Meskin, Twoskin

In part one of this fascinating new part-work (I'll be selling a folder for it in about March), I understood that comics exist in multiples. Then I got distracted and wondered whether this meant that comics had super-powers. 

Tune in for part two and get this statement explained.

The art form of comics is typically a two-stage art in which instances are produced by means of what Stephen Davies calls encoding and decoding. In normal cases, decoding (i.e., printing) is required to produce an authentic instance of a comic. But this is only in normal cases—in some cases no decoding is needed to produce an authentic instance of the comic since the encoding is itself a proper instance of the comic. And in some of these cases comics are produced by means of a one-stage process (i.e., they are finished when the artist’s work is complete). 

Okay, pass the crack pipe. Meskin quotes Davies, who elucidates three different ways in which multiples can be made. It's the process of encoding that Meskin picks as the most applicable to the comic - that is to say, there is no 'instance' of the comic, no source, just the copies.

Right - yes, when I saw the exhibition in the Victoria and Albert of Kirby/Lee Fantastic Fours, they just slapped a few issues in a case, and didn't worry about getting the versions from which they were printed. 

But I disagree with Meskin that this makes comics 'multiples without a source.' The novel is called by Davis 'an exemplar based multiple' - there is a manuscript, and all copies, or multiples, are authenticated by comparison to the exemplar manuscript. Exactly the same thing is the case for a comic. I know I am always trying to distance comics from being literature (they are something other, more complex), but I think that the parallel between the novel's manuscript and the completed art work of the comic is much closer than the magical 'encoding' that Meskin suggests.

Mind you, a copy without an original is a seductive concept. I am thinking of Baudrillard, and how he says that we live in a world of simulcra, in which 'real things' have been replaced by signifiers. 

I'd love to run with Meskin's definition of the comic as an encoding/decoding medium, and shout that comics are, in fact, an expression of a universe that is without a source. But either I have misread his intentions - most likely - or he has put a bet on the wrong multiple horse. 

Meskin and Me thoughts on Me Being (part 1 of 40 000)

Let's see how complicated I can make this. 

I'm interested in ontology, which I think is something to do with states of being. Like just about every other philosophical term that I throw about with gay abandon, I haven't really got to grips with how it is used, or what it really means.

Being a post-modern semiotician, I use the word in any way that I see fit. However, today I intend to try to understand ontology, via Aaron Meskin's Ontology of Comics.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the futility of my life?

We shall begin with Meskin's conclusions...

Must comics be multiples? 

I have argued that they need not be, although the generic statement ‘comics are multiples’ is true. 

How are instances of comics produced? 

I suggest that the art form of comics is typically a two-stage art in which instances are produced by means of what Stephen Davies calls encoding and decoding. In normal cases, decoding (i.e., printing) is required to produce an authentic instance of a comic. But this is only in normal cases—in some cases no decoding is needed to produce an authentic instance of the comic since the encoding is itself a proper instance of the comic. And in some of these cases comics are produced by means of a one-stage process (i.e., they are finished when the artist’s work is complete). 

Finally, when do we have an authentic instance of a comic? 

I argue that comics (even digital comics) are best understood as autographic—they admit of referential forgery and direct transcription will not suffice to produce an authentic instance of a comic.

Holy shit. I have no idea where to start with these conclusions. I probably better read the whole article.

What is a 'multiple'?
Comics and graphic novels are typically multiple works of art rather than singular: they are repeatable, admit of instances or occurrences rather than mere copies, and—in virtue of this—they allow for simultaneous but spatially-distinct and unconnected reception points.

That is clearer: a comic can exist simultaneously in multiple forms - like a complete print run of Fantastic Four Essentials, and be experienced in different places at the same or different times. They are printed and distributed, and no single copy can be seen as the 'original'. I guess they share this quality with scripts. 

A comic is a bit like Multiple Man off the X-Men: it can exist as several identical versions at the same time. Although whereas there is a Multiple Man prime (he's the one who makes the first copy of himself, and has certain rights that his copies don't have), the comics are all 'originals'.

(Note, if Vicky Price out of the University of Glasgow is reading: I know the word 'original' is problematic. But if I talk about a 'source' text here, I am going to get even more confused.)

So a comic exists in a different state of being to a human, who is stuck in one particular time and space. Far out. 

Apart from the suggest that a bit-part player in the X-Men is some kind of meta-commentary on the nature of the medium, here's a reflection. If a comic can exist in an almost mythical state of being (effectively timeless and spaceless, since its existence is not dependent on a particular anchor in the space-time continuum but can exist simultaneously at several points in the same moment), does this make it an ideal medium for expressions of timeless narratives, like myths? The superhero, rather than being some idiosyncrasy of comic book history therefore becomes a logical subject for the medium, being located in a similar boundless ontology. 

Even something like Maus, which always gets mentioned as worthy of study (because it is about a Very Serious Subject, the Holocaust), is lent a mythic dimension by Spiegelman's conjuring of comic book tropes. 

(Note: myth here means a story with meaning, not a false story.)

And isn't Spiegelman a cool name for a comic book creator? It's like a superhero name. His special power is, like, making the low become high. 

Come back for part 2, I dare ya.

Freaking Fandom

Now that superheroes have been legitimised by Marvel's Cinematic Universe (they were just for kids until a talking tree became Vin Diesel's most complete performance), it is possible that Anglophone comics might become a matter for scholarly research. The independent comic, from Crumb through to Dave Sim, has always been a rich source of justifications for the medium, even though crass misogyny, rampant egotism and bad perspective ensure that the aesthetic of the indie is just as problematic as the power fantasies of the mainstream.

Despite the post-modern directive that high and low art are meaningless distinctions, the academy has been slow to recognise sequential art: the occasional monograph is too limited in scope (Carrier's entry thinks comics are just the short pieces found on the newspaper funny pages), and the longer studies tend to focus on the history of the form. The vast bulk of writing about comics comes from fandom, whether it is the intelligent commentary of Ultron is My Elvis, or the fractured bickering of the Comic Book Resources' discussion forums.

Aaaron Meskin's essay is representative of the more thoughtful commentary: it begins with the usual awkward claims for the status of comic book as art, clarifies that they are not all about flying guys in tights and mentions the usual respectable suspects (Maus, Watchmen, Little Nemo et cetera et irrumbantia cetera). After the throat clearing, it gets down to the discussion of the value of comics, because people always question the value of an art form before embarking on a study of it. 

However, Meskin doe sketch the territory of contemporary analysis of comics, and makes trenchant remarks on its relationship to other art forms - the characteristics it shares with film and opera - and the problems of defining the medium (while acknowledging Scott McCloud's 1993 definition as a strong starting point). It is a rich article that opens up the ontology of the comic as a viable basis for investigation of the impact of the comic.

(To unpack that: the nature of the comic itself - disposable, ephemeral yet also reproducible - is a good place to start when considering what it does).

I also like this.

If ‘succession in time in time is the province of the poet’ and ‘space is that of the painter’ (Lessing 1962: 91) then perhaps comics, which might be said to combine poetry and painting (in some very broad sense), do exhibit an internal tension.

What does that remind me of?

In the hour of chaos, only defeat

Some context: early nineties, the joy of the rave scene was turning drab (bad drugs sneaking in, the division of the clubbing nation into tribes, the state attempting to legislate against repetitive beats et cetera et cetera). More experimental electronic artists emerging, mostly making self-consciously intelligent music. Spiral Tribe still up to stuff but winter of paranoia after summer of love noticeable. 

Closer influence: the soon-to-be workmanlike Manic Street Preachers express joy that Public Enemy refused to work with them, because 'we are shit.' Such awareness soon lost as Manics turn towards the lumpen socialist rock they were supposed to transcend. 

Revival of grunge mad misery and guitars hip again.

Tricky, known quantity. Part of a Bristol scene that had eclectic tastes and hip-hop connections. Worked with Massive Attack and Portishead (or at least shared a vinyl collection).

First blast - a cover version of Black Steel by Public Enemy. Transposed from America to UK, dropping Chuck D's stentorian declamation (and optimistic fantasy of prison escape) with a disorientated female voice. Lyrics half-remembered, repeated. Unlike in source, singer remains in prison and doesn't bust out of prison. Tricky's voice only turns up to sound like a prison warden tapping on the cell bars.

Ruins of hip-hop, in which Tricky retains themes of arbitrary law and paranoia, removing machismo of Chuck D, leaving a woman captive. Dynamic metal guitar races into psychedelia but never jumps the groove to funk or wail

Well, that escalated quickly...

American Horror Story: Murder House  managed to take a trip around the various nasty tales of California - the Black Dahlia turned up as did, eventually, the Antichrist. It all got a bit dense towards the finale, with the final episode playing, at times, like a satyr play against the tragedy of the main narrative.

Still, as far as TV can go (and I have a prejudice against the medium), AHS: MH did its job. It piled on the tropes until the tension became unbearable, and a couple of cheeky twists made for a satisfying finale. Should the writers ever wish to revisit the Murder House, they've set up a set of warring spirits who are likely to play out their traumas until Hollywood makes a good film.

Although the series claims to be 'about' infidelity, the episodes add up to an allegorical story about the nuclear family, and the bodies of the dead that their 'happiness' is built upon. The ending, which goes for laughs and resolution, is still unsettling. The family are reunited, but the bit that they left behind is the coming death of all things. That this sits as a subtext is a testament to the faith of the writers in their audience.

If anything, various themes are acknowledged, then left to fester rather than be exploited. There are side-swipes at the cult of celebrity - the Keanu Reeves lookalike who gets the chop is barely able to recognise the nature of death, but is delighted that his murder has made him famous. Psychiatry gets a hammering, and the redemptive arc of Tate is interrupted. Tate, in fact, becomes the focus of the second act: he shifts between hero and villain, while the other characters slowly piece together the truth about him and the house. 

Again and again, miscommunication and vanity drive the drama and, for all of the supernatural gubbins, AHS  is about the ability of good people to fuck up and get caught in their past failings. Strip away the schlock, and it has a surprising sympathy for even the most malignant spirits.