Special Exits

Joyce Farmer’s Special Exits was an interesting read for me. I have yet to experience my grandparents or mother’s deterioration, and therefore the access point was difficult to pin down. I will say, though, that the relationships between Lars, Rachel, and Ching represented an emotional and intense need for companionship during times of loss.

Farmer’s first panel on page 2 is a depiction of Ching rifling through her food bag. Laura’s character and Ching do not get along throughout the memoir, and we as readers are introduced to this from the get go—Ching bites and scratches her while Laura is trying to get the cat out of Rachel’s lap. This symbolized a form of protection, and it is almost as if Ching knows what it to come of her owners: if Laura is there, that means the elderly couple needs help, and therefore must be deteriorating.

On page 12 we see Lars sitting on the couch, reading the daily paper, while Rachel gets up to go take a bath, ultimately enduring a terribly fall that leads to her couch-ridden state in the next half of the book. Ching is the only one who recognizes the fall, and we see her scratching at the bathroom door, retrieving Lars, and bringing him to his wife’s aid. In this case, Ching becomes the caretaker of the two, therefore reversing the rolls of pet and owner. It is interesting to note this transition in panel style as well on page 9: Ching looks over the bottom of the first frame, peering in on a conversation between Laura, Lars and Rachel. The cat jumps through three different panels on the same page.

The most interesting instant of the necessity of Ching’s companionship is page 110, when Charon the boatman pays Lars a visit. All but one panel includes the cat, and this representation points to the notion that animals can smell and see death. Lars finds comfort in Ching witnessing the same thing as he does, and since Rachel is practically incapacitated, the cat becomes his partner. Ching no longer stays on the couch with Rachel but solely hangs out with Lars, perhaps signifying Rachel’s closeness to death, or foreshadowing Lars’ death. I’ve always heard the myth that animals can see, hear, and smell death and sickness, and Farmer seems to employ that myth through these relationships (as Lars gets closer to his time, Ching refuses to leave his side, so much that she starts to smother him) (pages 187-88, 192).

Outside of content, I found the panel style elusive. It seems as if we aren’t really expected to read from left to right, but can infact go all over the page as much as our hearts desire. On more than one occasion I found myself reading top to bottom as opposed from left to right—really inviting, and mimicking of the story’s structure in regards to time shifting. We skip weeks and months and days in just a few pages—likewise, are invited to skip around the page as much as possible, as the story still reads just about the same. 

Mother's Urn

This graphic memoir seems a little difficult to discuss as far as content is concerned. I find it so interesting that it's prefaced (I think) with the disclaimer of "no characters in this memoir are real and if they reflect any real individuals its by accident," or something of that nature. Kind of set the stage up a little weird for me--however, I did feel really effected by the poetic descriptions of the relationship between the protagonist and her mother.

The art work was super trippy, and INCREDIBLY dark. That more than anything made me feel uncomfortable, and sad, and like I adopted the sentimentalities of the protagonist. Outside of the art work and content... lets talk about those shiny pages (at least in my copy). I thought that was such an interesting choice of paper quality, particularly with the black backgrounds. It made it almost impossible to read at times because of that shiny paper quality, which made me think about the way that the protagonist had a hard time connecting with her mother because of her drug use, neglectful marriage, and overall unavailability. I feel like this is a graphic memoir to be read more than once with long periods of time in between each reading.

Are You My Mother?

Alison Bechdel’s Are You My Mother in fact doesn’t really directly deal with her mother, but the indirect or super direct relationship that she houses between herself and her mother. Yes, this is (or can be) a pretty obvious result of childhood, which Bechdel explains: persons act according to the relationship that they have with their parents, and the way that their parents act around them during developmental years. However, Bechdel explores this idea (and herself) through multiple child development theorists, particularly Donald Winnicott, as well as the psychoanalysts that she sees throughout her life.

I find it so interesting that Bechdel rarely speaks directly of or about her mother, but rather refers to her through her own person or through some sort of literary text. I would say that this memoir is divided into a few different facets, which include autobiography, literary analysis, and transcription. The only time that we as readers really see Bechdel’s mother outside of a phone conversation is through a recollection of plays that her mother had been in, all through the perspective of Alison (clearly, this is a memoir, right?). Bechdel even admits to the constant transcribing of the conversations she and her mother have on the phone—I wonder if we really get a sense of their relationship through these interactions (10-11), or if the transcriptions are written with the tone that Alison perceives. This sort of transcription can be seen in Bechdel’s other works, such as Fun Home, the memoir she wrote about her father. Bechdel’s journal that she begins to keep as a child also takes on the form of some sort of transcription—could this also be the way that she writes about the conversations that she has with her mother?

On another note, it seems that Bechdel is really writing about herself in this memoir. The pretty apparent referral to Winnicott (almost every page) points me to think that the mirroring effect that he describes (231 is the closest page that I could find… I think it’s initially brought up before this) is incredibly particular to the way the Bechdel feels about the relationship she has with her mother, as well as herself as a “being.” In fact, the entirety of Chapter 6 is entitled “Mirror” and we as readers encounter Bechdel reckoning with the mirror that she may be making to her mother, whether that is the reverse or the actual mimicking (also, how can we relate mirroring someone or something to mimicking someone or something? Does mirror always necessarily mean the opposite or counterpart? And does mimicking always mean acting the exact same as someone or something? Hm…)

Really, I think that a discussion around the word “cathect” and its subsidiary counterparts is important in exploring this memoir… how can it be applied to the thing as a whole, or is it only applied to the relationship at hand? In relationship to the form of the graphic memoir, can the term be applied? The beginning-each-chapter-with-a-dream thing really caught my attention, and more often than not Bechdel closed each chapter with something similar—black pages, instead of white, created this crazy dreamy or not-of-this-world space. While the word cathect claims an investment of mental or emotional energy into a person, object, or idea, can the physical manifestation of this memoir be considered in the same space or definition?

So much to think about! 

But I Can't

This short “But I Can’t” deals with the way that the belief or disbelief of alien life forms and UFO’s effects personal relationships. I really appreciated how the author began and ended the short with the same, or similar, characters and panel styles (we call this circling, don’t we?)—which is interesting, because I’m not sure that the content of the short is really entered around the protagonist and these other characters in her apartment. The author uses these panels to focus around the memory of Lucy and Harriet, and once the reader has reached the third line of panels they will notice the shift in color saturation (much, much lighter), which indicates a fading into memory sequence. It feels as if we are walking through the frames with Harriet and Lucy, exploring the possibilities of life outside of that on earth. Its not until the end of the second continued onto the third pages that Lucy lets us (and Harriet) know she is no longer a believer. Shortly afterwards Harriet goes missing.

This short made me feel like I was being asked to follow a memory and decide what I believed in regards to Harriet’s disappearance. Of course, there is always a possibility that aliens abducted her, or she ran away, or was kidnapped, and I’m not really honestly sure what I believe or exactly what Lucy believes happened to Harriet. The title, “But I Can’t,” suggests that Lucy just cannot believe that a UFO swooped her up. On the contrary it also suggests that she can’t tell this story to those in the room with her, because she does believe that a UFO could have taken Harriet, and can’t bring her self to actually admit that to another person/people, particularly after Lucy’s shut down all the other claimed UFO sightings. 

Fun Home

Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home operates as a grieving process for the narrator in both her father’s (potential) suicide and hidden identity. While one more than one occasion Bechdel claims that she and her brothers felt unperturbed by the event and that the grieving process was unneeded (50-53, 227), it seems that this memoir takes the place of the physical, mental and emotional disturbances the occur after the death of a close family member.

Throughout the memoir, we get a sense that Bechdel and her father, Bruce, have an odd relationship. It seems that they are fairly close, particularly in the narrator’s college years. We see the two exchanging letters and phone calls fairly consistently, and although there is this secret that Bruce has kept from Bechdel for practically her entire life up to that point, the two act as though they have an understanding of one another much more than the relationships between narrator, her mother, and her brothers. This to me made me question the Bechdel’s honesty about her apparent no-need-to-grieve attitude—was the small out lash at the funeral director the only consolation that she needed? Was laughing really the healthiest way for her to grasp the idea of her father’s death, and take it to heart? I think, in some ways, that Bechdel articulates pretty clearly that this was all she needed, and the fact that she actually wrote this memoir centered around her father shows her overall reconciliation.

I find it so interesting that Bechdel claims she and her father are “inversions of one another” (98). This phrase in the memoir can operate a million functions, however I think this can be related to the narrator coming out to her parents, and the death (potential suicide as Bechdel thinks) of her father. She definitely outwardly claims the relationship between these two acts as very close at hand, not only from the purposes of time but from the concept of ‘there can be no life without death’ (this occurs somewhere near the end of the book, and I swear I’ve been looking for the page number and just cant seem to find it). This concept can also be related to the myth of Icarus that Bechdel uses to begin and end the memoir. I wonder, then, if we apply the myth of Icarus to the relationship between Bechdel and her father, is it possible that instead of being Icarus, the narrator is the set of wings that melt and cause Icarus to fall into the ocean? Is it possible that Bechdel is the invention of her father in some crazy way, which either helped him fly or failed him (I like to think the former)?

The double-paged panels (220-21) seems to point in that direction. These were my favorite pages both for content and drawing style: there are ten panels that have absolutely no chatter between the two of them, driving in a car at night, while the other panels discuss both Bechdel and Bruce’s sexuality. It seems that the narrator’s father confided in her in a much different way that he had in the past with other people, perhaps even his wife. In this way, I think that Bechdel comforted Bruce, and that this memoir is meant to acknowledge that and come to terms with his death and hidden identity.  

Lucky

Gabrielle Bell’s Lucky dives into the mundane reality of being a struggling artist in a large city. Bell’s tone is gradual and solid—although we don’t really get much of a “struggle” besides living, it is understood that the author and narrator grapple with trial and error throughout everyday tasks in her own environment, and that she understands these tasks to be those of a normal importance. In fact, each experience is stated as a fact in itself without much justification, which makes this memoir compelling in its own right.

The panel style of Lucky # 1 is that of a diary—the reader is held in a position to involve itself in the actual day-to-day realities that Bell encounters: that of love (?) and apartment hunting in a city perhaps too expensive for the work that she does as a cartoonist. Bell’s relationship with Tom seems to be the center of this story, particularly because he is in almost every panel, which is admitted in the preface—she draws, and then looks for an apartment with Tom. She’s hulled up in her loft apartment with Tom, working on her story. This is her environment, whether that is considered physical or mental. The space that she occupies is a space that involves this other individual, even though the third panel of this section states that, “an artist once told me that in order to be creative you need to go into a place inside yourself and to do that you need to be alone” (7). How, then, has this physical or mental environment stimulated Bell to the point of creating her work (which could be the entirety of Lucky #1)? Perhaps her relationship with Tom is a relationship that involves her “being” so drastically that he becomes a part of her, and therefore is a place insider herself, and therefore she is alone in these moments and can create to the best of her ability.

In contrast, the panel style of Lucky #2 is much larger—the font is bigger, the drawings are more defined, and the reader is able to involve itself more in the story. The environment of this section seems to be more of an emotional reconciliation: we see Bell in the airport, loosing her sketchbook (sad!!); we see Bell taking a short vacation with friends, although she’s super bummed about her lost sketchbook; we see Bell pulling herself into a yoga class, the suggestion of friend Andy, who she asks, “How do you keep from going crazy?”(64). This part of the memoir allows one to understand the trial of loosing something (the sketchbook) that is so close to ones being. When you place this much importance on an object, does it become a solitary part of the self in the way that personal relationships, like the one between Tom and Bell, does? I think yes! 

While the panel style of Lucky #3 is incredibly similar to the one that prefaces it, the environmental content is much different: this is the environment that Bell thinks of as the workspace, whether that is imaginary or realistic (comparison between pages 82 and 87).  It seems that her writing style is much more developed, and that she involves humor into her prose as opposed to blunt sarcasm, perhaps because she found her niche.

As for the craft of this graphic memoir: the black-and-white line drawing really hit it home. I think that this was a favorite for me, as I got much more out of the drawing and cartooning than I did the textual content. In other words, the text supported the drawing, not the other way around, and even though the drawings are definitely over-simplified (no color, hardly any contrast, minimal contour on the figures), they reflected more emotion and depth than the text most of the time.  

Lucille

The Impostor's Daughter

Laurie Sandell’s The Impostor’s Daughter was a quick and easy read for me. I have not been an avid graphic novel reader in the past, and honestly was quite excited to take a serious peak into the genre—I think as a first graphic novel, yes, The Impostor’s Daughter allowed me to easily take the structure of graphic novels as a whole. However, the general content of the book felt like an elementary letdown, particularly if this memoir is considered as a “coming of age” story.

Sandell’s relationship with her father is clearly the centripetal force that drives the entire story, which we are brought into at the same, inquisitive pace she lived as a young girl: who exactly is this man, and why does Laurie treasure his guidance so intensely, outside of the general realm of “this is my father, and therefore I would love his approval”? This question isn’t really ever answered—instead, it felt as if we as readers were taken on this journey towards nothing but a dead end. In fact, Sandell may have never even answered this question for herself, as I’m not entirely certain that she had resolved the issue in herself, and therefore never really 'came of age.' My ultimate question would be this: How do, or how can, we come of age when we’ve spent so much time replicating or looking up to or building our lives around another individual who is not ourselves? Sandell admits on more than one occasion that she “knew just how to validate whatever identity they wanted to create” (99), and therefore has not really ever understood how to validate the self, and therefore couldn’t really come of age to any degree.  

Regardless of the content and missing links in such, I really did enjoy the structure of the graphic novel. The panels really remind me of the pop art movement—the simplicity of each figure, place, or thing allows the viewer to engage more drastically in the text, while placing a solid visual context into the mix. We get a sense of character in each panel, but the flatness of each tone is highly specific to each character and his/her attributes. There aren’t too many colors and contrasts and just THINGS to absorb, and the short versions reflect the simplistic nature of the drawings themselves, ultimately allowing the reader to indulge in the story structure.

Lucille Raisch