That's one of th magicks about comix: they are not th drawings. I like simple drawings
like John Porcellino's, and Lynda Barry's "ugly" pockmarked faces, and
John Campbell's stick figures. I also like
Moebius' widescreen detail, Crumb's perfect orchestration of hachure, and Jaime Hernandez's soap operatic chiaroscuro; there's a lot of room in comix for virtuosity.
@ th end of th day, though, what makes a work of comix work or not work is something beyond drawing, something I don't have an especially great interest in defining. Most days, ah'll call it th magick. Some days, such as today, I'll get an urge to call it simply th language. It speaks it or it doesn't.
Achewood: th Great Outdoor Fight, my friends, speaks it louder than a Chinese fishmonger. I won't say much more, especially as most of you are far more familiar w/ these characters than I am, but to me this is clearly one of th most ingenious worlds of macho fiction ever devised. It's not perfect. Its primitive Adobe Illustrator drawings grate th eyes for page after page until, like a pebble in yr shoe that after some walking works itself into a bearable position, you barely notice. (Sometimes you can't tell what th fuck th characters are doing w/ their stumpy hands.) Its poetry is crude, its plot skeletal and seemingly improvised from page to page. But it's funny and comes w/ its own infectious slang. And its portrayal of a particular brand of male friendship is deadly accurate and, finally, more than a bit poignant.
Who's going to SPX? Anyone wanna go to this pre-party w/ me?
1. "Achewood: The Great Outdoor Fight is to comic books as Steve Buscemi is to Orlando Bloom," noticed one commentator.