan on Marxist theory at the University of
Florida, and special conferences such as the Copenhagen Conference on Comics
and Culture, the "Re-Thinking Disney" conference, and the seminar on
Disney and Carl Barks at the Lahti School of Design in Finland.
26 This year my first book on
comics appeared -- Carl Barks: Conversations (Jackson: Univ Pr of
Mississippi, 2003), a collection of previously published and unpublished
interviews from around the world, with a long introductory commentary.
27 Conversation with Clowes, Feb.
2002.
28 It's unclear whether the
proliferation of films actually based on comic book characters and plots will
do much to reverse this popular conception of the term's meaning.
29 The day that the Eisner
Symposium opened here at the University of Florida, NPR carried a story about comic book superheroes and video
game geeks that was, to say the least, not flattering to comics. I had failed
to get any kind of hearing for the symposium in time to counterbalance such a
report.
30 Presumably because they are
auteurs who seem to be uncontaminated by the mark of commodity associated with
the large comics publishing factories.
References
Ault, Donald and Will Tomlinson.
"The Tuber Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Tele-Leisure" TV
1:2 [1982]:8).
Ault, Donald, ed. Carl Barks:
Conversations (Jackson: Univ Pr of Mississippi, 2003).
Barrier, Michael. Carl Barks and
the Art of the Comic Book (New York: M. Lilien, 1981)
Berger, Arthur Asa. "Is This
the Kind of Thing That Serious Academics Do?" IJOCA, 4: 1 (Spring
2002):41-4 7.
Boatner, E.B. Comix 101b (half
term): Why a Duck: Homage to the works of Carl Barks," Harvard Magazine
77:9 (May 1975):40.
Camarillo Dunn, Jr. "The Invasion
of the Couch Potatoes" TV Guide October 22, 1985:20-22.
Curran, Stuart. "Recent
Studies in the Nineteenth Century," Studies in English Literature, 14,
1974:639-70.
Dorfman, Ariel and Armand
Mattelart. How to Read Donald Duck: Imperialist Ideology in the Disney
Comic. Translation and Introduction by David Kunzle NY: International
General, 1975.
Dunn, Jerry Camarillo, Jr.
"The Invasion of the Couch Potatoes." TV Guide. October 22,
1985:20-22.
Fuchs, Wolfgang. "The Story of
an 'Anatomy' That Gave Recognition to Comics as a Mass Medium," IJOCA 4:
1 Spring 20020:51.
Hamilton Bruce, ed. Carl Barks
Library. 30 volumes. Scottsdale and Prescott: 1983-91.
Horn, Maurice. "How It All
Began, Or Present at the Creating," IJOCA, 4:1 (Spring 2002):7-22.
Witek, Joseph. Comic Books as
History: The Narrative Art of Jack Jackson, Harvey Pekar, and Art Spiegelman. (Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi, 1989).
Working with book designer and author Chip
Kidd, the museum has also curated an exhibit entitled Batman Collected: Chip Kidd’s Batman Obsession, which showcases
items from his personal collection of Batman art. This is the exhibit that is
likely to have the most surprises for even serious Batman experts because it
includes several works that Kidd has personally commissioned and pieces that
have been personalized for him by Batman artists that he knows. He has art by
artists of well-known Batman works, such as Frank Miller, Dave Taylor, and Alex
Ross, as well as some by less expected artists such as alternative cartoonists
Chris Ware and Daniel Clowes. His interesting collection is a mix of examples
of Batman in products, including a 1966 ad for All Star Dairies’ Dairy
Chocolate featuring Batman, a Batman board game from Japan, at least one
rejected cover illustration, and sequences of original art for multiple pages
of a single issue. 
One thing that this trio of exhibitions does
very well is showing Batman in many different styles and at virtually every
point in his history. The exhibits also showcase a range of pieces that are
held by private collectors and therefore rarely seen in some cases. Taken
together, the exhibits will offer something new for all but the most
knowledgeable of Batman followers, making them worth a visit for any fan or
scholar. The three exhibits will be on display until October 12, 2019 at the
Society of Illustrators’ Museum of Illustration. 
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