When I Was Brave
Kelli Nelson
www.cheappaperart.com
nelson@cheappaperart.com

Other young artists may want to take a cue from the way in which Robyn Chapman and Kelli Nelson package their stories in this volume, like a split seven-inch single. Certainly, they are not the first two cartoonists to utilize the flipside format, but the coupling of their strips comes off as nicely as any I have seen, both in content and packaging.

Both stories represent a particular level of artistic development, one at which the author's primary focus appears to be the mastery of tone. Both succeed as vignettes that impart to the reader a concrete sense of time and character. The element most notably lacking from both is a solid sense of setting. Though it takes place in Alaska, there is no palpable Alaska-ness to "Sour Pussy," just as there is no palpable Tennessee-ness to "When I Was Brave." Greater prominence of setting would be a secondary concern if not for the fact that both stories open with a page that lists the year and locale in which they take place. The authors obviously want the reader to walk away with an impression of what it was like to grow up in these places (Chapman's epilogue is a short musing on coming of age in Alaska), but impose setting on their stories through artificial means rather than allowing it to spring organically from the narrative. The devices that work so nicely to create a common bond between these strips, the cover pages and epilogues, are not important enough to be assigned the difficult job of establishing setting.

Despite this concern, both strips bring estimable qualities to the table. "Sour Pussy" is a story uniquely of the time in which it is told, which is no mean feat given that its time is 1993. Chapman imbues her story with the trappings of the early 1990s, then makes those trappings serve essential functions in her story. A riot grrl! zine provides a moment between a young couple in which the curtain is briefly pulled back on the dynamics of their relationship. The Nirvana song "Love Buzz" is used twice in the strip to bring an abrupt end to an awkward moment between the couple. Fashion and attitudes are spot-on for 1993 high-school kids, but it is the way in which Chapman makes the time period contribute to the movement of the story that makes it so much more impressive than if she had merely gotten the hair and clothes right.

Nelson's greatest success in "When I Was Brave" is the narrative voice. Not only is she capable of writing a believable high-school freshman, but she is able to show the reader exactly what kind of freshman the narrator is -- awkward, soft-spoken, nerdy enough to be ignored but not nerdy enough to get picked on -- without having to come out and say so. She relies heavily on narrative captions. This approach makes it tempting for a developing author to try to pull a Holden Caulfield and talk directly to the reader about what kind of character the narrator is. The restraint Nelson shows in avoiding this trap and the way in which she is able to use the captions to characterize her narrator without putting the story on hold are both admirable.

The primary reason that these strips work so well in pairing is that while Chapman and Nelson explore similar themes, their artistic styles are radically different. Nelson's art is highly graphic and blocky, benefiting from careful use of shading. Chapman's style is much looser by comparison, her characters' movements and expressions exaggerated just enough to appear slightly rubbery without losing their realistic quality. Both styles are equally satisfying. Viewing them side by side leaves the reader with a gratifying feeling of having experienced two artists with similar storytelling tastes and radically different visual ones. As a side note, reading Chapman and Nelson's collaborative contribution to the recent Storylines anthology after reading this mini is highly recommended, as the style that results from the fusion of their tastes is radically different than and just as enjoyable as either of its parent styles. But the Brave/Sour Pussy split works perfectly at providing a sample of what these two can accomplish on their own, made more enjoyable by the fact that they are doing it together.

In the title strip of this collection of Elliott and Grist's collaborations, a Brit named Dave recalls a time in his life when he was charmed by and then grew sick of a fellow named Jack that lived on his roof, whose demeanor and relationship with Dave bears a striking resemblance to Eddie Campbell's Danny Grey and his relationship with Alec MacGarry. Dave recalls memories good, bad and bittersweet, then tells of how he had Jack kicked off his rooftop home. He expresses a twinge of regret at this, and relief at seeing that Jack turned out OK after a chance encounter at a pub two years later. The tables turn in the end, and the reckoning that the reader intuits Dave always anticipated comes to pass in an act of premeditated cruelty.

The range of emotion Dave is able to impart to the reader in this short piece is impressive. The reader understands that Dave felt low for his part in having a man who called him a friend removed from the only semblance of a home he had. But it is apparent that Dave's uneasy memories of Jack are also fueled by a fear of retaliation from a clearly violent personality. It is an utterly realistic human reaction, an insightful display of character from the author.

Absent Friends is full of such moments. The scene in which two boys stand on the shore shouting, "We love sex!" to a far off ocean liner in "Winter Sands" is indisputably authentic. A scene from "Time and Tide" in which the narrator crawls through a puddle on his belly to return a box of stolen doughnuts is more improbable, but just as genuine.

It is a testament to his ability to keep the reins tight that Elliott's captions never drift into wordiness, never revealing a clear line between the roles of writer and artist. In Grist, it appears that he found an ideal partner. Grist's inventive page compositions and sparsely expressive figures do what all good narrative illustrations do; fuse the words to the picture, so that the reader absorbs both at once, never making a clear distinction between word and image.

One can only imagine what Elliott and Grist's collaboration would have yielded had they continued to work together. The strips reprinted here are from the late 1980s, and their similarity in tone, scope and quality to Campbell's output from a few years earlier entices one to play the "what if" game. It is unlikely that anyone could have duplicated Campbell's marvelous career, but the notion that something altogether different could have arisen from the similar seed is one worth indulging for a moment.

On receiving his copies of A.K.A. the critic wonders as to why someone would submit parts one and two of a three part series for review without sending the final installment. After reading the first two issues he lays aside any concern, thankful that there is no more A.K.A. left to read.

The problem in reviewing this comic is in deciding where to begin. Does one start by criticizing the repulsive artwork? Perhaps the plot -- a mishmash of hackneyed contrivances pressed together like a Cuban sandwich made with rancid pork, stale cheese and day-old bread -- is in most dire need of attention. Or maybe the principal characters, a pair of vapid girl detective stereotypes -- she's the nerdy brains behind the outfit, she's the sexy dumb blonde with a knack for getting things done! -- are most worthy of a heavy lashing.

The solution one comes to is the merciful one -- to state the obvious and move on. A.K.A. is not a very good book. The art is bad and the writing is not much better. Dara Naraghi's dialogue is readable, but he bungles the plot, which is not so bad considering that the initial concept is about as exciting as a post-game interview with Yao Ming. Steve Black's art is horrendous. The figures are twisted into cruel positions, and he has no concept of light and shadow. There is a self-portrait by Black in the back of the first issue that is not so bad, which gives one hope that he was merely stumbling drunk when he drew A.K.A., but makes one fear for his liver.

Any further analysis would only serve to make the critic feel worse than he already does. As it is, he has to go brush his teeth now, perhaps take a cold shower.

Michael Neno's Dream is one of those appealing little art objects that is so attractive, but ultimately limited by its art-object nature. Talking about the size of a book is so 1997, but Neno's Dream fits nicely into one's palm, and with the heavy cardstock paper and Neno's lush illustrations, one feels the urge to slip it into his or her back pocket, certain that it may come in handy some day when talking to other nerds about dream comics.

The dream Neno describes is chaotic, slightly funny, and even a little poignant. Neno rides on top of a taxi with Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Zelda Fitzgerald is always funny. After Scott prattles on about poetry, the grandeur of the city and such, Zelda whines about Kurt Cobain -- "It doesn't seem right," Zelda added, "That Kurt took the cowardly way out when Scott has worked so hard." And my chest heaved for Kurt despite her words.

A chest heaving for Kurt Cobain is always funny.

Neno then begins to slip from his dream, and as he does images and events become more random. The pace increases over the last few pages, moving towards a final image that ties things together sweetly, a peaceful view of a two story family home, musical notes pouring out from the upstairs window accompanied by the caption:

Muffled guitar chords escaping from a teenager's bedroom on a summer day, and it was 1922, '77, '92 all over again.

The strip is a celebration of artistic heroes, the kind one has in his or her youth, when an artist can still be a personal hero and not someone whose work is admired but also scrutinized. It makes the reader long for the time when a song, a book or a movie could shake one's world down to its silly, adolescent foundations. Because of the form of the book -- its size and length making it a quick read -- this feeling is gone almost as soon as it comes on, much like waking up from a dream.

Neno has a flair for stringing words together for romantic effect, and he draws a damn pretty picture. But Neno's Dream clocks in at 12 pages, and at one picture and caption per page, it is only a teaser. When he takes on a more ambitious project, he will be someone to watch out for.