Book Review - The Color of Paper: Representing Race in the Comics Medium by Chris Gavaler

 reviewed by Hélène Tison

Chris Gavaler. The Color of Paper: Representing Race in the Comics Medium. Ohio State University Press, 2026. https://ohiostatepress.org/books/titles/9780814216040.html

Chris Gavaler, a renowned comics scholar who has previously authored and co-authored several authoritative volumes of comics scholarship (such as The Comics Form: The Art of Sequenced Images in 2022; Creating Comics: A Writer’s and Illustrator’s Guide and Anthology in 2021; Superhero Comics in 2017) takes on the complex and fraught question of visual representations of race in graphic narratives: not only what formal elements are used to represent race, but how, combined with culturally constructed racial categories, they are interpreted by viewers.

The Color of Paper is technically detailed and precisely referenced; Gavaler offers a clear methodology, provides a very pedagogical presentation of elaborate concepts in order to determine “how a material image composed of ink on paper conveys the culturally constructed concept of a racial category,” (1) and how the white page relates to racial Whiteness. He explains in the Introduction: “I attend to the physical (or discursive) qualities of an image that produce representational (or diegetic) qualities as perceived by individual viewers, because how those formal processes contribute to larger racial constructions is not fully understood.” (5)

Gavaler combines his own very thorough formal analyses of a large number of comics, in color, grayscale or black and white, with data gathered through surveys in which viewers were asked to identify the race and ethnicity of comics characters. Gavaler acknowledges that the survey methodology is imperfect and considers the findings tentative; yet despite their shortcomings, they not only enable him (and his readers) to avoid generalizing from his (our) own perception, but they also do provide valuable input – and some unexpected results, at least for this reader: as an example, only 67% of initial respondents identified a childhood self-portrait of Ebony Flowers in Hot Comb as Black.

The volume, alternating theoretical demonstrations and the application of theory to concrete examples, is clearly structured in four parts. “Backgrounds” analyzes page whiteness, exploring the division between surface and mark, the structuring effects of the white page’s “negative spaces,” such as gutters, and the unmarked areas whose default color represents skin color. Part 2, “Languages,” looks at what it means to “read” an image – generally through a combination of symbolic reading and non-symbolic observation – and, keeping in mind that race is not reducible to appearance, what it means to read race in an image.

Based on this distinction and noting that there is currently no consensus concerning color analysis, the first chapter in Part 3 argues that non-realistic traditional coloring (CMYK) tends to encourage more symbolic reading than digital coloring, which appears more realistic. Gavaler then looks at black and white reprints of color comics, and at colored versions of initially black and white or grayscale comics, and at their reading by paired survey groups, to further determine the extent to which color contributes to denoting race.

Part 4, “Bodies,” opens up the discussion to include gender, and turns to the relation between visual representations of (fictional or non-fictional) characters in figurative art (including comics) and the world beyond, the world of the viewer; it proposes “a theory of visual representation based on viewer perceptions of authorial intent, while also revealing an inherent gap between perceptions of race and gender and the actual racial and gender identities of represented individuals.” (211) Finally, Gavaler discusses the ways in which the physical space of reading, the spatial, overlayed relations of viewer/ comics, and the positionalities of viewers and creators, complicate the White gaze and the assumptions of Whiteness that have been dominant throughout the historical span of the medium. 

Gavaler, who begins with a lucid discussion of what he describes as “the ambiguities of race as understood in the US,” or the “illogic of US racial thinking,” (8) does a sound, thorough and essential job, enabling his readers to make sense of our own readings of characters, putting clear and convincing words on perceptions that can otherwise remain imprecise. Inspired by such essential authors as Rebecca Wanzo and Qiana Whitted, and grounded in his impressive command of comics theory, he opts for a material, micro-level focus that is not only fruitful theoretically, but fascinating when, throughout the volume, he applies it to detailed analyses of a large number of extremely varied artists, from Herriman, Schulz, Sherald and Magritte to Eisner, Kirby, Miller, Heck, Grell, Hernandez, Abel, Bechdel, Passmore, Tomine, and Flowers, among many others.

This is an essential read for anyone interested in understanding the ways in which race is represented and perceived in comics, as well as for anyone keen on comics theory.

Graphic Novel Review: Champion by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

Reviewed by Brian Flota, Humanities Librarian (Professor), James Madison University

Champion, written by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Raymond Obstfeld and illustrated by Ed LaRoche. Ten Speed Graphic, 2025. ISBN 9780593835746. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/747045/champion-by-kareem-abdul-jabbar-and-raymond-obstfeld-illustrated-by-ed-laroche/ 

    Five days prior to writing the first draft of this review, I turned 50 years old. For most of that half-century, I’ve been a fan of the Los Angeles Lakers. This means I’ve long been familiar with the life and career of Hall of Fame center Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who was a key part of five championship teams during his tenure with the Lakers from 1975 to 1989. As a fellow record collector, I’ve always been touched by this anecdote. When his house burned down in 1983, one of the things he lost was a massive collection of treasured jazz music. In the aftermath of the fire, fans presented him with many of the records the jazz aficionado lost. This is but one testament to how beloved a public figure he is.

    This is but one relatively minor anecdote in a lifetime filled with serious political, cultural, and religious commitment off the basketball court. When he rose to fame as a basketball player at Power Memorial Academy in Manhattan as a high schooler, he was known as Lew Alcindor. During his three years as a starter at UCLA (1966-1969), during the reign of the legendary coach John Wooden, he led the team to three national championships and a record of 88-2. If one watches the first part of Ezra Edelman’s fantastic documentary O.J.: Made in America (2016), a stark contrast is marked between the UCLA center and his peer O.J. Simpson, then the star running back at crosstown rival USC. Simpson, also a young Black man, was a people-pleaser who sought fame and adulation while avoiding controversy (until 1994, that is). There is no way on Earth he would have attended the Cleveland Summit (as Edelman’s documentary makes clear). The event was organized by former NFL football player Jim Brown in June 1967. Eleven prominent Black athletes, including the 20-year-old Abdul-Jabbar, then still a college athlete, gathered to discuss the decision by heavyweight boxing champion Muhammad Ali to declare himself a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War, costing him his championship belt and income. The next year, Abdul-Jabbar took a big political stand himself, boycotting the 1968 Summer Olympics in protest of the long-standing racism against Blacks in the United States. These decisions could have affected his professional prospects. It was a risk he was willing to take, but he ultimately withstood any controversy these decisions generated. Three years later, after converting to Islam, he publicly changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. As a young man, he demonstrated he was unafraid to take controversial stances that he was committed to, and sincerely believed in.

    Champion, written by Abdul-Jabbar with his long-time collaborator Raymond Obstfeld, might come as a surprise to those that only know him as a basketball player. In fact, Abdul-Jabbar has authored or co-authored over a dozen books, ranging from autobiography and memoir to history. Over the last decade, he has branched out into fiction, writing a series of books focusing on Sherlock Holmes’ brother, Mycroft. This resulted in the publication of his first graphic novel, Mycroft Holmes and the Apocalypse Handbook (2017). Champion focuses on an elite high school basketball player named Monk who gets caught vandalizing a rival school’s mural with original art of his own. This act could have a deleterious effect on his NBA prospects. As a result of his actions, he is tasked with giving a presentation on Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s life off the basketball court, a presentation he must ace to escape punishment.

    Abdul-Jabbar, Obstfeld, and Laroche have put together a page-turner with a simple, but effective message: be a complete person with a variety of interests. While his imaginary case study of Monk focuses specifically on student-athletes, few of whom make it to the pros, and, when they do, aren’t pros for very long, the book’s core message of having multiple interests and skills is something any reader can benefit from. This isn’t just about “career prospects.” Throughout the narrative, Monk repeatedly states that he has only one goal: to become a professional basketball player. However, his instinctual knack for art, a talent he takes for granted, could provide a realistic alternative to his dream career. His teammates, coaches, and family work to convince him to take his art seriously, which he refuses to do for much of the narrative.

    Throughout the graphic novel, his peers and mentors have interests beyond sports, as shown by  “trading card” profiles of the characters. These cards provide information about their lives, their athletic accomplishments (when relevant), and life outside of sports. The first of these trading card profiles focuses on Anthony B. Bagwell, whose “position” is listed as “Security Guard” in a curved triangle on the card’s upper left-hand corner. This is the security guard who catches Monk in the act of vandalizing the team mascot’s mural at a rival high school. His card lists the following facts about him:

●             Ranks 3rd in security guards at Mountain Range Security.

●             Is on his 4th attempt at being a vegan (his record is 6 days).

●             Defeated in combat 3 times by wife, Ida, in Elden Ring.

●             Calls his 3-year-old son “Donut.” (2)

Another card gives us information about Monk’s “High School Basketball Coach” Jefferson V. Blaine:

●             Played center on Culver High School state championship team.

●             Played point guard on UCLA national championship team.

●             Has 4 “Best Dad in the World” mugs and 2 Teacher of the Year Awards. (9)

 

    As we can see in both examples, Laroche’s trading card profiles sidestep the traditional statistics and career highlight fare that make up the bulk of the text on the back of sports trading cards, giving equal importance to the personal aspects of their lives. Coach Blaine’s card reveals him to be flexible and adaptable. He went from center to point guard when he transitioned from high school to college basketball. After college, he became a father and a teacher, identities he is proud of. As the narrative progresses, we get other testimonials from Monk’s mother, Wanda, who was a point guard on UCLA’s women’s basketball team, and who is currently an ICU physician’s assistant, and his aunt Sissy, who once sang backup for Stevie Wonder and the Four Tops, recorded her own solo album in 1980, and is currently a record store owner where Monk works part-time (19). Throughout the story, Monk denies or tries to suppress his interest in things outside of basketball, including art, history, music, and social justice. Abdul-Jabbar and Obstfeld do a good job of keeping Monk’s internal tensuion unresolved for much of the book’s duration, which serves to make his story more engaging. 

     Abdul-Jabbar's graphic novel is a pedagogical tool to express some of the reasons he wants a character like Monk to know his story as well as the story of Black America. Kareem appears as a figment of Monk’s imagination as he’s working on his assigned project about the man. He points out the 135th Street YMCA in Harlem, where Kareem grew up. At first, during his youth, he saw it as a “crappy old building.” Then he learned “that Malcolm X, Claude McKay, George Washington Carver, Jackie Robinson, and Paul Robeson had all stayed or performed here” (32). On the next page, we get trading card profiles of each of these historical figures. He also highlights that inside the building is the famous Aaron Douglas mural “Evolution of Negro Dance.” Kareem says:

Looking at that mural back then, I instantly felt connected to the evolution it portrayed. Like them, I had started in the dark about who I was, being the person everyone expected me to be without really knowing who I wanted to be. Then, through the physical discipline of basketball and the mental discipline of reading, I had stepped out of the shadows into the bright sunlight of finding myself. (34)

       Through his research, Monk learns about the Harlem Riot of 1964, which began when an off-duty police officer shot a fifteen-year-old Black child, James Powell (59). Lastly, Monk learns about Kareem’s participation in the Cleveland Summit. These are three important parts of an aspect  of American history that have either been erased or relegated to margins in most mainstream, conventional, whitewashed histories of the twentieth century. Abdul-Jabbar, with his graphic novel specifically directed at a young adult audience, successfully fills in some of these gaps by effectively blending them with a relatable story.

    The weird thing about Champion is that the sections delving into the life of Abdul-Jabbar reads as self-hagiography (even if it may be a well-deserved self-hagiography). When Monk complains to his girlfriend Lark about having to write a report about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, she replies, “You mean the Kareem who …,” and then rattles off two entire pages of Abdul-Jabbar’s accomplishments on and off the basketball court (including his small but memorable role in the 1980 comedy Airplane!) (15). Throughout the narrative, even more Kareem facts are presented.

    Not surprisingly, Abdul-Jabbar and Obstfeld give us a graphic novel with a happy ending. Monk’s various interpersonal conflicts with Lark as well as his teachers, teammates, and family are resolved, and he gains a greater understanding of what it means to be a well-rounded young man. The narrative culminates with Monk and his community getting together to create a dazzling mural on the side of Aunt Sissy’s record shop titled “Evolution of a Champion,” which highlights eleven of Abdul-Jabbar’s accomplishments off the court. In this reviewer’s opinion, even if it does come off a bit strange and heavy-handed, as though Abdul-Jabbar is just patting himself on the back, there just aren’t too many people in this world who deserve that pat as much or as hard as he does!

     You do not have to know much about Abdul-Jabbar to like Champion. He, along with his collaborators, have put together a very accessible story. It has history, dramatic tension, life lessons, good advice, a bit of mystery, and even a little romance. To be commended is the artistry of Ed Laroche, whose illustrations are precise and stylistically varied. He brings Monk’s graffiti art to life in a style different from the one that dominates the rest of the narrative. This is not always an easy thing to pull off, but Laroche navigates between these styles seamlessly. Even if we do get plenty of “Kareem facts” in Champion, his story is clearly one worth telling, and he also wants you to know about his culture, his people, and all those who helped him become the man he is. Its breezy mixture of history, biography, and fiction makes recommending Champion a slam dunk.

Graphic Novel Review: Harlem by Mikaël

 

 reviewed by Matthew Teutsch, Associate Professor of English, Piedmont University

Mikaël. Harlem. New York: NBM Graphic Novels, 2024. https://nbmpub.com/products/harlem

 

French-Canadian artist Mikaël concludes his New York triptych with Harlem, a fictionalized narrative about Stephanie St. Clair, a woman from Guadalupe who became a businesswoman and racketeer in Harlem during the early part of the twentieth century and the Harlem Renaissance. The narrative moves back and forth in time, detailing St. Clair’s life in Guadalupe to 1930s Harlem. When depicting St. Clair’s early life and eventual immigration to the United States, Mikaël’s color palette changes from more browns and darker colors to shades of purple with splashes of yellow. The yellow, which appears in various objects during these flashbacks from a parakeet to a bag to a light in a window, displays St. Clair’s hope and the hope of others for a better life, one where they can live their lives in happiness and safety.    

While on the surface Harlem appears to be a crime narrative centered on St. Clair, Mikaël infuses his story with much more. Mikaël highlights the ways that St. Clair and others navigate, through extra-legal means, a system that keeps them oppressed and subjugated from the highest levels of city government to the police force that walks the streets to other racketeers, notably Dutch Schultz (a white man), who also participates in extra-legal activities. Along with all of this, the community must deal with the ramifications of the Great Depression on their lives. Even as she maintains a hard exterior, St. Clair looks out for the community, providing individuals with hope and resistance, specifically through the pieces that she writes in the New York Amsterdam News calling out systemic oppression.

Ostensibly, the white reporter Robert Bishop serves as the overarching narrator of Harlem, opening the narrative by telling us, “What I did was unforgivable. I know.” By framing the narrative through Bishop, Mikaël allows us an outside view of events. The reader does move into St. Clair’s perspective and the perspectives of others, but Bishop remains the core, and in this manner, he serves, in many ways, like the “white clientele” who flock to Harlem for the clubs and nightlife that Harlem’s residents are barred from entry. Bishop has a relationship with Tillie Douglas, one of St. Clair’s friends, and their interactions highlight the ways that white supremacy did not solely reside within the Jim Crow South or the once colonial regions of the Americas. 

Bishop’s connection to St. Clair arises after the editor of the New York Amsterdam News tells her she needs to revise a piece that she hopes to get published in the paper. St. Clair sees Bishop with Douglas and enlists him to help her revise the piece, which he does. In her article, St. Clair lays out what she and the community endure in the face of white supremacy. Over three pages, Mikaël prints St. Clair’s article interspersed with images of individuals getting kicked out of their homes, police brutality, and cultural tourism with whites descending on Harlem for clubs. The sequence ends with the reactions to her piece from Schultz, the police, and her right-hand-man Bumpy. Thematically, this three-page sequence sums up Harlem and the ways that St. Clair pushed back against a system that seeks to keep her and other locked in cages as they bloody their wings against the iron bars.

In “Sympathy,” Paul Laurence Dunbar uses the metaphor of a caged bird beating its wings until “its blood is red on the cruel bars” to describe his position as a Black man at the turn of the twentieth century in America. He concludes the poem with the famous line, “I know why the caged bird sings!” The caged bird metaphor appears throughout Harlem, from St. Clair releasing a bird from a cage in Model’s shop to numerous panels depicting birds flying as St. Clair and others walk the Harlem streets. Harlem concludes with St. Clair returning to the community as residents thank her for speaking in front of the commission and her actions, and the final two panels show birds flying freely in the sky. The first shows birds flying up into the air as we see buildings and a street sign for 125^th street. The final panel zooms out, showing the entire New York skyline with flocks of birds in the distance, symbolizing St. Clair’s and the residents’ desire to, as St. Clair tells W.E.B. Du Bois earlier, that she will not “shut [herself] between four walls.”  

If one reads Harlem quickly, one will miss many of the historical and cultural references that Mikaël incorporates throughout the book. For example, in a seven-panel sequence following a numbers runner, we see the marquee for Smalls Paradise, one of the only African-American owned clubs in Harlem at the time, and a panel depicting young kids marching with brooms and paper hats imitating the Harlem Hellfighters as a World War I veteran sits on the side. Mikaël also incorporates two poems by Langston Hughes, one at the end of each section. Hughes’ “Harlem” concludes section one, and Hughes’ repetition, in the first and third stanzas of referring to Harlem as “on the edge of hell” drives home what St. Clair fights against. Juxtaposed against “Harlem,” Mikaël ends the book with Hughes’ “I, Too,” where Hughes proclaims his equality and finishes by stating, “I, too, am America.”

Mikaël ‘s Harlem details the history of white supremacy in the United States, colonialism, sexism, and structural issues that impact Harlem and its citizens. It also highlights community and the ideals of America, specifically the immigrant experience and the ways that communities work together to confront oppression and move forward. Through Bishop, Mikaël explores allyship and the need for white individuals like Bishop to listen instead of speaking at times. Bishop gets St. Clair arrested, and as she leaves prison, we see Bishop’s words to her as he types them. He tells her when he envisions her in his mind he sees “[a] look of anger. The anger of an entire people,” and he concludes by telling her, “I only wanted to speak out about the world around me because I thought I had the right to.” Bishop’s words end, allowing St. Clair a voice for herself at the end, a voice that speaks for Harlem.     

 A version of this review will appear in IJOCA 27-2