“Remembrance, after all, is in the end nothing other than a quotation.”
–W.G. Sebald, A Place in the Country (180)
“It is possible to feel alive, heart beat to heart beat alive. this is what I believe. this is my truth. write.”
–Cindy Crabb, “i believe” from The Encyclopedia of Doris (19)
Two weeks ago I attended the Chicago Zine Fest at Columbia College. This was the first year I had a chance to attend the full exhibition on the second day of the Fest. I also enjoyed the opening Q&A hosted by Liz Mason on Friday, March 14, which included short readings and conversation with Tomas Moniz, Alex Wrekk, and Cindy Crabb. This opening session, titled “In It for the Long Haul: A Discussion on Longevity in Zines,” Mason joked, might instead be called “getting old” in the zine-making world. Following Mason’s questions, the audience had an opportunity to talk with Moniz, Wrekk, and Crabb about everything from the question of a zine canon—Is there one? Should there be? And, if there is, who and what would be in it?—to the connections between blogs (like the one you’re reading) and hand-made zines and minicomics.
Marnie Galloway did the poster and program artwork for this year’s Zine Fest.
What I found most fascinating about the Q&A was Crabb’s answer to a question about why she continues to write and self-publish her long-running zine Doris. Does she write in order to build community? Yes and no. Crabb suggested that in her most recent work she is most fascinated by the interior, by the imagination. In the introduction to the new issue of Doris, Crabb elaborates on the subject of the imagination and utopianism when she asks,
How do we imagine and build a world that we want to live in, despite all the messages coming at us that it is not worth the fight, even our imaginations are under attack by constant stimulation overload and media approved messages. Where can we find that moment of silence or connection or boredom that gives us the pathway to somewhere for our imaginations to go, where we can feel, smell, taste, see, hear, want, desire some true kind of new better world.
I wrote earlier that Crabb asks a series of questions, but, as you can see, although the sentences are phrased as questions, they end with periods. Crabb is not asking us where we find this “new better world”; rather, she assures us that it does exist, solid and real, at least here, on the page, if nowhere else. Maybe a “better world” would be one filled with Crabb’s miniature horses, which, smiling, she described several times over the course of the Q&A. That might be a place “worth the fight,” a landscape filled with dwarf goats and tiny horses. (I’d like to publicly thank my friend Brannon Costello for introducing me to the idea of the dwarf goat whose only purpose, as far as I can tell, is to live and to be happy and fantastic.)
1. Cindy Crabb’s Doris and W.G. Sebald’s A Place in the Country
Just a few days after Crabb’s reading and Q&A at Zine Fest I began reading Jo Catling’s translation of W.G. Sebald’s essay collection A Place in the Country, in which he honors a few of the writers who, he says, shaped his life and his career: “This unwavering affection for [Johann Peter] Hebel, [Gottfried] Keller, and [Robert] Walser was what gave me the idea that I should pay my respects to them before, perhaps, it may be too late” (3). If I, like Sebald, were setting out on a long journey and had to select a few books for my trip, I would carry copies of Doris with me:
The new issue of Doris (#31)
When I first heard Cindy Crabb read “Samantha Dorsett” from Doris #28 at the 2011 Zine Fest, I felt suddenly weightless. I find it odd that I’m now describing such a broken-hearted essay as an ethereal, ghostly thing, but, at a point in my life where I sensed the possibility of collapse, Crabb’s writing, clear and precise, seemed to offer and invite hope. When I think of Cindy Crabb and her work, I imagine her in much the same way that Sebald imagines Robert Walser, as a figure always walking, always in motion: “I only need to look up for a moment in my daily work to see [Walser] standing somewhere a little apart,” Sebald writes, “the unmistakable figure of the solitary walker just pausing to take in the surroundings” (159).
For me, however, Crabb is like Virgil, that phantom who leads Dante underground. Crabb’s writing invites and compels us to walk with her, to explore what we might otherwise ignore or reject out of fear or sadness or frustration. On every page of Doris, Cindy Crabb writes and draws that “desire” for something other—something “better”—into the world. I can’t think of a better definition of a modern epic, one Virgil would find familiar and true.
2. Marnie Galloway’s Mare Cognitum
I came home from the Fest with a bag filled with other zines and minicomics, including a fantastic selection from Corinne Mucha, John Porcellino, Carrie Colpitts, Isabella Rotman, and Jake Austen (you can hear a few of Jake’s interviews with folks at the Zine fest here, including Lil’ Ratso’s conversation with Edie Fake; John Porcellino also has a report on Zine Fest on his blog).
I got the second issue of Edie Fake’s Lil’ Buddies Magazine, this one “entirely devoted,” as Edie writes in the introduction, “to the most ubiquitous species of Lil’ Buddy: the anthropomorphic tooth.” Like the first issue, “Number Tooth” includes photographs of found images of cartoon teeth from storefronts and advertisements: giant molars with eyes and arms and smiling mouths. If you haven’t been reading Lil’ Buddies, you should. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open for those phantom little buddies who, like the ghost of Robert Walser, unexpectedly but delightfully cross your path. Take a picture of one, and Edie might use it for a future issue.
Two of my favorites minicomics from the Fest are Marnie Galloway’s Mare Cognitum and J.D. Lee’s Vanishing Act. I’ve written about Galloway’s work before in a short review of the first book of In the Sound and Seas (Volume 2 should be out later this year). I picked up copies of two other Galloway minis, Medusa and Library, both of which I enjoyed. But I keep returning to Mare Cognitum, the 15-page story of NASA’s Ranger 7, a spacecraft that, as Galloway reminds us, for “the first time in human history,” provided us with “close images of the lunar surface.” Less than twenty minutes after it sent those images back to earth, Galloway adds, Ranger 7 “crashed on a large basaltic plain in a large crater, called Mare Cognitum, the sea that has become known.”
Like Galloway’s other comics, Mare Cognitum, I think, is a story about adventure and about myth. Ranger 7 is the hero of the book, the machine that ventures into space and, for a few minutes, sends back images of a desolate, alien landscape—one that is all the more strange because, like Freud’s definition of the uncanny, it is familiar to us. The moon, Ranger 7 tells us, is nothing more or less than a giant rock floating in space.
When I finished Mare Cognitum, I read it again, and I began to think of it as a story about storytelling itself, or about myth. The closer we get to what we want to know, or what we think we want to know, the closer we get to silence. In Galloway’s vision of the moon, there are no aliens, no life at all, just the slow drift of the probe and its camera, a whirring, mechanical Polyphemus whose one eye sees what we cannot see until its contact with the moon’s desolation blinds it.
But I also laughed when I read those closing pages, as the humming of the machine ceases and the camera, along with the rest of the probe, meets the surface of the moon. Like all good myths, Mare Cognitum is an example of speculative fiction—what happened? What’s up there? How did we come to know what we know about a thing we otherwise know nothing about?
Waiting for the Irving Park bus early on Sunday morning I saw the moon in an otherwise clear blue sky and I thought about Ranger 7 and its clumsy and sad but quietly heroic landing. I wonder if, in those final moments, it tried to send one last image back to earth or if, even now, it dreams of what it might have accomplished if its circuits had been turned into something other than a space probe, maybe a Ford Mustang or a Fender Champ or a transistor radio. Maybe when it dreams it hears The Beach Boys, who had a hit with “I Get Around” just a few weeks before Ranger 7 collided with the moon on July 31, 1964.
3. J.D. Lee’s Vanishing Act
Dreaming of other lives and other possibilities is one of the central themes in J.D. Lee’s Vanishing Act. Lee was tabling with Julia Von de Bur, whose minicomic Life in Bodies of Water I’ll be including in a class at Bryn Mawr next month. I’ll write more about Life in Bodies of Water in April. For now, I’d like to write up a few notes on Lee’s Vanishing Act, a comic that reminded me of Will Eisner’s The Dreamer.
The book’s main character, Ruthie Rosenblum, works for Uncle Davie’s Comics-By-Number Production Studio. On the train to work, where she will meet a figure from her past, she reflects that “when you spend so much time pretending to be someone else / it feels good to disappear.” Lee’s use of color—a palette of pale yellows, orange, gray, and black—gives the comic a warm, autumnal glow, but this is not a story of easy nostalgia. In the panel where Ruthie tells us that “sometimes it feels good to disappear,” we see her enter a room filled with desks and drawing tables. Maybe like her colleague Reggie, the anonymity of this comic book production shop suits her because it offers her a means of concealing herself.
I also read Vanishing Act as a romance comic, or at least as a minicomic gesturing towards the romance comics of the late 1940s and early 1950s. Maybe Uncle Davie’s shop produces all sorts of comics, from superheroes and funny animals to war, horror, and true crime stories—anything, really, other than what is real and true. I don’t know if Lee is going to continue with Ruthie’s adventures, but I’d like to read more, to discover what she and her friend Reggie are creating. I want to know what becomes of her love for Naomi, the childhood friend now married to one of Uncle Davie’s clients.
On the back of the comic, Lee includes the title again and a reminder that this is “an Uncle Davie’s Comics-by-Number Tale.” Is this story, then, one of Ruthie’s “comics-by-number”? Is she just filling in these blanks or are we readers expected to fill them in with her? I look forward to reading more comics from Lee’s rich imagination and from Uncle Davie’s shop, and I hope that Ruthie appears again in another adventure. But if she chooses to disappear, like Ranger 7, I’d like one last glimpse before the inevitable final panels filled with darkness and silence.
One of Steve Willis’s jam minicomics from the early 1990s. I did the cover but didn’t tell my mom that I’d based the drawing on an old childhood photo of her.
In the 1980s, I began exchanging zines through the Comics Buyer’s Guide’s small press column. I also ran ads in the classifieds section of CBG where I asked other zine and minicomics creators to share their zines with me. I had a long correspondence with two friends from San Antonio, Texas, who sent me copies of their zines, their APA (Amateur Press Association) publications, and, sometimes, records and tapes. Those exchanges form the basis of a community of people who otherwise would never have met. In looking for a common thread that connects Doris, Mare Cognitum, and Vanishing Act, I find myself returning to Sebald’s discussion of Rousseau in one of the essays in A Place in the Country. Rousseau, Sebald suggests, also wanted to disappear through the medium of his writing:
“The moment of utmost clarity of landscape,” writes Jean Starobinski, who has studied the theme of transparency in Rousseau, “is at one and the same time the moment at which individual existence dissolves at its limits and is dreamily transformed into thin air.” To become totally transparent was, according to Starobinski, the greatest ambition of the inventor of modern autobiography. (61-62)
These statements seem to contradict themselves, resolving only as a paradox—how does one become “totally transparent” when one is writing about the self? When one is also writing about the world outside the self? Is there a space where those two, the interior and the exterior, can meet?
But maybe that is the dream of the writer, the artist, the zine maker—to create something that has a life of its own, an object that can venture out, like Ranger 7, into the void and send back pictures of what it finds there.
Sebald, W.G. A Place in the Country. Trans. Jo Catling. New York: Random House, 2013.
Crabb, Cindy. The Encyclopedia of Doris. Athens, Ohio: Doris Press, 2011.