Book Review: We Are Not Strangers by Josh Tuininga

reviewed by Shanna Hollich, retired librarian

Josh Tuininga. We Are Not Strangers: Based on a True Story. Abrams Comicarts, 2023. $24.99 (hardcover). ISBN: 978-1-4197-5994-9. https://www.abramsbooks.com/product/we-are-not-strangers_9781419759949/

Josh Tuininga’s We Are Not Strangers is not getting nearly as much hype as it deserves. Often billed as yet another “touching tale of friendship during World War II” (Kirkus), or a “slice of Seattle history” (Seattle Times), this historical graphic novel delivers much more than a trite tale of being nice to your neighbors, even (perhaps especially) during times of great turmoil.

The story itself is a relatively simple one, and though it is based on a true story from Tuininga’s own family lore, this work is first and foremost one of historical fiction. The tale follows Marco, a Sephardic Jewish immigrant in the Seattle area, as he witnesses the impact of American policies towards Japanese Americans and Japanese immigrants during World War II. In his own quiet way, he works tirelessly to do what he can to help his friend Sam Akiyama, who is about to lose his family home and business. In this way, it is a familiar story of discrimination and its ripple effects throughout an entire community.

What makes this story unique, however, is the meticulous care and attention to detail that Tuininga has demonstrated throughout. The book begins with a foreword from Ken Mochizuki that gives some initial historical context and ends with an extensive Notes and Sources section that includes hand-drawn historical maps of Seattle, detailed descriptions of historical landmarks featured throughout the story, actual newspaper headlines from the time, and a glossary of terms. One of the most satisfying reader experiences I have ever had involved looking through the list and drawings of historical landmarks from the Notes and Sources section and then going back through the actual graphic novel to find where those same landmarks are drawn into the story, often only in backgrounds or scene settings.

This attention to detail in the artwork is perhaps the most satisfying piece of the entire book. One could pore over the pictures on these pages for hours and still find new details to admire. The art is realistic without crossing into the uncanny valley, a perfect dividing line between feeling real enough to drive powerful points home, but still being cartoony enough to allow the reader some degree of self-preserving psychic separation. The chapters tend to jump back and forth between the present and the past, and while this sort of narrative device can sometimes be confusing for readers, the detailed artistic settings and color schemes make it easy for readers to keep their place and bridge the gap between time periods. We can expect no less from Tuininga, who has a solid background in art and design.

This is truly a book for all ages, which makes it a valuable addition to any library (public, school, or personal). Younger children will appreciate looking at the artwork and having a simple understanding of the basic story, while older teens and adults will be able to delve in to more of the nuance and history that lies beneath. An afterword by Devin E. Naar, Professor in Sephardic Studies, sheds light on a particularly interesting and understated aspect of the story: the fact that Marco, while attempting to help fight discrimination against a marginalized community (Japanese immigrants), is himself a member of a marginalized community (a Sephardic Jew and speaker of Ladino). The cross-cultural solidarity on display here is both remarkable in that we see it so rarely in stories like this, but also in that it is not over-dramatized or used purely as a selling point. There are thankfully no “white saviors” here; even Marco provides his help quietly and mostly in the background, never seeking spotlights or accolades, just quietly doing what is right.

Abrams typically delivers a nice physical artifact with its books, and this one is no exception; make sure to remove the dust jacket in order to fully appreciate the illustrative details on the actual hardcover and both front and back endpapers. This book is a welcome addition to a pantheon of graphic novels that portray the experiences of marginalized folks, immigrants, and the history of America during World War II. Don’t sleep on this one.

 A version of this review will appear in the print edition of IJOCA.

Book review: Washington’s Gay General: The Legends and Loves of Baron von Steuben.

reviewed by Cord Scott

Trujillo, Josh and Levi Hastings.  Washington’s Gay General: The Legends and Loves of Baron von Steuben. New York: Abram’s Surely Press, 2023. $24.99 ISBN 978-1-4197-4372-6. https://www.abramsbooks.com/product/washingtons-gay-general_9781419743726/

 In today’s politically charged cultural atmosphere, the argument that history is often written to fit social events of the day is one that resonates.  Permeating aspects of current society across the board, many Americans are uneasy with thinking of national heroes having what they perceive as less than desirable traits. This sort of argument could, and most likely will, be made by anyone trying to ban this book from libraries.  However, Steuben’s life is a great example of how complicated the stories of the Founding Fathers truly are.

The graphic novel centers on Trujillo, the writer, finding out about Friedrich von Steuben, a Prussian soldier who was brought to the American colonies to help train George Washington’s forces.  Von Steuben was instrumental in creating a training regime for the colonial army, was the first Inspector General of the US Army, and created the “Blue Book” a training manual that still has relevance to the modern US military. Trujillo was drawn to von Steuben as an openly gay man in a time of history when it was literally a crime.  While his affectations were widely known, there are few firm pieces of direct evidence, as many personal references or thoughts on homosexuality would be destroyed (p. 15). Narratively interesting is that Trujillo readily identified his own shortcomings in terms of scholarship, interest in history, or proximity to the actual areas where von Steuben lived. But this is something that historians often must face: how does one make a story complete, warts and all?  To that end, the result was commendable.

Friedrich von Steuben was born in Prussia in 1730 and had wanted to pursue a military career.  He was a shy child, and not above exaggerating stories or his own feats to get ahead in life.  As Trujillo wrote (p. 24) von Steuben often embellished stories to attain promotion or higher status.  He felt that he deserved such things as he was professionally that good, but this was a lifelong trait.  Von Steuben came to adulthood at a time when the Prussian military was used as the model for training, discipline, and strength in battle.  King Frederick I (Frederick the Great) of Prussia often outfitted his soldiers in smart-looking uniforms and had requirements for height.  Trujillo argues that Frederick was also gay, and so the “Prussian Giants” (p. 73) appearance may have been for his own proclivities as well as that of military prowess.

He had made close connections with Frederick, Frederick’s brother Prince Henry, and Claude-Louis, Comte de Saint-Germaine, a noted mercenary general from that era.  While von Steuben was known for his dalliances with men, it had never been overly dangerous as his military standing shielded him to an extent. Following the Seven Years’ War in Europe (known as the French and Indian War in America), von Steuben was virtually destitute, and living on the kindness of others.  Due to military cutbacks, the costs of war, and his own indebtedness, von Steuben had constant worry about money.  However, his reputation as a rake was becoming more of a liability and that is when he was introduced to Benjamin Franklin.  The reputation of both men for preferring younger lovers was well known, in Trujillo’s narrative.

Hired by Franklin, Von Steuben was part of a foreign contingent of military officers who rallied to the American cause. Trujillo noted that the stories of von Steuben appearing at Valley Forge in a flamboyant uniform were not true, although he did often have uniforms that were made to impress his importance.  His aides who were often very young (in their teens and early twenties while von Steuben at this point was in his fifties). These aides helped with the problems with his lack of English. When training soldiers, he was having to rely on one or two languages as well as interpreters which made immediate training corrections a bit strained, but his men liked him for the care he took of them.

Where Trujillo comes into some minor historical issue is with descriptions.  He notes that von Steuben was considered an outsider as he only spoke German.  This may not have been the issue it appears as German was under consideration for the official language of the colonies.  Second, the commentary on Benedict Arnold was awkward.  Arnold is correctly considered a traitor, but he was never seen as inept, as Trujillo described him.  Arnold was a tested commander who is recognized at both Saratoga and West Point New York for his importance. He, like von Steuben, felt he was deserving of far more than he had received.  In Arnold’s case, it led to his betrayal of the colonial army.

The later part of the book describes von Steuben’s struggle to be recognized, and more importantly paid, for his contributions following the American victory.  As with anyone had kept personal aspects of his life from the public eye (and history), the book ventures into the realm of speculation.  However, Trujillo acknowledges that it is hard to be accurate when facts are unknown.  A strength of the story also lies in the creator’s relating it to modern hardships of those in the LGBTQIA+ community.  The story also doesn’t shy away from von Steuben’s faults, from excessive drinking and vanity, to his ownership of slaves, to the complicity of treatment towards minorities in America.  People often approach historical figures as perfect people, and either have issues with, or outright deny, any wrongdoing.  This is dangerous as it sets a false narrative, and the authors avoided it here.

The issue of homosexuality in the American military is still a confusing one.  On one hand, the modern military often tries to emulate the warrior ethos of the ancient Spartans of Greece, with motivational t-shirts such as “Molon Labe” (Come and Take them – them being weapons).  However, the Spartans also fought with their male lovers, which runs in opposition of mainstream America’s concept of Greek society. It may be worth noting that Abrams did not publish this under their ComicArts imprint.

This book can create an interest in history, biography, or the American Revolution, and be a good starting point for future reading.  As in other Revolutionary War comics (Rebels from Vertigo and U.S. the graphic novel come to mind), it is a bit muted in colors, as though the past was a less vivid place. There may be some issues marketing it towards teens, beyond the obvious one, as there are a couple of swear words.  There is no gratuitous nudity, which does not detract from the story, but some will no doubt still find it offensive, in the way they might object to Maus.  Any historical-based book should have a bibliography for reference, and it would benefit this book as well.  These are minor issues.  In all, it is a good starting point into the lives of the “Founding Fathers,” glaring issues and all. 

 

Goodbye, Bob (and thanks for all your words about pictures!): A Far Too Brief Appreciation of the Life and Times of Robert C. Harvey, Comics’ Premiere Pundit

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.

Book Review: Empire of the Superheroes: America’s Comic Book Creators and the Making of a Billion-Dollar Industry by Mark Cotta Vaz

Empire of the Superheroes: America’s Comic Book Creators and the Making of a Billion-Dollar Industry by Mark Cotta Vaz. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2021. https://utpress.utexas.edu/books/vaz-empire-of-the-superheroes

reviewed by Charles W. Henebry, Boston University

Ever since the debut of Superman in Action Comics #1, American superhero comic books have celebrated individual heroism—the bravery of the stalwart few who challenge the power of gangsters and tyrants. Yet for decades, even as publishers grew fat off the popularity of these heroes, individual creators almost all got a raw deal from the industry: paid by the page with no promise of royalties or pension, cheated out of their intellectual property, ground down by an evil corporate empire with no avenging hero in sight.

This, anyway, is the story told by fans about the travails of Jerry Siegel, Joe Shuster, Joe Simon, Jack Kirby, and other comics luminaries. It has the advantage of moral clarity, mirroring that of the comics themselves. The full story is more complicated. Comic book publishers considerably cleaned up their business practices in the course of rising from the margins of pulp publishing to become the crown jewels of media multinationals. Corporate ownership of characters helped to ensure their continued vitality, as comic-book readers grew up to be comics creators and movie producers. Distribution shifted from newsstands to direct sale stores, and eventually online. Paradoxically, comics became a niche product pitched to an older audience even as they lost their disreputable aura—and even as superheroes came to dominate popular culture. Finally, decades of legal wrangling provided redress to some early comics creators—though by no means all of them.

Such is the saga spun by Mark Cotta Vaz in Empire of the Superheroes, a 400+ page tome from the University of Texas press. It’s a big story, even for such a long book, and Vaz covers the court cases in far greater detail than any of the other angles. At the urging of lawyer and comics collector Mark Zaid, Vaz plumbed the depths of the National Archives, reading through depositions and testimony from suits brought by Siegel, Simon, Kirby, and other creators against their former employers, as well the DC vs. Fawcett case regarding Captain Marvel’s infringement of Superman’s copyright. A prolific writer on pop culture—21 titles on topics ranging from King Kong to Batman—Vaz does an impressive job breathing life into stolid legal discourse. What’s more, he supplements archival research by interviewing comics creators, store owners, and collectors, as well as by drawing anecdotes and insights from fanzines, websites, and popular-press books.

In a world where comics scholarship is now plentiful, Vaz might have focused his project more narrowly. He quotes from David Hajdu (Ten Cent Plague, 2008), Gerard Jones (Men of Tomorrow, 2004) and Sean Howe (Marvel Comics: The Untold Story, 2012). But he doesn’t reference these prior scholars as points of contrast in defining what his book adds to our understanding of the American comic book industry and its fan culture. Perhaps he worried that a book focused solely on the impact of copyright law on comics wouldn’t sell. Or perhaps his experience writing on popular culture for non-academic presses biased him in favor of narrative over analysis. Speaking as a reader who already knows the broad outlines of the story of American superhero comics, I’d prefer that Vaz had set that well-worn plot aside in favor of a novel thesis claim.

Vaz chose to structure Empire of the Superheroes as a page-turner, ending each chapter on a cliffhanger. This significantly undermines the book’s value to students and scholars looking for insight into a particular topic, since it spreads subplots over multiple chapters, interspersing them with episodes from other, unrelated stories. For example, the title of Chapter 16, "Resurrection and Renewal" signals that it will discuss the resurgence of superhero comics in the Silver Age, but in fact the chapter begins partway through that narrative, with the "Marvel Age." Only those who turn back to the final pages of the prior chapter,"Crackdown and Crash," will learn how DC triggered the superhero resurgence in the years before The Fantastic Four’s debut issue. Even those who read the book cover-to-cover will find the Table of Contents an unreliable guide when trying to flip back to a half-remembered episode. DC’s copyright battle with Fawcett over Captain Marvel winds up spread over no fewer than five chapters, two of which bear titles wholly unrelated to the case.

The book’s scholarly mission is also hindered by its sourcing. Endnote references are scarce in places, sometimes reduced to a single endnote near the end of a long, multipage passage. Readers curious to follow up on a striking claim or interesting detail must search about for a superscript numeral—and may well worry that a reference found two pages later will turn out irrelevant. In addition, Vaz is sometimes remiss in explaining what qualifies his interview subjects as authorities on a given topic. Michael Uslan, introduced to the reader as a fan who as a teenager attended one of the first comics conventions in the mid-1960s (p.2), is later quoted regarding how Bill Finger felt about his treatment by Bob Kane and DC (p.61). Is this account mere fan gossip? We learn much later that Uslan interviewed comics professionals while writing for a fanzine, worked for a time at DC, taught a course in comics history at Indiana University (all p.269), and eventually played a key role in bringing Batman to the big screen in the mid-1980s (p.347). Which aspect of this rich life experience was Uslan drawing on in speaking about Finger? Vaz doesn’t say.

Some minor issues point to the need for better editing at university presses. The most glaring is the misspelling of Trina Robbins’ name as “Trini,” likely an authorial error that should have been caught by the editor. Others were introduced during the layout process, as for example the first endnote to Chapter 10, which reads “Ibid.” not in reference to the preceding note listed at the back of the book, but instead to the source quoted in the Chapter 10 epigraph, 300 pages earlier.

Despite these shortcomings, Empire of the Superheroes draws back the curtain to provide an insider perspective on the American superhero comic-book business. The book offers less insight into recent developments, such as the emergence of specialty comic-book stores and the rise of the Independents. Yet anyone interested in the industry’s early decades will appreciate Vaz’s work in the archives, digging through records from legal disputes for insight into that era’s often shady business practices.

 A version of this review should appear in print in IJOCA 23:2.

An Obituary & Remembrance of Manga Historian Shimizu Isao

Shimizu Isao,  2015 Japan Cultural Affairs Agency Award winner

by Ronald Stewart 

Shimizu Isao, a giant in manga studies scholarship (and founding International Editorial Board member for IJOCA) left us on March 2, 2021 at age 81, after a battle with prostate cancer. Shimizu was astonishingly prolific. Over a period of roughly fifty-years from when he began to publish on manga history, he penned and/or edited in excess of 100 books, but this was just part of his legacy.

Born in Tokyo in 1939, Shimizu had toyed with the idea of becoming a cartoonist or animator after graduating university, but found himself instead doing editing work between 1963 and 1984 for publishers in the heart of Tokyo’s Jimbochō secondhand book district. His growing interest in satirical prints and cartoons, particularly those of the Edo (1600-1868) and Meiji (1868-1912) periods, as well as comics history in general, led to him haunt those used bookstores. He managed to amass a huge collection of historical comic art cheaply, at a time when there was very little interest in this material. His home overflowing with a collection that swelled to over two million items (magazines, clippings, books and prints) and became the Japanese Manga Archives (Nihon Manga Shiryō-kan). This collection not only enabled Shimizu to research, exhibit and publish using this material, but he also allowed other historians, museums and students access for their research.

The caricature used on his name cards and website

 

 

 

 

 

Public institutions had long ignored this kind of material as ephemera of little value. However, as Shimizu’s writing, talks and exhibitions began to draw attention to pre-war manga history, his collection and his expertise became sought after by more and more museums, galleries, libraries, universities, and the media, and became integral to a number of major exhibitions in Japan. These include, his early “Meiji Manga” exhibition at Machida City Museum in 1978, “300 Years of Japanese Manga” at Kawasaki City Museum in 1996, “Images of Meiji – The World of French Artist George Bigot in Japan” at Itami City Art Museum in 2002, and the “Grand Manga History: Tracing back to Edo” at Kyoto International Manga Museum in 2015. At the time of his death, the large “Giga – Manga” exhibition that he supervised – consisting of comic art from Edo satirical prints, called giga, to early popular comics of the 1930s - is touring a number of public and private museums throughout the country. He had also been involved in exhibitions and manga related events in France, Germany, Spain and Italy.

Giga Manga exhibition catalogue 2020-2021

After Shimizu quit his editing work around 1984 to concentrate full time on researching and writing on satirical cartoons and manga history, he was employed as a research associate at Kawasaki City Museum for nearly two decades. In 2006, he became an advisor to the Kyoto International Manga which acquired a large portion of his collection. The “Shimizu Collection” there forms the core of the museum’s pre-war historical holdings. At both of these institutions, Shimizu helped foster a number of young curators and researchers active at various institutions today. At Teikyo Heisei University, where Shimizu worked as a professor for over a decade, more than a few students had an interest in satirical cartoons and manga history kindled by his lectures.

1995 Poster for a public lecture

Shimizu was also involved with the creation in 2001 of the Japan Society for the Study of Cartoons and Comics (Nihon Manga Gakkai) and was a member of its inaugural board of directors. This remains the only national society for this field of study in Japan. However, Shimizu no doubt felt slightly marginalized, for the vast majority of the society’s more than 350 members are interested first and foremost in post-war and modern narrative comics expression (rather than Shimizu’s first love of satirical cartoons and pre-war comics history). Moreover, for the limited number of younger scholars who now actively research early manga history, Shimizu’s long view perspective on this history - a perspective built upon earlier manga histories which connects comics to a centuries-old humorous art tradition - had become the subject of criticism. Nevertheless, while Shimizu’s books are primarily aimed at a general audience, many of them are, and will remain for many years to come, essential reading for any scholar of manga. In Yoshimura Kazuma and Jaqueline Berndt’s 2020 book Manga Studies, which introduces thirty foundational books in the field to Japanese readers, Shimizu’s 1991 classic Manga History (Manga no Rekishi), is at the top of the list as a “first step into Japanese manga history research.”

Bigot Sketch Collection 1 - Manners and Customs of Meiji 

Shimizu’s earliest books were two self-published cartoon collections in the early 1970s. The first grew out of his fascination with French artist Georges Ferdinand Bigot who produced satirical cartoon magazines while living in Japan at the end of the nineteenth-century. The other book was a rare collection of wartime political cartoons. These two interests, Georges Bigot and wartime cartoons, along with Edo period humorous prints, Meiji period satirical magazine cartoons and cartoonists, manga pioneer Okamoto Ippei, early postwar comics, and newspaper comic strips, were themes he would revisit throughout his career, revealing surprising new discoveries each time. Shimizu wrote or edited eighteen

Manga Shonen and Akahon Manga

publications on Bigot, many of which have been reprinted multiple times; his 1992 book Bigot’s Japanese Sketch Collection (Bigōt Nihon sobyō-shū) has gone through an incredible thirty-one printings. Among his other publications that are highly regarded are his 1989 book on the early postwar magazine ‘Manga Shōnen’ and akahon manga books, his 1997 book on Hasegawa Machiko’s Sasae-san comic strip, and his 2008 book on the pioneering story manga artist Yokoi Fukujirō. For scholars of manga history, his chronologies of manga publications, manga dictionary, and his reprints early satirical magazines, in particular his 1986 series Manga Magazine Museum (Manga zasshi hakubutsukan), are indispensable references. His self-published journal Satirical Cartoon Research (Fūshi-ga kenkyū), 48 issues between 1992 to 2005, is an important resource for scholars of political cartoons.

Shimizu’s efforts to preserve, record and bring manga’s early history to a broad audience earned him the 1986 “Special Jury Award” from the Japanese Cartoonists Association and in 2015 a “Special Achievement Award” from the Japan Agency for Cultural Affairs. It is no exaggeration to say Shimizu’s achievement in making material available through his collection, exhibitions and publications has made it possible for a new generation to conduct pre-war manga history research today.

Pages from Fushiga Kenkyu journal showing research on Shonen Puck

My own research on early manga history was sparked by Shimizu’s publications on Meiji satirical cartoons, written in highly readable jargon-free prose. I had the good fortune to meet him a number of times over the years beginning in 1995 when I attended one of his public lectures. He acted as chair in 2002 for my first academic paper in Japanese on Frank A Nankivell and his student, Japan’s first career mangaka Kitazawa Rakuten (for more details, see Fusami Ogi’s interview with Shimizu in IJOCA 5(2) 2003). The last time we met was at another talk public talk in 2018 on Rakuten. As always, I was amazed by his encyclopedic knowledge of not just Japanese, but also foreign cartoon history (He could be described in Japanese as an ikijibiki or a ‘living dictionary’). His curiosity was also insatiable, and his eyes would sparkle whenever he a conversation turned to manga and cartoon history research. While my own take on the history of manga development has come to diverge from his over the years, his work continues to be important for me. On the bookshelves of my study, I keep over fifty of his books close at hand as a constant source of information and inspiration. I, like many others, felt his ever-inquisitive mind would continue to provide us with more research, discoveries and exhibitions. Rest in peace Shimizu-sensei, and thank you. 

Some of Shimizu Isao's many books on my bookshelves

A version of this will appear in print in IJOCA 23-1.