Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis: bearing witness through comics

Marjane Satrapi, Google Images

Reading Persepolis, especially as someone born and raised in the West, is a real eye-opener. Our self-aware narrator Marjane knows the reality of this Western ignorance all too well, and in the introduction to Persepolis, she notes simply: “… this old and great civilization [Iran] has been discussed mostly in connection with fundamentalism, fanaticism, and terrorism… I know that this image is far from the truth”. This large collection of short autobiographical comics—in essence, a comic version of a short story collection—is an honest and open attempt to capture the true images of Iran; a response to the dismissal of its history and the people who experienced it. But most importantly it reads like an affirmation of selfhood and the duality involved in this: at once seeing yourself as an individual and yet also as one part of a much wider group.

Literally divided into two parts, part one covers Marjane’s experiences growing up as a child in Iran; with the bombings, hostile surveillance and oppression brought about by the regime. She captures the innocence of a child’s perspective through humorous and brusque scenes, which subsequently act also to lull the reader into a false sense of familiarity, only to be left in the lurch when they are just as swiftly confronted by violence and brutality. Starting the book with these recollections allows the reader to piggy-back along with Marjane’s own revelations and discoveries; as she grows up and learns more about her own country, she shares this knowledge and the realities it entails.

The second part is about Marjane’s time away from Iran, and then the eventual return, as an older and conflicted young woman. It is in this part that Persepolis considers the importance of these earlier memories and their relation to Marjane’s personal identity. The philosopher John Locke argued that personal identity is nothing more than our memories; our memories are how we can say we are the same person we were previously. In Persepolis, Marjane sets out her memories in an objective form through an act of bearing witness. However, she is not just witnessing the horrors of war and oppression, but also to the individuals forgotten by the all-encompassing nature of these phrases. There is a definite difficulty faced in trying to readjust to the Iranian lifestyle, having gained more awareness and exposure to the rest of the world: the regimes are now even more intolerable, the streets and her friends only serving to remind her of the disparity between her roots and her more recent experiences away from home.

Persepolis contains so many stories, each so personal it feels as if these are the tales of a friend: relatable hurdles of youth are thrown against the extreme backdrop of war and continual persecution. Told through ink, the simplicity and generally small scale of the panels adds to their relatability; Marjane takes us to parties, on dates, to school and through university. These emphatic scenarios make sudden violent turns even more shocking and distressing. It is well worth bearing witness to these tales and the history of all those whose lives are brought to life through Marjane’s memories.

 

 

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Persepolis (Vintage: London, 2008)

Jean Wei’s ‘Heat’ – an argument for forgiveness

Picking up Heat by Jean Wei was an instant delight: the illustrations within are so colourful and charming; you flick through the pages and see a usually unwelcomed visitor being taken in by a small and unassuming family, seamlessly falling in place and into the flow of everyday life with these people. Upon closer reading, however, we see a much deeper narrative centred on the importance of forgiveness.

Heat follows a giant, naked fire demon through their transition into a quiet but hardworking farm-hand [1]. This quaint, rural farm is run by Auntie Anne and her Grand-Niece Katy, and for a good majority of the book, we bounce along quite nicely; watching the relationship between the trio grow and also witnessing the caring relationship between Anne and her love-interest Clara. Cute scenes unfold: we see our fire demon – who earns the name ‘Red’ for obvious reasons – is taught how to help out on the farm and around the house,  witness the tender moments between Red and Katy, and smile at the child-like innocence of Red encountering everyday situations, as well as their quiet moments of solitude.

Then we see a relationship which is not so clear-cut, drawn into even sharper focus through the contrast with the kind and tender relationships prior to this. For there has been a falling out between Anne and her actual Grand-daughter, Maya. The two haven’t been seen together for years, and it is revealed that Maya had left the farm to start a small glass-making business with a partner. We are shown there is a clear divide between them, but the exact nature of this fall-out is only hinted at. It does, however, seem to be focussed on a dispute over Maya’s role within the family, on the consequence of her actions and the reasons behind them. Essentially, there appears to be a conflict surrounding purpose, and this has thrown Maya to question where she belongs.

On the one hand, Jean Wei draws a strong contrast between Anne’s relationship with Maya and her relationship with Red, whilst on the other, both Red and Maya appear to be going through similar identity struggles. Both are wondering about their utility; Maya wondering ‘Was I useful?’ and Red being criticised by the narrator, who we can even read as Red’s own internal dialogue: “What are you, Demon? Do your job, Demon. Useless Demon… What are you”.

In the end, through Red, Anne is allowed to enact the forgiveness she has never been able to give to Maya – perhaps through stubbornness, anger, or hurt: “[…] you’re more than the help you’ve given me here […] You don’t need to deserve to exist. You don’t need to prove anything to me. I’d just like to spend more time with you”. Here, the word ‘deserve’ is key; to deserve something implies that you have earned it somehow, through your actions and behaviour. We could see this as relating to an imagined individual purpose. But Anne realises that this is tangential to existence; that, as the Existentialist philosopher Jean Paul Sartre wrote, ‘Existence precedes essence’ [2]. This means that we exist before we can determine our own purpose and there is no such thing as a ‘reason for existence’ already embedded within us.

Yet, Red goes against this in the very beginning, where our narrator taunts ‘But, warm one, what are you? What more can you be? What more, but to bring fire to light!’. For, usually, heat is something that is necessary i.e. as a casual response to fire. Unlike the concept of heat, however, we humans do not have such clearly defined reasons for existence; there is no rule telling one person that they are made to tend the fields and another that they are to shape and create magnificent works of art from the dangerous and sharp-edged material of glass.

Red, the embodiment of heat in this story, goes against this predetermination and instead carves out their own path. This is what leads Anne to realise that it is simply being human that is worthy of consideration and acceptance; our human freedom, and with it, our mistakes and our triumphs, unites us. This should allow us to be a little more forgiving of others, and I hope it helps Anne and Maya forgive each other too, finally.

 

 

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[1]  Wei, Jean, Heat (Peow Studio, 2018)

[2]  Crowell, Steven, “Existentialism”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2017 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2017/entries/existentialism/&gt;.

 

 

Charles Burns’ ‘Black Hole’ and the timelessness of high-school angst

Charles Burns’ ‘Black Hole’ via Google Images

I was left open-mouthed by a lot of what happened within Charles Burns’ Black Hole, and it took me a few moments to realise that the majority of the drama which took place was completely detached from the reason I had picked up the book. I picked up the book because I was intrigued by its seeming basis in the science fiction genre. Set in the mid-1970s, Black Hole is a story revolving around a sexually transmitted disease which mutates its owner: growing new body parts, excess skin, boils, spots, bulges and second mouths. It would manifest in different ways for different people.  In the end, this wasn’t the focus of Burns’ gaze. No. In this gripping graphic novel, Burns’ use of raw, honest detailing is predominantly used to share with us the raw and emotive world of teenage angst.

Here, I will be highlighting the subtle ways in which Charles Burns’ portrays the Existential Angst experienced, specifically, by the American teen.  In Philosophy, angst represents a necessary anxiety we experience because of our status as free, undetermined, creatures. In other words, it is a symptom of the fact that there are absolutely no rules as to what we should or should not do, no cosmic guidance on how to act, and no one to tell us which is the best path.

By no large stretch can we see how this angst can become prevalent during the teenage years; when most of us cannot avoid thinking about the future and all that it entails. For the teenager residents in suburban Seattle, this angst is embodied by the mutations of their peers. Of course, one of the big decisions or dilemmas of secondary school involves the testing of relationships and sexuality. Perhaps there are first boyfriends or girlfriends, sexuality may be discovered, feelings get stronger, and the entire school seems to be holding its breath and waiting for you to testify to these things.

In Black Hole, these decisions are put on display for everyone through often grotesque means. Surprisingly, those students without the disease do not seem to rule out relationships with their condemned peers. On one hand, the nature of desire and lust is that it is hardly reasonable, but on the other, it seems that the decision of whether or not to make any kind of ‘move’ is heightened by the idea that either path will be clearly identifiable by friends and family. Suddenly, the high school dating scene, usually something adults laugh at when looking back on because of its intangibility and temporality, is something which will stay with them permanently for the rest of their lives. For, whether they give in to desire or not, they will be left wondering what life would be like if they did otherwise.

However, there is also a reading whereby Charles is trying to tell us that this is what it really does feel like to be a teenager; as if you will be forever accountable for the decisions you make now. It is where right now is the most important time in your life, and it is what you do right now that matters most with the shaping and formation of that life. Recently, I read a letter to my future-self I had written during my secondary school examinations, and it read basically as an apology letter in case I had not studied hard enough and had not got the grades I wanted. Now, I laugh at the letter. But at the time, those exams were synonymous with my future. Here, Burns is trying to allow us the reader an unflinching glimpse into the teenager psyche: where fainting in Biology class can feel equivalent to being swallowed by a black hole, and an unplanned one-night stand makes your skin peel and shed until you don’t even feel like yourself anymore.

Simply, Charles Burns assimilates teenage angst into an undeniable visible form and through this demonstrates the timelessness of these uncertainties. For every teenager, the present seems to, above all, defy time and space with its demand for decisiveness: their own unique black holes.

 

Colour and emotion within ‘Ismyre’ by B. Mure – a study of aesthetics

I went to Bristol Comic and Zine fair earlier this month, and I picked up a lot of goodies. One of the most immersive things I picked up was a copy of B. Mure’s Ismyre [1]. I was lured in by its promise of a fantastical narrative featuring magic and a city of anthropomorphised creatures.  Also, I will admit, I have been a growing fan of the artist’s work and wanted to see how they translated their illustrative talent into the comic form.

B. Mure did not disappoint. Furthermore, I found, despite the relatively short length of the comic, I was taken on a story where my emotions were tugged at in many complex directions. I wondered how this was done. Ismyre is drawn in a relatively loose and rough manner – or at least made to look this way – so I was left impressed by the emotional journey it had taken me on. Looking over it again, I now see that a lot of these emotional arousals (by which I mean the emotions aroused in me by the work) are down to B. Mure’s colouring technique.

B. Mure appears to use watercolour to colour their comic. In the majority of panels, we see yellow for light and warmth and blue for shadows and coldness. Indeed, these are quite natural pairings of colour and emotional expression. The brilliant contrast between these creates a beautiful night-time atmosphere and adds realism to the otherwise simple line-art. Yet, B. Mure also uses colour to create much more depth than this, and it is through his use of layering and additional colours that B. Mure is able to create deeper emotional resonance within panels.

Here, it is suiting to draw parallels to the aesthetic theories regarding music. It has been noted that when there is a mixture of major and minor keys in a piece of music, and we look at the combining and positioning of these as a whole, we can feel aroused within us more complex emotions [2]. In contrast to this, it is noted how a piece of music strictly in either minor or major key, can only allow us at most to feel either happy or sad, but nothing more. Instead, it is the inter-relation of these keys that can give music the ability to tell a story.

In Ismyre, colour is used in the same way as chords to express the emotion of the panels and it is the layering of our base colours – set out as blue and yellow – that contribute to more complex emotional arousal in the reader. For example,  the first page is only made up of blue and yellow.  Each panel represents a small moment of time, and the scene is played out relatively slowly for us to absorb the beginning of the story, and start to become familiar with the main character, Edward. It presents quite a simple series of actions and the emotional pulse of the page is quite subdued: we feel calm and relaxed.

In contrast to this, we also see panels where colours are combined and overlayed and thrown together in a way which, in comparison to this first page, force a deeper complexity. They do this firstly by literally forcing the reader’s attention to increase – there is more to take in as our eye cannot flow over the page so easily anymore – and secondly by increasing the emotional arousal felt by the variety of colours displayed.

So now, we have a greater response to the images displayed and we are spending more time considering the artwork itself. This extra time contributes to the increased response felt, and the colours aid the complexity of the emotions aroused within. On just the second page, when other colours begin to be introduced, our focus is snatched up quickly as we feel the shift in Edward’s mood: from a subdued contentment to a curious intrigue and the notion that something mysterious is going on…

This arrival of new colours hints at the arrival of a deeper plot and, as a reader, we know we are not simply going to watch Edward carving at his table forever but that a mystery is unfolding. This happens again and again in Ismyre, and although you may argue that the contrast of simply using two colours and draw a scene into clearer focus through the clear division of the colours, it is still true that these scenes are often found to be seeking out one key emotional response, reflecting that of Ed. But when something more pivotal is occurring, or when panels are crowded with other characters or emotions are charged and changeable, we are introduced to more colours.

I can’t wait to read B. Mure’s second book set in the town of Ismyre, Terrible Means, and to see whether the use of colour is continued in this way, and I would highly recommend Ismyre for anyone interested in fantasy, magic and strange worlds full of mysterious and intriguing characters.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Ismyre by B. Mure (London: Avery Hill Publishing, 2017)

[2] Music & Meaning by Jenefer Robinson (Cornell University Press, 1997)

 

Childhood as presented in Tillie Walden’s ‘On a Sunbeam’

Tillie Walden is a name you should – and this is an imperative – become familiar with instantly. Her gentle, easy lines are so well-trained and nurtured that her art evokes a calmness no matter the subject. Dream-like and full of abandon, it is the perfect style for reflections upon youth and childhood, and this seems to be a theme of many of Walden’s comics and graphic novels.

And how is this achieved? It seems childhood, especially in On A Sunbeam (Walden’s webcomic, which is also going to be coming out as a physical copy very soon I believe), is associated with a resistance to gravity. For the protagonist Mia, flying, jumping and hover-boarding her way through her childhood, these things represent her innocence, and often, her recklessness. Jumping between stories of her past at school, and her present, Tillie shows that Mia is holding onto something from her past:- there are certain threads that are holding fast, and therefore, certain unresolved business.

When Mia is doing something reckless in the present,we jump back to a similar, comparative moment from her school years:

High-school Mia is suffering the consequence of stealing one of the school flying machines, and young adult Mia has just trespassed into an area of a planet where she knows she should not be: an ‘unstable’ area. The focus in the bottom left panel on Mia’s forehead makes us imagine that she had mentally travelled back in time to the previous incident; showing the interconnectedness of these events and also her irresolutions. This juxtaposition of past and present, separated by time but unified both by Walden’s colour scheme and the fear of an instantly regretful Mia, perhaps also brings to focus the ‘prospective’ nature of childhood.

According to Aristotlean ideology, a lot of the value gained through our childhood experiences, are not valuable in and of themselves, but through aiding the transition into adulthood. Here, the juxtaposition allows us to see how Mia’s earlier curiosity and intrigue permeate through into her older self. However, in both cases, this leads Mia into a rather risky situation. Not so much a delayed value then, but perhaps it is some part of childhood Mia has maintained through adolescence, something more valuable in itself and (often) exclusive to childhood: such as the feelings of a lack of responsibility, the opportunity for unstructured play, and – as already mentioned – a certain childish intrigue (Matthews, Mullin). There is definitely something more than this Aristotelian notion of ‘prospective’ value being expressed.

In both cases, Mia exhibits her autonomy to follow her emotive motivations. She wants to ride the flying machine. She wants to explore the beautiful new area. Both of these have restrictions, but these are ignored.

The colour palette seen from behind the tape shows us that another time is being recalled, and the dialogue confirms that Mia is remembering something from her past. In this remembering, she reverts back to her childhood abandon, her lack of concern for her consequences and lack of responsibility.

In a graphic novel set in space, Mia’s jumping, flying, falling, are all expressions of her momentary resistances to gravity, to nature. She flies on the flying machines without permission, she knows the short-cuts to restricted areas in school which involve jumping from one place to another, and, after suffering loss, she takes to the skies with a crew onboard a larger ship…

These are visible signs of autonomy; actions that show freedom, of movement, of expression, of doing what you want. People don’t jump whilst in a passive state, they don’t fly by chance and they certainly don’t hover accidentally. Mia does these to express childhood innocence, and the freedom this gives her: to rebel, to be passionate, and to ignore the future responsibilities.

Or, perhaps, not to ignore responsibility in a negative way as early philosophers liked to claim children do, but to possess a freedom from them. This would shift the image of childhood more so that it reflects Dewey’s conception. Here, the child is not simply awaiting ‘monitors, minders and corruptors’ (Tesar, 2016), but is a being with individual agency, who should be encouraged to play and explore.

I really don’t want to spoil anything about this amazing story, but I want to show you a moment when Mia fully embraced this freedom, maybe at the very point she first felt a nagging of the responsibilities to come – which makes it even more poignant. Here, Mia has just received bad results in the final exams at her school. Despite this, she plans to take the girl she fancies to the school party and, in doing so, she defies gravity in the most unabashed way. With this act, she destroys time, she forgets the future (to which we are all naturally gravitating), and she is guided by passion and innocence and a belief in the suspended now.

 

 

1. On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden (http://www.onasunbeam.com/)
2. Tillie Walden website (http://www.tilliewalden.com/home)
3. Matthews, Gareth and Mullin, Amy, “The Philosophy of Childhood”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2015 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.)(https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/childhood/#GooChi)

4. Tesar, Marek; Rodriguez, Sophia; Kupferman, David W, ‘Philosophy and pedagogy of
   childhood, adolescence and youth’ in Global Studies of Childhood Volume: 6 Issue 2 (2016) ISSN: 2043-6106 Online ISSN: 2043-6106