Daniel F. Yezbick
This
week, the verbal-visual clans of Comics Studies bid fond farewells to one of our
most influential, persistent, and prolific pioneers.
On
July 7, 2022, we lost the great Robert C. Harvey, who dedicated his
professional writing and cartooning life to raising the quality of comic art
and the criticism that encountered, critiqued, and conversed with it. Even more directly, Bob Harvey brought so
much joy, generosity, and knowledge to all who were fortunate to share his
winning smile, hearty laughter, and earnest handshakes. Harvey’s engaging
demeanor, infinite depth of interests, limitless zeal, and endless quest for
the world’s driest martini, will be missed by hundreds of comics creators, critics,
and companions. Appreciative
condolences, notices, and obituaries have clogged the comics-centered internet
in the last few days, including my more officious send-off for The
Comics Journal and Bob’s official obituary. Still, thanks to the thoughtful Guardians of
the IJOCA galaxy, I am glad to say that there is more to share, mourn,
and remember about the passing of the comics’ most assiduously dedicated ace reporter,
critic at large, and all-around gentleman agitator.
First,
the necessaries.
Robert
Harvey was an essential force in the rendering of Comics Studies, decades
before it was even an inkling of a “thing.” As I have observed elsewhere, his The
Art of the Funnies (1994) and The Art of the Comic-Book were
pioneering University Press of Mississippi publications, among the first
influential academic treatments of verbal-visual / iconotextual / imagetic
narratives that would define not only the publisher’s seminal role in promoting
quality comics research, but also in promoting the work and reputations of many
leading scholars, past and present. Bob’s work with auteur-centered monographs
like his Accidental Ambassador Gordo: The Comic Strip Art of Gus Arriola
(Mississippi 2000) and The Life and Art of Murphy Anderson (TwoMorrows
2003) are also essential creator-focused explorations of important legacies. Even
what will now stand as Harvey’s posthumous swan song, The
Art of Popeye: A Masterwork of the Medium (Hermes Press 2022), is sure to provide us all with one final, very
welcome dose of Bob’s unwavering regard for the creative influence of master
cartoonists like E.C. Segar.
Aside
from his criticism, Bob’s work as a comics historian is unprecedented in depth
and breadth. Meanwhile, his 900+ page historical biography of Milton
Caniff, testifies to the comprehensive impact one cartoonist can have on the
full measure of his times. Harvey’s sweeping coverage not only details the
lives of Caniff, his family, collaborators, and associates, but also encompasses
how adventure strips like Terry and the Pirates and Steve Canyon were
crucial to Depression Era and Cold War politics, aeronautics, mass media,
popular fashion, and much more. Harvey’s framing of Caniff’s story speaks to
the intertwining interests of disabled Americans, the expansion of the Boy
Scouts, the nascent Air Force, and even Orson Welles and Gregg Toland’s
conception of the Deep Focus chiaroscuro techniques of Citizen Kane. It
is in some strange way rather fitting that Harvey should pass on the very week
that the first volumes of Grove Press’ resplendent new archival printing of
Terry and the Pirates are released into the comics ecosystem. Without Bob and
his lifelong lobbying for the legitimate study, substantial recapitulation, and
quality recompiling of comics in general, and Caniff’s comics in particular, I
doubt we would have seen the popular and academic taste for complete runs of
series like Terry, Dick Tracy, Little Orphan Annie, Pogo,
Peanuts, and many more arise in quite the same way. It is no
exaggeration to say that Bob’s lone hand, ebullient heart, and constant
harangues in favor of the comics’ lively arts helped to change the medium’s
critical and commercial landscape more than once.
Thus,
epic undertakings like Meanwhile - which took Harvey the better part of
three decades to compile and complete- may not serve the same historical
benefit as his tireless efforts to give quality cartoonists, beloved and forgotten,
current or defunct, the attention and regard he felt they deserved. Over more
than half a century, Harvey developed hundreds of individual cartoonist entries
for American National Biography and Cartoonist PROfiles, and
produced a crucial collection of recuperated histories for the immensely
rewarding U. of Mississippi title, Insider Histories of
Cartooning: Rediscovering Forgotten Famous Comics and Their Creators (2014). Though his interviews, reviews,
and articles sparked constant and sometimes colossal conversation across the
comics continuum, it’s also important to recall that Bob was also a seasoned
and celebrated cartoonist in his own right. His ongoing self-caricature with
his animal companion, not-quite-named Cahoots (the rabbit’s really name is also
Harvey – a sly allusion to Mary Chase’s beloved Jimmy Steward vehicle!), were
essential to Happy Harv’s blustering blending of prose and pictorial
personalities, especially on his obstreperously overstuffed website, RCHarvey.com.
I
grew up a hopeless comics nerd, devoted to reading Harvey’s “rants and raves” across
numerous fanzines and periodicals like The Comics Journal and Comic
Buyer’s Guide, but I never imagined that fate would make us – for a time –
the fastest of friends, confidants, and collaborators. I don’t think any other
person gave me so much inspiration, insight, or enthusiasm for the many things
that mutually fascinated us. Bob and I first met when I was bold enough to
invite him to guest lecture about the language of comics in my Graphic Novel
survey at the University of Illinois (The first of its kind at that
institution, by the way!). I had always known that Bob lived in Champaign where
he was an essential conference planner for the National Council for Teachers of
English and I was an English/Film Studies graduate student, but the few folks I
had met who knew or knew of him seemed resistant to the glimmer of his wit or intimidated
by the depths of his conversation.
Still,
I took a shot and invited R.C. Harvey to my course (which included in its
roster the now celebrated graphic novelist, Damian Duffy – more on that
connection later). Almost immediately, I received Bob's enthusiastic acceptance,
and just a few days later, he delivered an even more impassioned and
provocative guest lecture that had the room rollicking with learning and laughter.
His parody of Scott McCloud’s famous two frame strip of a man tipping his hat
made one student fall out of her seat in hysterics. In Bob’s view, we learned, McCloud’s
iconic hat tipper is simply letting us know that he needs a haircut.
It’s
worth noting that I always showed up about 45 minutes early to prepare for that
class, and several diehard students were also in the habit of getting a good
seat about 30 minutes before “Go” time to share, safely and gleefully, in some
good comics chat. The day of Bob’s lecture, however, he beat us all there by
almost 25 minutes and had already filled the white boards with elegant
graphics, set up stacks of handouts, and compiled free samples of his work for
every student. Such was his dedication to proselytizing and perfecting the many
ways of appreciating cartoons, comics, and their contents. Needless to say, our
pre-game debates were especially spirited thanks to Bob’s limitless love for
the medium.
After
class, Bob and I agreed to meet up for lunch in appreciation of his sharing his
expertise with everyone. I had no inkling of what that first meeting at the
broken-down White Horse Tavern in Champaign’s shabby campus town would yield.
We met, fed, chatted, and shared stories of our cartooning interests and
sequential preferences, then quickly agreed to mount a sequel in the
not-too-distant future. That sequel led to our first early discussions of so
many landmark creators and characters. Herrimann’s Krazy Kat, Swinnerton’s Mr.
Jack, Caniff’s Terry, Eisner’s Spirit, Barks’ ducks, Waterson’s Hobbes,
Knight’s K Chronicles, Robbins’ Wimmen’s Comix, and especially
George Carlson’s Jingle Jangle tales which we both admired. A few weeks
later, I showed Bob some of the Carlson art I had been hunting from the Fun-Time
and Puzzle Fun series. He was overjoyed. “You’ve got to write a book about
all of this,” he exclaimed. “We have to have a book on it all. Right now!”
Before long, we hatched a plan, developed a proposal, and spent a blithe but
costly afternoon color Xeroxing his substantial set of Jingle Jangle. A few years later, Perfect Nonsense:
The Chaotic Comics and Goofy Games of George Carlson arrives in the world.
In
the meantime, our meetings became more frequent, our emails more abundant, and
our laughter so much louder. We went from monthly to weekly, and even twice
weekly meet-ups, mostly at Carmon’s in downtown Champaign. Bob’s favorite
greasy spoon, now sadly defunct, was tricked out in vintage Coca-Cola
advertisements, World War II relics, and the occasionally snarky warning signs
meant to ward off fussy complaints or special substitutions. Bob especially
loved that, at Carmon’s, he could indulge in his favorite verboten habit of
buttering his saltines to the point of almost untouchable slickness. Even then,
as he gleefully prepped his crackers, he would occasionally turn around and
peek over his shoulder to make sure his kindly wife, Linda, wasn’t there to
give him a disapproving glance.
Though
cartoons, comics, and their creators were always at the heart of our meetings,
our discussions expanded over the years to include some of the most important
ponderings of my life. We talked at length about art and identity, marriage and
family (as we chatted about his, he helped me strategize the proposal that led
to my own!), history and democracy, justice and gender, learning and love, and
especially about our own equally intense distaste for limitless greed and systemic
hypocrisy. It turned out that Bob and I shared a frantic vigilance for free
speech and artistic expression. His great love of cartooning was fueled, in
part, by an urgent need to give voice to the contentious caricature, withering
satire, and dynamic dissent that tested and guaranteed a truly free public
forum. His best drawing, and writing about drawing, was always meant to
sharpen, fortify, and inform others about how great art could speak meaningfully
to a troubled world. As grimly aware and awake as our conversations could
sometimes become; however, we always wound up laughing, especially when
we were musing over the transformative power of a particularly evocative
editorial cartoon or caricature.
Bob’s
kindly nature, and his impish urge towards mockery, also provided me with an
essential restorative oasis from the daily grind of graduate program politics
and Midwestern provincialism. In exchange, I gave him an extra outlet for his
own artistic musings, fresh discoveries, and potential raves-in-progress. When
he slept on Murphy Anderson’s couch to finish his book, I was the first person
he met to share his findings when he returned to Champaign. Whenever he located
a forgotten cartoonist or managed to wrangle a treasured interview, we savored
the results in early, urgent form together. He often asked me productive
questions about my dissertation work on Orson Welles, and I often proofed and
poked at his lastest insights into classic and current cartoonists. Our mutual tastes were well matched and myriad,
and I treasure every single one of those conversations more fully every day. In
the nearly 20 years since they occurred, I have never known their equal.
Our
dynamic debates led, of course, to the sharing of not just research, but also
items and artifacts from our collections, and we indulged in many magnificent
hours together pouring over Bob’s absolutely unparalleled archives. Together,
we adored rare samplings of Fisher’s Mutt and Jeff, Caniff’s Canyon,
Parker’s Mopsy, Cho’s Liberty Meadows, and so very many more.
Once, when my miscreant meanderings unearthed a rare cache of hundreds of Chicago
American Sunday sections in the disused vault of a derelict Illinois chicken
farm turned flea market on rural Route 47, Bob strapped us into his sedan and
sped like the Green Hornet over the prairie for a return visit. I nabbed a few
obscure Alex Raymond features, Vargas pin-ups, and Dr. Seuss drawings, while
Bob scoured the horde of hundreds of sections – page by page – rapturously discovering
forgotten tidbits from John Held Jr., Lawson Wood, Vernon Grant, Nell Brinkley,
and many more. I gladly departed with an armful of treasures. Bob left dancing
and smiling with a full wheelbarrow of funny papers. We spent the rest of the
week binging on his findings and scrutinizing every cartoon, illustration, and
spot drawing. These were among the
happiest times we shared together.
One
of our later merry meetings would prove essential to comics history in ways
nobody could have anticipated. One morning, I was early to Carmon’s when Bob
came in buzzing with enthusiasm. He had just received an email from Scott
McCloud who was coming into town that day to guest lecture at the U of I Art
school. The event was not well advertised, but Bob had made a few inquiries and
earned us an invite if I wanted to come. Of course, I agreed and we planned to
meet at the Art and Architecture Department that evening.
On
my way to the presentation, I was stopped at a campus town light when I noticed
Damian Duffy at the corner. I had not seen Damian since our course had ended,
but his work had been far and away beyond any of his classmates in terms of
depth and thoughtfulness (I will never forget his sequential adaptation of
Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”!) Anyway, there I
was looking at him on the corner. I took a chance, pulled over, and invited him
along. He was glad to hop into my hand-me-down jalopy, and off we went. He and
I and Bob were each welcomed warmly by one of U of I’s newest Art and Design
professors, John Jennings, and we all enjoyed McCloud’s signature examination
of comics forms and voices to no end.
Afterwards,
John invited the lot of us to dinner at Biaggi’s, where Bob and Scott did their
usual mad dance around the question of “What is comics?” That was fun, and
possibly even important, but the meeting of John Jennings and Damian Duffy that
night has led to some of the most provocative comics on Earth. It is one of my
gladdest random encounters and none of it might have happened if Bob had not
been the tireless, persevering advocate for comics art, history, and theory
that he always was.
Years
later, the benefits of Bob’s friendship remain just as plentiful. Without
trusting Bob, I would never have gained the experience of a lifetime, editing
down the manuscript of Meanwhile for publication. Without his trusting my
condensing super-powers, he might not have finally faced completing the project
with the same unrelenting zeal. Without Bob, I may not have managed to find my
way to giving presentations on George Carlson, Carl Barks, and several others at
the Ohio State University’s Festival of Cartoon Arts, a landmark scholarly
event which has now evolved into the richly diversified Comics at the
Crossroads celebrations. Thanks to his encouragements, I presented, wrote, taught,
and published on comics for many years, and met many of the best friends and
fascinating colleagues I have ever known, including especially Jonathan
Alexandratos and Tracey Bealer, the Dynamic Duo of Denver’s once thriving Romococo/Page
23 Pop Culture Conference, whom Bob recommended so vehemently that I just had
to go there and see for myself.
Most
importantly, without Bob’s early encouragements, I know that Perfect
Nonsense and the full story of George Carlson’s incredible career and even
more inscrutable cartooning may not have been told. Bob Harvey himself was
crucial in determining the fate of the Carlson estate, which led me to another
kindred spirit and faultless friend, George Hagenauer, whose own writing and
advocacy for comics creators and their histories is legendary in its own right.
George and Bob not only helped to
facilitate the Carlson book, but also assisted in shepherding the bulk of
Carlson’s papers to the D.B. Dowd Modern Graphic
History Library at Washington University, where they continue to thrill
students and scholars alike. All of this, and so much more, comes from Bob’s
efforts, connections, and belief in what good people can do and say about each
other.
There
are so many more stories and joys that I could share about this outstanding man
and his creativity, generosity, and love for art and laughter. With IJOCA’s
permission, I would like to conclude by indulging in two more, one famously
funny, the other somewhat more somber.
Some
years ago, I found myself seated with Bob at an academic conference to remain
nameless. We were both presenting on our recent research, but at the moment we
were listening to a fairly intriguing but extremely theoretical presentation on
an obscure Italian Funny Animal comic strip by a young, earnest, and brilliant
Italian scholar. Before I continue the
tale, we need to remember two things about Bob. First, as many of his
associates knew, he was slightly hard of hearing, and tended to sit as close as
possible to presenters so that the microphone in his wickedly clever hearing
aid watch could register what they were saying. In close conversation also, Bob
was always edging just a little bit closer to you as he got more interested in
the topic, which I always enjoyed but others who were new to his scooting enthusiasm
were sometimes uncomfortably unaware that he was eager to hear more of what
they had to say. Anyways, that day, Bob
was right up front, and I was right there next to him.
The
other important detail is that Bob and I shared a healthy skepticism for
heavily jargonized cultural theory. Bob
was a firm believer in the democratic politics of clear, direct language,
though he - and obviously I also – could indulge in some fairly overblown
rhetorics once we really got going. In
most cases though, Bob believed in George Orwell’s admonition that an honest
writer will “never use a long word when a short one will do.” His “Rants and
Raves” may have been composed of many, many words – but almost all of them were
short, and his sentences, though sometimes serpentine, generally make direct sense.
But back to the presentation on the
Italian mouse comic, which was a veritable vocabular pyrotechnic display of
trendy buzz words, complex and confounding Cultural Studies concepts, and
daringly applied deconstructive theory. Usually, such stuff would send Bob
screaming from the intellectual buffet.
When
he and I had encountered such work in previous situations, he would sigh to
himself, switch off his hearing aid watch and get down to doodling in his
sketch book- usually crafting a fairly unflattering caricature of the speaker
and their pretentious pronouncements. This time, however, there was no such
action. Bob seemed engaged and interested in the young scholar’s unique
perspectives on cartooning and, despite the hefty tempest of French, Freudian, and
philosophical name dropping, I saw him set down his drawing book and turn his
microphone watch up rather than “off.”
With my special interest in anthropomorphic comics, I too was enjoying
the presentation, and I looked forward to the discussion afterwards as it
related to a fairly fun and sophisticated comic strip that was completely new
to us both.
When
the panel ended, and the applause died down, Bob’s hand shot up from the front
row as if he had joined the color guard. The moderator smiled and acknowledged
his question, to which Bob responded, “That was great. I had no idea about this
particular comic and I am not aware of the ideas you are associating with it
here. Thank you for this presentation. I have just one question. Are you serious?”
For
a moment, all speech, breath, and coronary function in the room ceased. The confused
foreign presenter, who was brilliant but struggled occasionally with the
meanings and purposes of American English cadences, teetered a bit like a tree
about fall with the last whack of the axe. There were a few nervous chuckles
somewhere in the distance, and then Bob repeated loudly: “Well? Really? Are
You Serious?” Anyone who ever knew Bob Harvey well recognizes this turn of
phrase as one of the finest compliments this brilliantly driven polymath could
offer. To truly understand the tone in which Bob intended his question, you
have to consider hearing the phrase in the context of watching your favorite
baseball team beat the Yankees in the bottom of nineth with a grand slam when
you are down by three. Or, perhaps your college aged child has just announced
that they are engaged to a supermodel who recently also earned the Nobel Prize
for Medicine? In so many ways, this
terrified speaker had managed to win the ultimate Bob Harvey lottery. He should
have recognized that Bob was filled with regard and gratitude for introducing
him to this new comic strip and its potential deconstructive values.
He
didn’t. Instead, he more or less plopped down in his chair and looked,
pathetically, at the moderator, who moved on discretely to the next
question. Bob turned and asked me what
happened, and I told him that time was short and that they had to move on. He
shrugged and said, “Huh, I guess I missed that. I turned my watch up too. That
was great!”
I
can say the story does have a happy ending. As it happened, Damian Duffy and I
wound up sharing a hotel shuttle with the baffled Italian during a lunch break.
We introduced ourselves as Bob’s friends, and for a moment, I think the poor
man feared we were sent to kill him. Instead,
we gave solace and sanctuary, explaining the true meaning of Bob’s question,
and that he would almost certainly love to chat with him over martinis later
that evening at the conference happy hour. The man was nervous and skeptical,
but he did join us, and over several chilled cocktails, Bob managed to smooth
out the nearly disastrous international Comics Studies crisis with his
infectious laughter and his irresistible witticisms. Bob even asked repeatedly
for a copy of the presentation so that he could study it more closely; again, a
sure sign that he was completely engaged by what he had heard. I am unsure if Bob ever actually received the
presentation, but I can gladly say that night Bob, Damian, myself, and several
other creators, critics, and associated miscreants build several substantial
bridges which still handle a great deal of Comics Studies traffic –a few still
offer regular service to Italian fumetti as well. I also recall that Bob and
the Italian were arm and arm singing (I think!) at one point in the hazy late hours
of the symposium.
My second and final memory is more truly
tragic, but also indicative of Bob Harvey’s multifaceted brilliance and
benevolence. As grim fate would have it,
years before “The Italian Job,” Bob and I were scheduled to meet at Carmon’s in
the early afternoon of September 11, 2001. That morning I had my first shocking
sight of the smoking Twin Towers on TV while waiting to drive Rosalie, my
future spouse, to work at the U of I Writing Center. The car radio gave us
worse and worse news as I made the brief circuit of campus to drop her off.
When I headed to downtown Champaign towards Carmon’s, the first tower fell. I got there a little early as usual, and a
small crowd of diners were riveted to the tiny Trinitron TV in the corner of
the café that was usually reserved for Cubs games. Like the rest of world, we
all sat stunned and hushed seeing what we could not believe. Bob came in about
20 minutes later, visibly shaken and just as disturbed as everyone else. I
remember I felt somewhat comforted that he had his usual leather satchel under
his arm as he scooted up beside me and turned to the television.
Eventually,
we talked a bit. Bob was proud veteran, an active and adamant journalist, and a
bit of a patriot when it came to his great regard for the freedoms and benefits
of the American way of life. Again, I
think he partially loved comics and cartoons because of their capacity to
parody people in power and creatively criticize hierarchies of privilege. He was a deeply socially conscious citizen
and he, like all of us who were witness to the 9/11 tragedy, was deeply
shaken.
That
morning, we spoke of many things, in more hushed and humbled voices than was
our habit. First, there were the
compulsive questions, the admonitions of disbelief, and the repeated statements
of sympathy and support for the victims, the responders, and New York City in
general. Bob loved New York, the center
of American editorial cartooning, comic strip culture, and of course,
mainstream comic books. He and I both
wondered out loud what this all might mean for those overlapping interests and
industries. Ever the National Cartoonists
Society member, Bob began to mention how some of his editorial cartoonist
friends had already begun email discussions of how best to deal with the
catastrophe that was less than 6 hours old.
He wondered aloud how different artists he knew might attempt to portray
the World Trade Center, the Statue of Liberty, and the city itself in the days
ahead.
I
admit that I was rivetted as he continued on, comparing the preferences and
potential choices that certain cartoonists might make once the world had some
inkling of what was actually at stake in the aftermath. He spoke compulsively but methodically
without interruption, citing several examples from iconic illustrators who had
dealt with similar disasters like Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima, the Hindenburg, and
the JFK and MLK assassinations. It dawned
on me that I was witness to an incredible intellect seeking context and
comparison from his unique knowledge, an encyclopedic familiarity that might
still stand as the single most comprehensive individual knowledge of editorial
cartooning on the planet. It was a moving, masterful display of intellectual
grief and I felt the incredible gravitas of every element of Bob’s
searching catalog of examples of acute, unyielding art arising to confront
unacceptable loss, sadness, and rage. Somehow, we ordered. Eventually, we ate,
but we continued to share ideas about what it all might mean for the creators,
journalists, and medias that we loved.
At
some point, our conversation turned to the much-anticipated Sam Raimi Spider-Man
adaptation set for release in a few months. The topic was not then as odd as it
may seem now. Of course, there would have to be serious considerations for the
9/11 attacks across the comics community, but especially at Marvel where most
of their iconic characters were situated in New York. At the same time, we both
knew – as a prominent comics journalist and a media graduate scholar – that
Raimi’s film was expected to include a climactic battle between Spider-Man and
the Green Goblin at top of the World Trade Center. Of course, every significant
publisher in comics did eventually develop meaningful specials, collections,
and memorials to focus on the many heroes and victims of the 9/11 terror
attacks. At Marvel, the sobering black cover of Amazing Spider-Man 36
would spark powerful debates about how fictional heroes must respond to actual
horrors. Also, the climax of Raimi’s film was indeed greatly altered and reshot
as a post-9/11 homage to the community solidarity of New York City responding
to the most terrible day in its history.
At the time, however, I admit that our Spider-Man talk might have been a
bit odd, as we both struggled to grasp the significance of what was unfolding
around the country that afternoon.
As
it turned out, at least one of Carmon’s customers found our speculations deeply
offensive. As we were talking – we had been there for some time out of shock,
uncertainty, and perhaps a mutual need to linger among friends in whom we could
truly confide – an elderly woman who had been seated with her friend nearby
arose and stood between us and the TV we had all turned our chairs to
view. She was visibly upset and spoke
directly and forcibly to Bob, scolding him for somehow trivializing these
terrible events with childish concerns and idiotic conversations about cartoons
and super-heroes. I understand and
sympathize with her misunderstanding and her apparent outage which mirrored
what millions were feeling across the nation, but I am sorry to say that she was
not at all polite or responsible in her excoriation of the two men whom she
perceived to be offensively ignorant of the need to take such news seriously.
She lashed out especially harshly at Bob, perhaps because he was a bit closer
to her age, and her lambast continued on for what felt like several
minutes. When she finished, she turned
away in disgust and indignation, and marched out of Carmon’s with her lunch
companion.
The
next several seconds were a blur. I remember thinking that I wanted to try to
explain our debates to her but that it was too late and probably a pointless
endeavor, but my main concern was a deeply protective urge to justify and
defend Bob Harvey’s incredibly unique and perceptive response to how comics and
cartoons would engage with the century defining realities of 9/11. I rushed to
try to assure or comfort him after hearing the screed that he must have found
deeply unnerving and undeserved.
As
I shook off my stunned state and looked up at him, I found him blithely
buttering his crackers. He smiled at me
a little, tapped at his hearing aid and said, “Who was that person? Was she
talking to me? This thing has been off kilter all day and I couldn’t hear a
word she said.” I admit that I almost
choked on my own laughter. On a day
where humor of any stripe was almost certainly at its national nadir, Bob
Harvey found a way to make me smile at the absolutely absurdity of our efforts
to communicate meaningfully about the darkest of realities. It took a little time, but I explained what
had so upset her, and though he seemed to sympathize a little with her
misunderstanding, he admitted, “Well, that’s kind of stupid. If she is so
upset, why was she listening to us in the first place?” Then he got us right
back into our debates about how the best comics of recovery might arise to
inspire, support, and soothe a wounded culture in the tough times ahead.
There
are so many more fond memories of my great days with Bob that I hope to share
with his many friends and colleagues as we all pay our respects for the
immeasurable good he brought into our lives, our arts, and our stories. For
now, though, I will rest my voice in honor of his. Thank you, Bob, for every
part of you that you shared so honestly and eagerly with me – and everyone else
whose lives you nurtured, narrated, and renewed. Your many legacies of love and laughter will
keep us all constant in our sequential adventures to come.
A version of this remembrance will appear in a future print issue of IJOCA.
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