Revealing The Artist’s Hand In McSweeney’s

I was intrigued by how the issues on art and reproduction that Chris Ware raised in his introduction played out in the first half of the McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern. When discussing comic’s low reputation in popular culture, Ware states that “any artwork created for reproduction flirts with this sort of esthetic dismissal; inherently valueless as an ‘object,’ a printed picture vibrates with no resonance of having been touched by the artist, except as a sort of cheap souvenir” (11). However, his grim pronouncements are prefaced by radio superstar Ira Glass’s sly dig that “apparently [Ware] believes that cartoons end up in the Whitney Museum through mix-ups in the mail” (7). This back-and-forth beautifully introduces the reader to the current contradictory and very often frustrating dialogue over comic’s status as “art” both now and in the past. Both Glass and Ware are right, and their statements work together rather than against each other to improve the image of comics. Ware’s presentation of reproductions of “classic” strip originals works to raise these works to the level of an “artistic artifact.”

It is, of course, quite different to stand in the Whitney staring at a framed strip on faded and folded Bristol paper, and quite another to turn newly printed copycat pages bound in a McSweeney’s anthology. But Ware appears to have taken great pains to bridge the gap the reproduced pages have as a “valueless object” and instead enhance the reader’s intimacy. His decision to print a single Mutt and Jeff strip “at nearly 80% original size” comes as quite a shock to a modern reader like me who grew up reading the daily comic strips in their sadly shrunken forms. And by separating Bud Fisher’s five-panel comic over four pages, Ware transforms our reading of the flat reproduction into a languid and highly tactile experience. Each smear of ink, each wrinkle, each “knifed-out” dig and scrape into the paper, each pasted on repair becomes immediately obvious and even startling. The monumental scale and setup deny us the usual lightning-quick speed that we use to devour the daily comics. Instead, our eyes wander slowly over the evidence of Fisher’s hand and linger over his whippy linework. In this way Ware prompts us to experience the single Mutt and Jeff strip with the same grave attention that we would lend a painting at the Whitney.

Ware makes an even more surprising decision in his presentation of the unfinished works by Charles Schultz and George Harriman. While Harriman’s “Last Drawings” show six Krazy Kat & Ignatz strips laid out on Bristol in various stages of completion, Schultz’ “Preliminary Drawings” are merely quick, disjointed scribbles drawn in pencil on crumpled legal paper. Ware states in this latter section that “there’s a strange sensation to these drawings, because in their expressiveness they look not unlike ‘art,’ yet one still tries to read the familiar figure and the familiar face in the midst of it all.” Ware’s comments here draw our focus to the action of comparing comics to “art” in the first place – how “unlike ‘art’” are comics? are they a different form of art? a “lesser” form of art? and if they aren’t “art,” where, when, and how do we draw that line between “real art” and “just a comic”? Just Harriman’s and Fisher’s rough originals reveal the laborious and skillful process behind their supposedly “valueless objects,” Schultz’s drawings reveal the creative impulse at the heart of comics creation, an impulse that is impossible to distinguish from “real” art. Ware’s decision to publish these drawings and unfinished strips of classic comic strips (either “artistic artifacts” or “cheap souvenirs,” take your pick) brings this convoluted contemporary debate over the artistic value of comics back to some of the form’s oldest and revered giants.