Ian Gordon remembers David Kunzle

David Kunzle  (April 17, 1936 – January 1, 2024) 

by Ian Gordon

 

Vale David Kunzle. I received the news from Roger Sabin when I was in London in early January. As it happened I was at Cambridge, his undergraduate university, the day before I heard and on my return to London walked pass his doctoral home at the Courtauld Institute of Art. 

 

David was a formative influence on my work. Like many comics fans at the time I first encountered David through his 1974 introduction to and translation of Ariel Dorfman and Armand Mattelart’s How to Read Donald Duck. The red-hot prose of that work is best understood as a visceral reaction to the vicious Pinochet regime and the comics analyzed had been altered by the Chilean publishers who were not sympathetic to the Allende socialist government. But my engagement with David’s work only came later. In 1989 I decided to do my doctoral dissertation on comic strips. In that same year the University of California Press announced the forthcoming publication of the second volume of his The History of the Comic Strip and I sought a venue to review it since at $110 it was beyond my graduate student budget. Michael Kazin at Tikkun, who I had met at the Smithsonian, said no, but suggested the American Quarterly. At first Charles Bassett, then the book review editor, said no but after he received a volume from the University Press of Mississippi, Joseph (Rusty) Witek’s Comic Books as History: The Narrative Art of Jack Jackson, Art Spiegelman, and Harvey Pekar, he said yes provided I did a combined review. Somewhat miffed that this fellow Witek had used a version of the title I wanted for my dissertation I said yes. In preparation while waiting for Volume 2, which only came out in mid 1990, I studied Volume 1 closely after previously only having given it a cursory read. I remember this well because I was traveling home to Australia and borrowed a copy from the University of Sydney library and read about a third, lugging it between Sydney and Melbourne and back again. Returning to the USA I spent a week or so in Los Angeles at my grad school friend Charles Shindo’s family home and he borrowed a copy from his alma mater, USC, and I may have even read some of it on the beach. Finally, back in Washington, DC I finished Volume 1 at the Library of Congress and moved to Volume 2 that I had by then received. The review duly appeared in American Quarterly.[1] After completing the review essay I begun the research for my dissertation. In many ways my approach to studying comics was shaped through this review essay. I wanted to use Kunzle’s methods to study American comics and was too sharp with Rusty’s work for not doing quite what I wanted it to do. Stressing the merits of Kunzle I neglected the merits of Witek, something that I later addressed.[2] 

 

Of Kunzle’s work I had this to say in the American Quarterly: 

 

Kunzle's first volume History of the Comic Strip: Vol. 1, The Early Comic Strip, published in 1973, contained an account of the crucial transformation in graphic narrative in late eighteenth century England; "the stylistic revolution in popular graphic art known as caricature" (Kunzie, Berkeley, 1973, 1). Kunzie demonstrated that before Hogarth introduced a comic element in graphic narrative during the eighteenth century, it was primarily concerned with religious, moral, and political themes of a didactic or propagandistic nature. The narrative in Hogarth's panels was also easier to follow than in earlier, more static, graphic narrative. But Hogarth was no caricaturist. Nor did he use speech balloons, contrary to the view held by many comic art historians.' Caricature, a method of capturing a person's essential character by the exaggeration of features in a loose line drawing, entered the public realm of European art late in the eighteenth century. It lent itself to political commentary and to a new style of narrative fiction: the comic strip. Rodolphe Topffer (1799-1846) undertook the first sustained work in the new medium of the comic strip, and History of the Comic Strip: Vol. 2, The Nineteenth Century opens with a discussion of his work.  

 

Kunzie argues that Topffer and those who followed him, most notably Cham (Charles-Henri-Amedee de Noe), Leonce Petit, Adolphe Willette, and Wilhelm Busch, effected a profound change in graphic narrative. They produced comic strips that aimed to entertain. The works presented not the facile comic strip offerings one so often encounters in the late twentieth century, but extended tales, gathered in albums, that addressed the emerging bourgeois order of Europe. For instance, between 1830 and 1846, Topffer lampooned the pretensions of the petite bourgeoisie on the make, parodied scientific research, and in his final work, derided would-be revolutionists. To tell these stories, Topffer and the others developed new graphic narrative techniques. These included dried pen etching and stunning montage sequences in which the images cut back and forth between protagonists, or ranged over movement through time and space. Kunzle's detailed account of the European development of the comic strip is relevant to an American Studies audience because despite the unique and "specifically American humorous tradition" displayed in early American comic strips (5), their form, and indeed their content, owed much to the earlier European work.  (242-243).  

 

And, “David Kunzle's History sets a standard for discussion and analysis of the comic art form. He not only recounts the technical and stylistic development of the form but sets it within the cultural matrix of nineteenth century Europe." (246)

 

For good measure I should note that I saw Rusty’s work positing something that indeed happened and he was ahead of the curve in seeing that possibility and explaining the way it took shape, “Witek's book raises the possibility that comic books may transcend their formulaic nature and produce a new literary medium." (246)

 

Having finished his second volume David seemed to balk at doing the third volume that he had originally intended. In May 1992 he wrote to the art historian Rebecca Zurier had received a Swann Foundation fellowship for her work on the Ashcan School. He proposed a collaboration on a third volume that would run from 1896 to Krazy Kat stopping short of the adventure strips of the 1930s. Given her path to tenure as an art historian had been mapped out for her in discussions with her Department Zurier could not take up Kunzle’s offer, and she directed him to me. In 1992 just as I was wrapping up my dissertation, I received a letter from Kunzle (see below). Busy with meeting the demand from the graduate Dean of my university that all 200 figures appear in portrait form with full captions, rather than a mix of portrait and landscape, and then with defending the dissertation I did not reply until October. To say I was flattered was an understatement. I was flabbergasted that Kunzle had contacted me and proposed such a collaboration. I of course said yes. So where is that third volume? I said yes conditionally since I wanted to get some publications out before turning to that collaboration. I also hoped to stay in America and was able to do so through some employment at the Smithsonian allowed as gaining work experience under my F1 visa. David replied and we agreed to meet in Los Angeles in 1993 to discuss the volume. I sent him my dissertation.  

 

In 1993 he graciously collected me at the LA train station and we and his wife Marjoyre had dinner at their UCLA house. I remember the dinner because at one point David excused himself and returned with a rapier and told me about his performance with an Elizabethan troupe. I was unsure if I should engage him with the fork I was using to eat pasta. I am not sure if it was that evening, or perhaps in a letter that I no longer have, that David responded to my dissertation with the comment “was it as bad as that” meaning the mass commodification of comic art in the American comic strip. I now wonder if perhaps he was also asking me to think a little more about comic art that had not been so drastically commodified and perhaps expand my vision from the very real role comics played in shaping consumer culture.  

 

By this stage though I had decided to return to Australia since long term work was not presenting itself in America. I am not sure exactly what David and I decided on the proposed collaboration or indeed if we decided anything. Perhaps it disappeared as other priorities and the passage of time took us further away from the project. From a letter from Martin Barker sometime in mid to late 1993 I do know that David had been speaking with him to about the project. But as Martin suggested I think David was not as engaged with Volume 3 as he had other work he wanted to do.

In the last ten years or so other scholars have filled some of the gaps left by the absence of a third volume. Beyond my own initial attempts to place comics in a broader development of twentieth century American culture Christina Meyer’s Producing Mass Entertainment, Lara Saguisag’s Incorrigibles and Innocents, and Alex Beringer’s Lost Literacies are all invaluable works that should be read in the absence of that volume. One can hope for many more works like these to plug the gaps. 

 

Many non-academic readers with an interest in understanding the history of comics have appreciated Kunzle’s work. But that was not always the case. For instance, when I visited Bill Blackbeard in 1991 he dismissed David’s work as simply reproducing every early image he could find and not worth attention. His influence on others was perhaps pernicious since Bob Beerbohm, now very much a fan of the work, told me he had been put off by Blackbeard’s comments. I can only surmise that Blackbeard’s view was colored by a desire to claim comic strips as a uniquely American form and David’s work demonstrating long antecedents of commercial graphic work (and not fanciful connections like hieroglyphics) upset that apple cart. On the scholarly front David was aware of Donald Ault and I do wonder if they discussed Disney. 

 

David Kunzle encouraged my work especially in the early years when I was trying to make a career. Other scholars like the Australian historian Richard Scully and the British historian Patrick Hagopian, to whom David sent photo documentation of his anti-Vietnam war posters, have mentioned David’s kindness. I was very happy to meet David again in 2017 at a conference in the UK. By then he had returned to the study of comics at a time when more and more scholars had turned their attention to both comics and David’s work. The following year at the International Graphic Novels and Comics conference in Bournemouth I was able to thank him publicly during my keynote address for his help, encouragement, and exemplary scholarship. His gracious nod in thanks was as wonderful as the first letter I received from him. We have lost a scholar of enormous importance.  

 

 

David Kunzle has received obituaries at the following sites: 

 

https://www.dailycartoonist.com/index.php/2024/01/09/david-kunzle-rip/ 

 

https://www.tcj.com/david-kunzle-1936-2024/ 

 

https://www.politicalgraphics.org/post/david-kunzle-presente-poster-of-the-week 

 

https://newsroom.ucla.edu/stories/in-memoriam-david-kunzle-art-and-comics-scholar 

 

And a fine memory from Charles Hatfield: https://www.tcj.com/remembering-david-kunzle/ 

 

Letters from Gordon's files

David Kunzle to Rebecca Zurier, May 8, 1992: 

Rebecca Zurier to David Kunzle, June 13, 1992:

Gordon to Kunzle, October 1, 1992:

 

Kunzle to Gordon, July 1, 1992:

Kunzle to Gordon, November 11, 1992: 

Martin Barker to Gordon, 1993:

---

[1] Ian Gordon, ""But Seriously, Folks ...": - Comic Art and History," American Quarterly, 43 (June 1991): 122-126. 

[2] Ian Gordon, “In Praise of Comic Books as History: Joseph Witek and Comics Scholarship,” in Graphic Subjects: Critical Essays on Autobiography and the Graphic Novel, Michael Chaney ed., (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011): 244-246.

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.

Remembrance of Giannalberto Bendazzi (1946-2021)

 Remembrance of Giannalberto Bendazzi (1946-2021)

 by 

John A. Lent

 

I first met Giannalberto Bendazzi when I picked him up at the Philadelphia International Airport, April 8, 2002, but I knew of his contributions to animation studies for years. He was staying at my home for a few days. On the drive to my house, Giannalberto began talking about his wife. I chimed in about mine, just having been divorced--a second time, no less. Then, out of nowhere, Bendazzi tells me he takes his wife to the beach every week. Things can’t be that bad if he does that. Not so, he snapped back; he took her there hoping the sharks would get her. A sample of the dark humor he was capable of.

For the next few days, we talked about everything--of course, animation, a book he invited me to co-edit, our Italianness, and, of course, his wife. We spent a day in New York City with Oscar-winning animator and professor John Canemaker and others, had a potluck dinner at my house with Temple University colleagues and graduate students interested in animation, and visited the nearby Brandywine Museum and its Wyeth family collections. Bendazzi also lectured on animator Alexandre Alexeieff to a large class of film students at Temple University after which he described as a listless bunch.

About a month later, we met again at Penn Station in Manhattan. Bendazzi wanted to fill me in on a huge book project he was planning with mutual friend, Keith Bradbury of Australia. They had invited me to join them in co-editing a 16-volume, tentatively titled, Understanding Animation:  An Anthology of Documents and Sources. Indiana University Press showed a keen interest in publishing the books to be extended over ten years. As far as I know, the project did not come to fruition; Giannalberto wrote us in April 2003, saying he wanted to put it on the “back burner.” Keith suggested that he and I continue, but this did not materialize either. I think Bendazzi wanted time to continue where his 1994 groundbreaking Cartoons left off, organizing what was to be the three-volume Animation:  A World History. He asked me to write the sections on Taiwan and India, and coordinate with the collaboration of Hassan Muthalib, the Southeast Asia part, including Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, and the Philippines.

Animation:  A World History hit snags along an eight-year journey, about which Bendazzi lamented to me. John Libbey Publishing was commissioned to bring out the volumes, but needed a co-publisher for an American edition. Multiple publishers, including Indiana University Press and University of California Press, rejected the proposition, complaining the book was too large. Focal Press, affiliated with Taylor & Francis, eventually published the nearly 1,100 pages in three volumes in 2016.

I saw Giannalberto twice more, when we had dinner at the Milan airport Oct. 24, 2002, during a layover I had enroute to Lviv and at a comics and animation conference in Jilin, China, in September 2006. We kept up a correspondence at our lazy paces; his emails were personal at times, philosophical some times, sad and happy, humble and proud, but usually, peppered with some sarcasm and much wit. When I sent him a review I wrote of his work, he replied:  “I received the review, made three somersaults and sent it to my publisher. We have a very well-coordinated opinion of each other:  I tell him he is an idiot, and he behaves so” (May 22, 2017). On one occasion, he labeled his publishers “slow as a snail,” another publisher as “the worst bunch of screw-ups on the planet,” and bemoaned the “geological times” of another publisher.

He could also tangle up emotions as in this Sept. 18, 2014 email:

 

you bet that I will come to see you!

After the publication of the book, I will be travelling around to present it, and get some rewarding appraisal. Actually, I don’t give anything for appraisal=vanity. Appraisal is a substitute for love. I wrote all my books in order to demonstrate that I am honest, intelligent, in other words, worth [sic] to be loved.

Mine was a lifelong search for this thing, but I didn’t succeed.

I’m 68 and I’m alone.

I have no complaints:  I did my best, with sincerity.

I’m deeply devoted to animation, for its qualities but also because it is underloved. So I do my best to promote it and enrich the number of its loving specialists.

I always felt at home with animators from every country of the world because in general, they are sensitive, kindhearted, altruistic.

In other words, loving and lovable people.

Thank you for listening. I realize that this confession is almost embarrassing…

Your faithful,

Giannalberto

 

Giannalberto was always humbly thankful. When, on June 22, 2019, he was awarded an honorary doctorate by the Universidade Lusόfona of Lisbon, that he said was “the first that an animation scholar ever received,” he sent many of us a note saying,

 

I thank all of you for the affection and teaching you have given me, in many ways, over many years of career. This result would not have been possible without you. I hope (I believe) that this is one more step in the ascent towards a generalized conception of animation as an art.

Thank you, Giannalberto (June 26, 2019)

 

That was Giannalberto Bendazzi as a human being:  kind, frank, intelligent, and accommodating. He usually called me a friend which I was appreciative of and honored by.

As for Giannalberto Bendazzi as a scholar, his accomplishments provide the answer. That he was a pioneer in animation studies and one of the field’s most outstanding representatives and promoters is undisputable. He took the route to a career in animation as so many of us have--via training and employment in other disciplines; his was law, which he studied but never practiced. Instead, he became a film critic and in the 1970s, began easing his way into animation, especially its history, a virgin topic outside of coverage of Disney, Fleischer, and other U.S. studios.

Giannalberto wrote books, monographs, and articles on various animators, such as Quirino Cristiani, Italian-born Argentine who created the world’s first animated feature, Osvaldo Cavandoli, Bruno Bozzetto, Alexandre Alexeieff, and others, as well as his best-known compilations, Cartoons:  One Hundred Years of Cinema Animation and Animation:  A World History. He held teaching stints at Università degli Studi di Milano (2002-2009), Nanyang Technological University of Singapore (2013-2015), and Griffith University in Australia; lectured and presented papers in Italy, U.S., China, Singapore, and elsewhere, and co-founded ASIFA-Italy (1982) and Society for Animation Studies (1987).

His death, at age 75, on Dec. 13, 2021, left a huge void in the profession of animation studies and in the hearts of those of us who had the privilege of knowing him, that will be difficult to fill.