Frame Escapes Graphic Novel Intertexts

Framescapes
Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim - 978-1-84888-448-9

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2016

Framescapes:
Graphic Narrative Intertexts
Edited by
Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim
Inter-Disciplinary Press
Oxford, United Kingdom

© Inter-Disciplinary Press 2016
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ISBN: 978-1-84888-448-9
First published in the United Kingdom in eBook format in 2016. First Edition.

Table of Contents
The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature vii
Part I The Graphic Narrative
More than Simply a Flash of Colour: The True Rhetorical Power 3

of Superhero Style
Jonathan C. Evans
Images in Space: The Challenges of Architectural Spatiality 15

in Comics
Daniel Merlin Goodbrey
S/Z in Panels: Adaptation, Polysemous Textuality and the 31

Graphic Novel
Ryan Cadrette
Defining the British Political Cartoon 39

Louisa Buck
Bourdieu vs. Batman: Examining the Cultural Capital of the 51

Dark Knight via Graphic Novels
Amy Maynard
M, John J. Muth’s Adaptation of Lang’s Film: An Inference 63

Bridge from Film to Comic
Julio Gutiérrez G-H
Framing the Subconscious: Envisioning the Polysemic 73

Narrative of the Graphic Novel as a Reference Point for
Psychoanalytical and Semiotic Discourse
John Harnett
(Re)Interpreting Dante’s Inferno in Gaiman’s Season of Mists 85

Zainab Younus
Comics on Screen: Pages and Places in the Cloud 93

Jayms Clifford Nichols
Alternative Graphic Fiction and the Web: Models of 103

Creation and Models of Financial Viability
Finn Harvor
Something Borrowed: Interfigural Characterisation in 113
Anglo-American Fantasy Comics
Essi Varis
DNA (Deco Nouveau Afrique): Futurising African Frames 123

From Dashing to Delicious: The Gastrorgasmic Aesthetics of 139

Contemporary BL Manga
Antonija Cavcic
Part II Tooned In... Identity and Representations
Negotiating Ordinariness and Otherness: Superman, Clark Kent 153

and the Superhero Masquerade
Barbara Brownie and Danny Graydon
Travelling Through Time and Space: Influences of Travel on 163

Identity in Carnet De Voyage and Persepolis
Eliza Albert-Baird
Identity and Idiolect: Code Switching as Identity Marker 173

in Chris Claremont’s Uncanny X-Men and New Mutants
Annie Burman
Maghrebian Diaspora and Immigrant Identity in 185

Farid Boudjellal’s L’Oud: La Trilogie
Tamara El-Hoss
‘This is Chaos’: Boundary Transgressions within 193

Batman: Year One and Arkham Asylum
Marcel Fromme and Nils Zumbansen
Graphic Life Writing in Kaisa Leka’s I Am Not These Feet 203

Leena Romu

The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and
Another Literature

I contend that the graphic novel will continue to displace (if
never completely replace) purely textual writing and that it will
eventually become the most popular form of reading.
Stephen E. Tabachnick1
The graphic narrative – in merging text with image – showcases an experiential

panorama of visceral emotions for the users. Central to the format are
considerations about the place of the image story in history and location. Both the
comic and the graphic novel appropriate and are appropriated by diverse media in
the enactment of individual, social and cultural identity. Intermediality morphs
literature into pictures; films into graphic narratives; images into frames; characters
into figurines, cosplay and board games whilst incorporating a host of flexible
production values linked to high/low graphic arts.
The eclectic volume encompasses a selection of papers from The Graphic
Novel 2nd Global Conference held at Mansfield College, Oxford in September
2013. The aim of the inter- and multi-disciplinary conference was to critically
engage with the production, creation and reading of comics and graphic novels.
The conference forms part of the Education Hub series of research projects, which
in turn belong to the At the Interface programmes of Inter-Disciplinary.Net.
Research scholars from across the globe gathered at The Graphic Novel 2
Conference to discuss a host of topics spanning the structure of the graphic novel,
city imaging, food fetishes, villains, autographics, intertextuality, political
cartoons, adaptations, performativity, psychoanalytical and semiotic discourse,
fantasy, time travel, code switching, Golden Age comics, parallel worlds,
Superhero guises, character patterning and shifting identities. Multimodal devices
are marshalled as tools to analyse the composition, reading and interpretation of
graphic narratives.
The unstoppable momentum of holistic literature promises a converged means
of expression that transcends the separation of print, digital and screen while
transporting the dialogue about comics into a central scenario of popular culture.
Throughout, the story stands strong in parallel with the probing of key concepts
such as boundary transgression, moral searching, and the predictiveness of ‘frame-
casting’ that allows feedback between the comic book frame and the silhouette of
the future city.
Headline themes of the conference ranged widely and interpreted the following:
• Just what makes a Graphic Novel so Graphic and so Novel?

• The Inner and Outer Worlds of the Graphic Novel

viii The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
__________________________________________________________________
• Identity, Meanings and Otherness
• To Infinity and Beyond: The Graphic Novel in the 21st
Century
Subthemes covered topics that comprised:
• Narratology
• Representations of graphic place and space
• Differing temporalities, Chronotopes and “time flies”
• Graphic Novel as autobiography, witness, diary and narrative
• Representations of disability, illness, coping and normality
• Immigration, postcolonial and stories of exile
• Politics, prejudices and polemics
• Gaming and merchandising
Graphic novel terminology can be contradictory. The term ‘graphic novel’ when
used to describe a format that combines words and sequential art to convey a
narrative tends to imprecision as graphic novels represent genres covering a
diversity of topics that range across fiction and factual while including biographical
and educational materials. Descriptions of graphic novels include ‘book-length
comic books’ or ‘book-length narratives’ presented in comic book style.
Extending the discussion on differences between comic books and graphic
novels, DifferenceBetween.net points to the following:
• Comics and graphic novels are often used interchangeably

due to their similar characteristics as published materials.
• Comics and graphic novels differ on how they are published.
Comics have a paper cover and are released in serial comic
magazines. Meanwhile, graphic novels are single published
materials often in book form and have softbound or
hardbound editions.
• The story in comics is released in parts while graphic novels
are released as a whole and stand-alone material.
• The storyline in comics can begin at any point of the story
while the graphic novel follows the typical pattern of novels
that involves a beginning, middle, and an ending.
• Comics often have a light comedy feel. In contrast, graphic
novels offer mature themes aimed at a young or adult
audience.

Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim ix
__________________________________________________________________
• As a serial, comic books have limited pages with cliffhangers
while a graphic novel’s page number total is dependent on its
story. The story in a graphic novel can unfold in one sitting.
• Comics are serials and are assigned an International Standard
Serial Number (ISSN) while graphic novels are considered
books and are registered with an International Standard Book
Number (ISBN).
• Content is the big, vague factor in both comics and graphic
novels. Some people think a graphic novel is a collection of
previously released works which to an extent is true.
However, a graphic novel can also contain nonfiction or
fiction work with or without common themes.2
Reflecting on the merging of words and images in the graphic novel provides a
useful background to what can appear to be a modern format. Historical evidence
shows that stories have been told through pictures and rock art since the dawn of
pre-historic man. ‘From the cave paintings of the Cro-Magnon Men to the
hieroglyphics of the Ancient Egyptians, graphic storytelling has been used as a
popular means for communicating thoughts and ideas.’3
The earliest paintings consisted of human figures, animals and abstract figures
with geometric origin. The images evolved to depict human figures painted in
black with charcoal. In the progression of human civilisation from hunter-gathering
to pastoral lifestyles, the sacred eland was replaced by tamed animals in the
pictures.
Rock art specialist David Lewis-Williams suggests that the paintings act as a
medium of communication with the spirit world and that the medicine people or
shamans, after emerging from a trance, would paint the images that had appeared
to them.4 Painted sites were storehouses of the potency that made contact with the
spiritual world possible.5 In a similar fashion the modern comic with its emphasis
on pictures functions as a medium of communication and as a storehouse of
unfolding cultures and belief systems.
The oldest known comic book, The Adventures of Obadiah Oldbuck, by
humourist Rudolphe Töpffer was penned in 1837. Comic book theorist Scott
McCloud recognises Töpffer as ‘the father of the modern comic’ for his use of
bordered panels and ‘the interdependent combination of words and pictures’.6 The
format of the modern comic book includes an extensive range of textual devices
and sketch effects such as speech balloons, onomatopoeia, and captions that
indicate narration, dialogue and sound effects. Examples include Bam! Zoom!
Whiz! Pow! Beep! Bang! Movement is added to the drawings on the page through
size and arrangement of panels that contribute to narrative pacing.

x The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
__________________________________________________________________
The merchandising possibilities of popular comic strips became apparent when
Richard Outcault’s comic strip character The Yellow Kid (1895) was used to
promote commercial products. An edition of Yellow Kid cartoons in book form
appeared in 1897 and can be considered the prototype for the financially successful
graphic novel. The Kid’s popularity led to his jug-eared, baby-faced, buck-toothed,
oversized yellow nightshirt street urchin image appearing on countless articles of
merchandise. The items ranged from toys and games to buttons, postcards, cigars,
matchbooks, chewing gum cards, cracker tins, sheet music, ladies’ fans, billboards
and whisky. The products were available in the New York area and continue to
fetch a high price amongst contemporary collectors. The Yellow Kid phenomenon
enticed retailers to use the merchandising attraction of comic book characters in the
promotion of their products.
Following his origination of The Yellow Kid, Richard Outcault went on to
create the Buster Brown character that appeared in comic strip format in 1902 in
the New York Herald. In 1903 the compilation Buster Brown and His Resolutions
became the first nationally distributed comic book when included as a promotional
tool in the sales catalogue of retailer Sears & Roebuck.
The comic strip introduced wealthy schoolboy prankster Buster Brown and
provided an insight into lifestyles in the USA in the early 1900s. The cheeky
character and his mischievous dog, Tige, became mascots for children’s footwear
firm Brown Shoe Company. The characters appeared in the Buster Brown Comics
when the company entered the comic book publishing industry. Buster Brown and
Tige’s popularity increased in the 1960s when they starred in the company’s
television commercials.
The advancements in the world of comics and graphic novels in the USA were
paralleled in Europe. In 1929 a popular series of comic albums titled The
Adventures of Tintin was created by Belgian cartoonist Georges Remi who wrote
under the pen name Hergé. In the guise of a young reporter, Tintin ‘keeps
travelling around the world and acts more like a detective always seeking the truth
and fighting against injustice’.7 His inseparable side-kick is a dog called Snowy.
The Tintin comics remain a perennial favourite and are widely translated and
adapted for radio, television, theatre and film. Other well-received European
comics include Lucky Luke (1946), The Smurfs (1958) and Asterix (1959).
Graphic narratives can be physically created from an array of printmaking and
other artistic materials that expand the traditional formats of comic books and
graphic novels. Lynd Ward’s influential wordless woodcuts of the 1930s prompted
acclaimed comic artist Art Spiegelman to declare him one of America’s most
distinguished and accomplished graphic novelists.8

Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim xi
__________________________________________________________________
Ward’s masterpiece Lynd Ward: Six Novels in Woodcuts secures his legacy in
the form of the stark, bold, intensely detailed wood engravings that provide a
‘meditation on both the nature of art and the nature of society before and during the
Great Depression’.9 The works skilfully interpret a number of social and labour
issues. At the end of each wordless story the artist’s comments about his creative
process and inspiration for the story add another layer to the audience’s own
visceral interpretation of the narrative.10 ‘Wordless yet speaking volumes about art
and social justice, [the compilation] is a beautiful and layered piece of cultural
history’.11
Although the graphic narrative originated in the 19th century it was not until
the 20th century that comic book heroes such as Superman (1938) became national
icons. The globalisation of publishing brands led by Marvel and DC has
precipitated an increase in graphic novel adaptations and their associated
merchandising. Movies that include X-men, Iron Man, Watchmen, Avengers and
Thor grossed millions of dollars worldwide and television series Buffy, Firefly and
Farscape have been continued off-screen in the graphic form.
The image story accelerated in 1978 when comic book artist and writer Will
Eisner linked the words ‘graphic’ and ‘novel’ to produce the first modern graphic
novel, A Contract with God. Set in the Bronx neighbourhood, the collection of
stories ‘examine the world of immigrant life in New York City in the 1930s with a
unique look at the emotion and character of its denizens’.12
Eisner extended the interpretation of the term ‘graphic novel’ to identify the
narrative distinctiveness13 and seriousness of the format and used the term to
describe ‘a number of his comic book tales collected under a single title, forming a
book-length publication’.14 Eisner invented the term to highlight a new seriousness
in approach that distinguished his work from ‘comic books, artifacts of popular
culture with a long history of stigmatization for their alleged less-than-edifying
content’.15 The approach proved successful as publishers picked up the term in
order to ‘sell adult comics to a wider audience by giving them another name,
specifically by associating them with novels, disassociating them from comics’.16
Eisner was convinced that his work would move beyond the classic comic book
which in the 70s was associated with sensational stories and tales of fictional
superheroes.17
Graphic literature as an art form spreads beyond America and Europe to the Far
East and Japan where different cultural and visual traditions have impacted on
graphic representations. Japanese manga and anime are characterised by their ‘mix
of harsh reality with the tantalizing world of fantasy’18 and have influenced comics
in Taiwan, South Korea, Hong Kong, China, France and the United States.
The growth and relevance of the graphic narrative have been extended by
independent publishers through works such as Maus by Art Spiegelman,
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi, Palestine by Joe Sacco, Epileptic by David B and
Jimmy Corrigan by Chris Ware. The themes deal with concerns such as gender,

xii The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
__________________________________________________________________
diaspora, post-colonialism, sexuality, globalisation and approaches to health, terror
and identity. In progressing to the online realm, the graphic novel appears in web-
comic and hypertext formats. Examples comprise John Cei Douglas’ Lost & Found
and Shelley Jackson’s Patchwork Girl. The online presence extends to trans-media
narratives and submersive worlds, as presented in the True Blood franchise that
invites fans to enter and participate in constructing a narrative in many varied
formats and locations.
When considering the expansive forms that communication and media have
taken in the graphic narrative format it is worth noting that the process has gone
full circle and is reflective of forms that appeared in early cave paintings. ‘Yet
even if the format has been employed in the past, the advent of the term ‘graphic
novel’ indicates a new recognition of its possibilities for the mediation of
storytelling. The graphic novel has thrived because of its ability to combine the
visual language of sequential art with the structured realism of the novel’.19
The visual storytelling format is resilient as it provides a vibrant and culturally
relevant means of communication whether expressed as sequential art, graphic
literature, webcomics, bandes dessinees, tebeos, fumetti, photonovels,
photographic comics, manga, manhwa, komiks, strips, historietas, quadrinhos,
beeldverhalen, or just plain old comics.20
Comics and graphic novels, both fiction and non-fiction, are used as
empowering narratives in the fields of development and social enablement. They
have the ability to foster tolerance, social cohesion, understanding and Ubuntu.21
Included in the volume is a chapter by Leena Romu that engages with an
autobiographical comic book by Kaisa Leka titled ‘I Am Not These Feet’ that
focuses on approaching disability with optimism. Leka invites people to read her
story and in an effort to reach readers who might not otherwise pick up a book
about disability she uses a protagonist that bears a resemblance to the lovable
Mickey Mouse. In a similar light, the web comic, ‘That Deaf Guy,’ by deaf
cartoonist Matt Daigle and his wife Kay, uses humour to provide insight into the
relationship hearing kids have with deaf parents. The cartoon de-mysticizes sign
language, teaches kids not to take anything for granted, and laughs at the day-to-
day concerns of parenthood.22
In reference to the educational impact of comics and graphic novels, librarians
Kristin Fletcher-Spear, Merideth Jenson-Benjamin and Teresa Copeland (2005)
note: ‘Because the image of comic books seems to fuel resistance to graphic novels
by many educators and librarians, correlating the benefits of graphic novels to
learning requires a change in the way they are viewed. Instead of thinking of them
as a genre, it is necessary to think of them as a format.’23
The visual medium is used to great advantage in literacy instruction, learning
new languages, and social justice projects. Encouraging learners from diverse
backgrounds, including those with disabilities, to create comics and graphic novels
can enhance awareness of issues that affect their lives and neighbourhoods, such as

Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim xiii
__________________________________________________________________
racism or xenophobia.24 An emphasis on drawing with pencil and paper can inspire
learners to create graphic narratives and enhance ‘handmade’ skills in the spirit of
the Maker Movement that is gaining momentum alongside the advances in digital
processes.
A number of Black comic book heroes such as Black Panther (1966) and the
Falcon (1969) were created by White artists. However, the graphic narrative
harbours a somewhat overlooked era of vibrant Black comic books whose artists
were often not recognised for their talent and who regularly worked under
awkward social conditions. Certain commentators have noted that a number of
Black creatives did make a name for themselves in the comic book industry. ‘Early
pioneers, such as the legendary Matt Baker, contributed to a number of mainstream
comics, breaking through the color barrier that kept African Americans segregated
in other popular media of the era.’25 Added to the mix of a complex socioeconomic
environment, contributing author Dwain C. Pruitt asserts that the cultural identity
of the creators of comic books does have significance in their art. Conversely,
other commentators claim that the cultural identity or colour of a creator’s skin
does not strongly influence the artistic nuances apparent in their artwork.
Another impactful contributor to the Black comic book scene was journalist
Orrin C. Evans. He started All-Negro Comics in 1947 and became the first Black
president of a comics publishing house. The main stars in All-Negro Comics were
Black, as were the characters, artists and writers.26
In response to the perceived dearth of superhero stories set in Africa, a
selection of projects has been developed that includes: E.X.O. - The Legend of
Wale Williams; Oya: Rise of the Orishas; Jongo; Kwezi; The Problem With Cats;
and Night of the Witch - Tales from the Dark Continent. A South African horror
comic series, Night of the Witch, launched in the glow of Halloween 2015 and
linked to a KwaZulu-Natal horror film project reinforces the notion that comic
books and graphic narratives are gaining momentum in Africa. The emergence of
internationally recognised African superheroes has been discussed by global news
network CNN.27 In an e-mail communication on 27 September 2015, Peter Rorvik,
the Secretary General of Arterial Network (African arts think tank and networking
platform) states: ‘Comics already have a strong and sometimes under-exploited
presence in Africa, especially in Francophone Africa. Synergies between comics
and gaming also represent fertile potential, both at the level of design and
production, and in associated marketing and activity hubs.’28
The quest for Africa to represent itself through cultural production is mirrored
in a traditional Black doll created in 2007 by Nigerian businessman Taofick
Okoya. Known as the Queens of Africa doll, it represents ‘a doll that Nigerian girls
could identify with’29 in contrast to White-originated dolls that flood international
markets. The doll is so popular that it is outselling the ubiquitous Barbie doll in
Nigeria.30

xiv The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
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A further extension to the new wave of African merchandising linked to
fantasy, graphic narratives, tabletop board games and the determined search for
African superheroes finds expression in the board game After Robot developed by
Black game designer Tsitsi Chiumya. The tabletop game delves into the intricacies
of the South African taxi industry and features highly contested and lucrative
routes throughout Gauteng. In what acts as an expansion of the placemaking
process, there are ambitious plans to ‘add boards for Durban, Cape Town and other
cities in Africa where … the minibus taxi is an integral part of every day life’.31
Casting the complexities and prospects of the graphic narrative into the future,
the central problematic becomes: Are comic books and graphic novels where the
publishing industry is or should be going? If the industry is heading somewhere, is
it the right direction? The issues can be unsettling for readers, writers and the
industry.
Considerations include:
Are graphic novels the way of the future for the publishing
industry?
What will bookstores be buying for their comic departments over

the next ten years?
The potential contribution of tabletop gaming rooms to the

economic survival of comic books, figurines and the retail store?
Africa – The springboard for the next Golden Age of Comic

Books?
Does the future of e-reading spell the death of paperback books

(floppy comics)?
Recent industry figures appear to indicate a slight shift back to the printed
book.32 Might the shift become a trend as the e-book declines in popularity linked
to the perceived decrease in the use of existing e-readers?
The extended graphic capabilities of the new generation of digital platforms
including smartphones and tablets are appealing to readers and allow content
creators to conveniently bypass traditional publishers and sell direct to the public.33
The newer mobile devices allow opportunities for the graphic narrative format to
be readily packaged for consumption and could conceivably expand the market for
image stories.
The new literary form – is it the Graphic Novel?

Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim xv
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The questioning continues and as the opening quote by Tabachnick asserts,
perhaps the graphic novel is trending towards ‘another literature’ in kaleidoscopic,
unfolding facets.
The above considerations will need to be typically addressed as the publishing
industry grapples with a rapidly transitioning edutainment environment that will
see certain knowledge and gaming platforms make way for a looming unchartered
terrain in the delivery and reception of literary merchandising by diverse
audiences.
Now is the moment for the sands of time to crash through the hour-glass to
shrug aside the sniggering ‘It’s rather graphic’ and rage into a resounding hurrah of
‘Wow that’s totally graf-lit’. The age has arrived for the comic book and graphic
novel to take up their primary place on the sequined sofa in the edgy lounge of
popular culture.
Comic art does possess the potential for the most serious and
sophisticated literary and artistic expression, and we can only
hope that future artists will bring the art form to full fruition.34
Notes
1
Stephen E. Tabachnick, ‘A Comic-Book World’, World Literature Today 81.2
(2007): 28.
2
‘Difference between Comics and Graphic Novels’, Difference Between, Viewed
26 June 2015,
http://www.differencebetween.net/miscellaneous/culture-miscellaneous/difference-
between-comics-and-graphic-novels/#ixzz3cxBv5rKL.
3
Stan Tychinski. ‘A Brief History of the Graphic Novel’, Viewed 9 June 2015,
http://www.diamondbookshelf.com/Home/1/1/20/164?articleID=64513.
4
David J. Lewis-Williams, Believing and Seeing: Symbolic Meanings in Southern
San Rock Paintings (London: Academic Press, 1981).
5
Ibid.
6
Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York:
HarperCollins, 1993).
7
‘Tintin: Profession’, Tintin.com. Viewed 26 June 2015,
http://en.tintin.com/personnages/show/id/15/page/0/0/tintin.
8
Art Spiegelman. ‘The Woodcuts of Lynd Ward’. The Paris Review, last modified
13 October 2010, Viewed 15 June 2015,
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2010/10/13/the-woodcuts-of-lynd-ward/.
9
Maria Popova. ‘Depression-Era Woodcuts by Lynd Ward, Father of the Graphic
Novel’, Viewed 15 June 2015,
http://www.brainpickings.org/2011/10/19/lynd-ward-box-set/.

xvi The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
__________________________________________________________________
10
Ibid.
11
Ibid.
12
The Will Eisner Web, ‘A Contract With God’, Viewed 19 October 2015,
http://www.willeisner.com/library/a-contract-with-god.html.
13
Lukasz Gazur, ‘Graphic Novel: Anachronism or Future?’ Museum of
Contemporary Art in Krakow, Viewed 6 June 2015,
https://en.mocak.pl/graphic-novel-anachronism-or-future-lukasz-gazur.
14
Jon Thompson, ‘Graphic Novel’, The Chicago School of Media Theory, Viewed
19 October 2015,
https://lucian.uchicago.edu/blogs/mediatheory/keywords/graphic-novel/.
15
Ibid.
16
Roger Sabin, Comics, Comix & Graphic Novels (London: Phaidon Press
Limited, 1996), 165.
17
Gazur, ‘Graphic Novel: Anachronism or Future?’.
18
Eri Izawa. ‘What are Manga and Anime?’ last modified 2005, Viewed 19
October 2015, http://www.mit.edu/~rei/Expl.html.
19
Thompson, ‘Graphic Novel’.
20
Paul Gravett. ed., 1001 Comics You Must Read Before You Die (New York:
Universe, 2011).
21
‘Ubuntu’ is a word used by the Zulu people of South Africa, and is
difficult to translate into English because it has many different
connotations associated with it. Roughly, it means humanness, and it
often figures into the maxim that ‘a person is a person through other
persons’. This maxim has descriptive senses to the effect that one’s
identity as a human being causally and even metaphysically depends
on a community. It also has prescriptive senses to the effect that one
ought to be a mensch, in other words, morally should support the
community in certain ways.
See Thaddeus Metz, ‘Toward an African Moral Theory’, The Journal of Political
Philosophy, 15(3): 321-41, 2007, Viewed 8 March 2015,
https://ujdigispace.uj.ac.za/bitstream/handle/10210/2416/Metz%20Toward%20Afri
can%20Moral%20Theory.pdf.txt?sequence=3).
22
Eli Van Sickel, ‘10 Reasons Why “That Deaf Guy” Web Comic Is Awesome’,
BuzzFeed last modified 3 April 2013, Viewed 17 June 2015,
http://www.buzzfeed.com/amsterdamshusi/10-reasons-why-this-deaf-web-comic-
is-awesome-a0g5.
23
Kristin Fletcher-Spear, Merideth Jenson-Benjamin and Teresa Copeland, ‘The
Truth about Graphic Novels: A Format, Not a Genre’, USA: The ALAN Review 37
(2005), Viewed 27 June 2015,
https://scholar.lib.vt.edu/ejournals/ALAN/v32n2/fletcherspear.pdf.

Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim xvii
__________________________________________________________________
24
Pam Watts, The Social Justice League’, 49(Spring 2015), Viewed 15 June 2015,
http://www.tolerance.org/magazine/number-49-spring-2015/feature/social-justice-
league.
25
Randy Duncan and Matthew J. Smith. ‘The Power of Comics: History, Form and
Culture’. New York: Continuum, 2009: 261.
26
Ricky Riley. ‘5 Interesting Things You May Not Know About Black History in
Comic Books’. Blerds last modified 15 May 2015, Viewed 19 October 2015,
http://blerds.atlantablackstar.com/2015/05/15/5-interesting-things-you-may-not-
know-about-black-history-in-comic-books/2/.
27
Lauren Said-Moorhouse, ‘Is it Time for an African Superhero to Save the Day?’
last modified 23 June 2015, Viewed 19 October 2015,
http://edition.cnn.com/2015/06/23/africa/nigeria-superhero/index.html.
28
Peter Rorvik (Secretary General, Arterial Network), ‘Comments re Comics in the
City’ (e-mail). 27 September 2015.
29
Bianca London, ‘Nigerian Doll Created by Man who Couldn’t Find a Black Toy
for His Niece Is so Popular in His Country that It’s Outselling BARBIE’.
MailOnline, last modified 30 January 2015, Viewed 23 June 2015,
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2931846/Nigerian-doll-created-man-
couldn-t-black-toy-niece-popular-country-s-outselling-
BARBIE.html#ixzz3dGlODSUl.
30
Ibid.
31
Adam Oxford. ‘Meet after Robot, a Board Game about South African Teksis’.
Hypertext Media Communications, last modified 10 October 2014, Viewed 19
October 2015, http://www.htxt.co.za/2014/10/10/meet-after-robot-a-board-game-
about-south-african-teksis/.
32
Michael Kozlowski, ‘Print Makes a Comeback at the Expense of e-Readers’,
Good e-Reader, last modified 30 January 2015, Viewed 19 October 2015,
http://goodereader.com/blog/electronic-readers/print-makes-a-comeback-at-the-
expense-of-e-readers.
33
Mathew Ingram. ‘No, E-Book Sales are not Falling, Despite what Publishers
Say’. Fortune, last modified 24 September 2015, Viewed 24 October 2015,
http://fortune.com/2015/09/24/ebook-sales/.
34
Lawrence L. Abbott, ‘Comic Art: Characteristics and Potentialities of a
Narrative Medium’, Journal of Popular Culture 19.4 (1986): 176.
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Medium’. Journal of Popular Culture 19.4 (1986):155-76.

xviii The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
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Difference Between. ‘Difference between Comics and Graphic Novels’. Accessed

June 26, 2015.
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between-comics-and-graphic-novels/#ixzz3cxBv5rKL.
Duncan, Randy and Smith, Matthew J. The Power of Comics: History, Form and
Culture. New York: Continuum, 2009.
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Truth about Graphic Novels: A Format, Not a Genre’. USA: The ALAN Review,
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Gazur, Lukasz. ‘Graphic novel Anachronism or future?’. Museum of

Contemporary Art in Krakow. Accessed June 6, 2015.
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Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim xix
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London, Bianca. ‘Nigerian doll created by man who couldn’t find a black toy for
his niece is so popular in his country that it’s outselling BARBIE’. MailOnline.
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BARBIE.html#ixzz3dGlODSUl.
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xx The Graphic Narrative, Heightened Versatility and Another Literature
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league.

Part I
The Graphic Narrative

More than Simply a Flash of Colour:
The True Rhetorical Power of Superhero Style
Jonathan C. Evans
Abstract
The Ancient Greeks had a term, skandalon, that was defined in one of its
definitions is defined as a kind of ‘stumbling block’ or something that may be
around you, in the everyday, that one day you ‘stumble’ while walking past and
that forces you to take a much closer look at it. Comic books are evolving into just
that kind of skandalon in our world today. With the advent and popularity of
movies and films based on comic books and comic book superheroes, why is it, for
some, impossible to think that such things as comic books superheroes should not
be studied or not be taken seriously? Superheroes are a mirror upon the real world.
Studying superheroes, like any other medium, requires humanity to look at itself –
like the plays of Shakespeare (that were themselves just ‘popular’ entertainment in
his time). We love Shakespeare because his plays and words have and continue to
inspire. Some say that comic books are trash, but in reality they are more akin to
our own modern mythology, our ability to tell stories that inspire us – just like
Shakespeare. It is the ideas that are expressed within that are the true measure of a
stories worth, and comic book superheroes (returned ‘gods’ from ancient Olympus
and man’s past) have the potential to express many ideas through the lens of
semiotic action of signified and signifier. To study superheroes is to study the ideas
and archetypes that form the core of human hopes, aspirations, and ideas that
inspire us to look for and create a better ‘real’ world. Comic book superheroes, at
their core, represent a rhetorical opportunity to self-examine and explore humanity,
like any other piece of literature, in order to discover what inspires us to create a
better world.
Key Words: Skandalon, rhetoric, comic books, superheroes, semiotics,

mythology, stories, Shakespeare.
*****
1. Superhero and Grand Expressions

Superhero comics are not pop culture trash nor throwaway artwork, but they
have been mistaken for such since their modern inception in 1938. However, like
many objects of aesthetic nature, comic books, particularly comic book
superheroes, must be viewed within larger contexts to realise both their own
origins and their current and future potentials. The rhetorical potential of
superheroes stems from their capacity to both embody and communicate human
potential, values, and imagination through the visual medium they inhabit. It is the
ability of superheroes, such as Superman, to convey their message within the grand

4 More Than Simply a Flash of Colour
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style of rhetorical expression that allows their stories to take flight within the
human imagination. There is a need to recognise that potential of the comic book
superhero to leap another tall building, one of the common misconceptions that is
something childish and foolish, and embrace the potential ability of such a medium
and the stories they tell to act as objects of human self-expression and self-
exploration. Grant Morrison’s works, such as Arkham Asylum and All-Star
Superman, demonstrate a strong application, on his part, of a modern interpretation
on grand classical rhetorical style.
2. A Classical Style
It was Aristotle, in Book III of his work The Rhetoric, who first – as he
discussed the Epic in his The Poetic – recorded the value and the rhetorical
importance of style. In The Poetics, he points out: ‘For it is not enough to know
what we ought to say; we must also say it as we ought…’.1 Aristotle acknowledges
that knowing the content is only the first step; one has to be able to know how to
express that knowledge to others – to communicate. He notes that it is also
important that a rhetorician know that what they speak of (or express visually) ‘be
appropriate, avoiding both meanness and undue elevation’. 2 Aristotle expresses
that there is some implied division of style, different levels, but these ‘divisions’
would not fully be articulated until the Rhetorica ad Herennium in the early 1st
century C.E. In Book IV, the ad Herennium discusses that there are three ‘kinds of
style, called types, to which discourse…confines itself: the first we call the Grand;
the second, the Middle; the third, the Simple’. 3 This is the real, first recorded
division of style into three ‘types’.
Ancient Rome, unlike ancient Greece, placed more emphasis both on the
development of rhetoric as a public tool – a greater systemisation and organisation
– of discourse and oratory as it pertained to the interlocking elements of public life,
civil law courts, and politics. The writing of ad Herennium, for a long time
mistakenly accredited to Marcus Tullius Cicero, stands as the earliest known
surviving treatise on rhetorical style and the divisions. The time at which the text
was compiled represented the high-water mark for the Roman Republic as it stood
on the edge of political chaos. The ad Herennium expounds upon the three styles
or types, highlighting that:
The Grand type consists of a smooth and ornate arrangement of

impressive words. The Middle type consists of words of a lower,
yet not of the lowest and most colloquial class of words. The
Simple type is brought down even to the most current idiom of
standard speech.4
Each style was given a particular place, a field of usage. The Grand has often
been associated with persuasion of an audience, the Middle with bringing

Jonathan C. Evans 5
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entertainment and delight to an audience, and the Simple with educating an
audience. These designations are somewhat arbitrary if one aims to instruct
someone, the use of ornate language can lose meaning with them. If one seeks to
entertain, one might wish to chart a middle course with language complicated, yet
not too complicated as to lose your audience but with flare to promote their
enjoyment. Finally, the grand style represents the most advanced, with ornate
language aimed at moving an audience, not unlike 17th century writer and essayist
Sir Francis Bacon’s definition of rhetoric as ‘to apply Reason to Imagination for
the better moving of the will’. 5 For it is the Grand style, according to the ad
Herennium, that one applies an idea with ‘the most ornate words that can be found
for it, whether literal or figurative; if impressive thoughts are chosen, such…are
used in [the use of figures, such as] Amplification…’.6 Rhetorical figures, such as
amplification, aim to help impress upon an audience the message of the speaker via
language or some form of communication. Richard Lanham, in his work A
Handlist of Rhetorical Terms, points to how figures fall within stylistic concerns of
rhetoric and whether referred to as figures or tropes, the ‘terms have been used
interchangeably at one time or another to refer to the numerous devices of
language’ often deployed by a speaker/writer. 7 Ultimately, they serve to help
expound and embellish the message as to move the speaker.
Returning to ad Herennium, it is noted, that like with all things pertaining to
rhetoric (for the Roman’s oratory), variation and appropriateness were required. It
is declared that ‘…in speaking we should vary the type of style, so that the middle
succeeds the grand and the simple the middle, and then again interchange them,
and yet again’. 8 It is the responsibility of the speaker/orator, or writer, or
sometimes the artist, to be and act with awareness of how and what choices of style
that are made will have upon the audience. The application of style is chained to
some degree to the Greek word for Kairos, and the ability to know when and where
to use the right words (or images).
In De Oratore, Cicero examines style that is not much different from how
Aristotle discussed it, as a means of expressing knowledge. However, in his later
work, the Orator, a more expanded treatment of ‘what’ style was rather than what
it is good for is presented. In discussing the orator, Cicero states that the one ‘of the
third style is magnificent, opulent, stately and ornate; he undoubtedly has the
greatest power…eloquence has power to sway men’s minds and move them in
every possible way. Now it storms the feelings, now it creeps in; it implants new
ideas and uproots the old…’. 9 Again, there is a power in style, a power in
‘imagination’ to refer again to Bacon’s later definition of rhetoric – that is at work
in Cicero’s definition of the Grand style here. He was describing something that is
of immense power. Cicero later refers to the orator as ‘the chief’ [who] makes use
of the ‘grand, impetuous and fiery’.10 He goes on to note regarding the other styles,
that

__________________________________________________________________
For the Plain orator is esteemed wise because he speaks clearly
and adroitly; the one who employs the middle style is charming;
but the copius speaker [the Grand] [who] seems to be scarcely
sane…to be a raving mad man among the sane.11
For Cicero, the ability or willingness of the ‘grand’ orator was the pursuit of
‘weighty affairs,’ those of eloquent and devoted importance rather than the trivial
and everyday.
The early 1st century C.E. writer Longinus, in his work On The Sublime, noted
that something that lends itself well to notions and ‘production of grandeur,
magnificence and urgency…is visualization (phantasia)…what some people call
image-production’.12 Longinus was not specifically referencing the Grand style of
rhetoric or the use of images as per se comic books, but the notions he was
expressing here do reflect well on the depiction or production of images as
beneficial to one wishing to convey elements that would be found in a grand
rhetorical style. He recounts that the word
phantasia is used generally for anything which in any way

suggests a thought…but the word has also [become applied to]
enthusiasm and emotion [that] make the speaker see what he is
saying and bring it visually before his audience.13
It can appear that the proper use of style, by a speaker, writer, or illustrator
could help to generate for the audience a kind of phantasia, a visualisation of what
is being spoken about. Longinus’s notions could be viewed as part of what the
comic book medium and style attempt to do for the audience – generate imagery to
go along with the story.
Ann Barry, a perceptional theorist, noted as a potential ‘visual turn’ that ‘it is
images, not words, that communicate most deeply,’ that the expression of visual
images is not unlike the spoken or written word.14 This is not unlike how Cicero
expressed his feelings about the use of the ‘grand style’ in persuasion; the ability to
promote deep feeling in an audience is part of a particular strength of grand style
when applied to visual imagery. In fact, in an increasingly visual age – with movies
and advertisement growing; even literature itself is being reformatted into graphic
novel forms – it is important to realise the power of symbolic images, such as
superheroes and the power they can have to teach, delight, and persuade through
rhetorical style.
3. A Visual Style
Renowned cartoonist and comic book pioneer Will Eisner in his book Comics
and Sequential Art, points out that imagery, like written language, serves and acts
as a communicator. Eisner notes that

Jonathan C. Evans 7
__________________________________________________________________
Comprehension of an image requires a commonality of
experience…the success or failure of this method of
communicating depends upon the ease with which the reader
recognizes the meaning and emotional impact of the image.15
The power of visual images lies heavily within the folds of collective values
and recognisable concepts. Chaim Perelman and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca, in their work
The New Rhetoric, identify that when looking for objects of agreement, values fall
within a second grouping, ‘concerning the preferable, comprising values,
hierarchies, and lines of argument relating to the preferable’.16 These ideas foster
agreement within their conception of a ‘universal audience,’ one that is unknown.
Expanding on how values work, they note that
Agreement with regard to a value means an admission that an

object, a being, or an ideal must have a specific influence on
action and on disposition toward action and that one can make
use of this influence in an argument’.17
To apply this idea, what better way could one hope for to examine a value
within a stylistic examination than with Superman and Batman– an object (comic
book character), a being (a superhero), and an ideal (symbolically representative of
America).
Specifically concerning how superheroes function within this visual
framework, is the work of comic book writer Grant Morrison. Right out the gate
Morrison, in his work Supergods, does something that few may have seriously
attempted to do in a previous interpretation of comic book superheroes – he
attempts to rhetorically analyse the rhetorical meaning and style of the covers of
the first appearances of Superman and Batman.18 Morrison conducts a rhetorical
analysis that sets a tone early on that there is something more to comic books than
simply trash or a medium of kids and young adults. He immediately sets an
academic tone, a serious tone, a more than what is apparent realisation that
connects the comic book artefact to the perceptions and potential reactions of an
audience. So, who is the audience? Well, when these comic books were first
published the obvious audience was kids and young adults. What then enhances
that appeal and why should adults care about what ‘comic books’ have to say? The
message, as Morrison dissects, reveals something that is not ‘throw away’ but
rather a complex layer of dramatic interaction and communication, what Kenneth
Burke alluded to as his Dramatic Pentad or Dramatism, and terminology that ties
into Eisner’s ideas of imagery functioning as communicator and as rhetorical
artefact.
The aim of Morrison’s Supergods, particularly, is to project the idea, the notion
that

__________________________________________________________________
superhero stories speak loudly and boldly to our greatest fears,
deepest longings, and highest aspirations. They’re not afraid to
be hopeful, not embarrassed to be optimistic, and utterly fearless
in the dark…We should listen to what they have to tell us.19
For Morrison, superhero stories contain something quintessential to human

existence. In particular, Morrison’s own work tends to lend itself quite well to the
notions found in ‘grand’ rhetorical style.
4. The Grand-High Style

High/Grand style is often employed to move/persuade an audience. Many
works by Grant Morrison, such as his and Frank Quitely’s All-Star Superman and
his and Dave McKean’s Batman: Arkham Asylum illustrate intricate stories written
and drawn with purposes aimed deep, archetypal explorations of the characters
represented in them. Both of these stories aim at a deeper exploration of what lies
at the heart of what both Superman and Batman are, their very ‘essence’. In the
beginning of his books Supergods, Morrison prominently notes the juxtaposition of
these two characters and their emergence as the forerunners of the modern comic
book superhero in 1938 and 1940. The characters represent two of the most
prominent and iconic superhero comic book personas. Grand style, as laid out by
Cicero in Orator, should ideally serve to move an audience via persuasion and the
anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium particularly notes that the grand style aims to
create and generate ‘amplification’. Central to the grand style is ‘amplification,’
but there is more needed to make persuasion really work. Borrowing from the
Rhetorica ad Herennium, Chaim Perelman states ‘that hypotyposis [demonstration]
is the figure that ‘sets things out in such a way that the matter seems to unfold, and
the thing to happen under our eyes.’20 This rhetorical figure describes what comic
books, in appearances, as a medium does inherently. Comic books lay out,
visually, a story that one can follow and contain messages that can exemplify and
amplify the struggles and ‘better natures’ of the human existence (in line with
McCloud’s definition).
Morrison’s writing, in both works and with both characters, attempts to draw
sharp explorations of what lies within these two characters – their essence and their
function as mythic, archetypal figures. His work pushes beyond the traditional
identification that a reader/audience would have with the characters. Instead, what
is at work is a deeper, and at some points psychological exploration, a
determination of their own motives, and deconstruction of the characters
themselves as complicated, self-determined characters. In Arkham Asylum: A
Serious House on Serious Earth, Morrison attempts to apply an inversion to a
typical Batman story and his struggles against his ‘rogue’s gallery’ of villains and
adversaries. It’s a little bit like Alice in Wonderland; Batman is forced, as Morrison
intentionally renders the story as self-contained within Arkham Asylum, to

Jonathan C. Evans 9
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confront the question ‘am I crazy’? Arkham Asylum, which is where many of
Batman’s villains as ‘insane’ are incarcerated, is utilised as a larger symbolic
metaphor for Batman’s own psyche.21 What is crucially at work is the realisation
that Batman is irreconcilably linked to the villains he fights – like any hero, but
particularly for Batman, his villains define him and vice versa. Morrison exploits
this concept of the hero and villain inter-connection to play out an internal self-
exploration of Batman’s psyche, self-contained in Arkham (his mind, his
subconscious) set against his inner demons (his adversaries such as The Joker, Two
Face, and Killer Croc). The story has a twofold impact, allowing for the external
story of Batman’s attempt to resolve a standoff in Arkham with his adversaries as
representative of an internal conflict of Batman versus the suggested realisation
made by the Joker at the beginning of the story that Arkham is where he, himself,
belongs – that Batman is insane.22
This story is itself littered with Jungian archetypal depictions. Morrison openly
admits, in Supergods, that the story ‘would be dense, symbolic, interior…A story
not of the real world but the inside of a head – Batman’s head, our collective
head’. 23 The story itself has a side narrative involving the founder of Arkham
Asylum, Amadeus Arkham, who in his pursuit to treat the mentally ill ends up
losing his family to the killer he was treating. Arkham eventually disappears, after
going insane, but not before leaving behind a realisation that the archetype of the
‘bat’ is a symbol of insanity.
In All-Star Superman, Morrison attempts almost an inverse of what he
produced with Dave McKean in Batman: Arkham Asylum. Along with Frank
Quitely, Morrison sets out to illustrate how Superman as a character resonates on a
level that allows him to serve as the paradigm for human aspiration and inspiration.
Morrison and Quitely are able to demonstrate how the superhero acts, in much the
same way as Ancient Greeks and Romans sometimes viewed their gods, as an
intermediator, protector, and guide for humanity.
Morrison intentionally utilises his work with Superman to highlight the
potential of the character as a mythological demi-god. Early on in the text, after
Superman discovers he is ‘dying’ from over exposure to the sun’s radiation, he is
informed that before he dies he will undertake mythical labours, like those of
Hercules, as part of his final legacy to mankind. 24 During Morrison’s tenure as
writer for DC’s JLA re-launch in 1997, it was noted by Morrison himself, in his
Supergods, that he intentionally modelled the team, of which Superman was a
member, on the Ancient Greek Pantheon. He said he wanted the JLA to be ‘a
modern Mount Olympus [with] new members to adhere more closely to the line-up
of Greek gods’.25 Morrison specifically structures the stories of Superman, within
All-Star Superman, in a mythological manner that raises Superman to the pinnacle
of archetypal expressions of Superman as a representation of what is potentially
great in mankind – he does this by highlighting, through examples, how Superman
selflessly acts to help others. The embodiment of Superman as the highest form of

__________________________________________________________________
human ideals shines through in the fact that Superman does not simply help those
in need, but goes out of his way to help even his enemies – particularly his arch-
nemesis Lex Luthor. As Clark Kent, Superman saves Luthor during an interview
after the facility he is held at breaks out into a prison riot.26
5. Conclusion
Superhero comic books, particularly the works of Grant Morrison, fully
embrace the grand narrative style of expression. His stories act as modern epics,
and though they are continuous stories they have ‘arcs’ that help focus the
storytelling into forms appropriate for the epic genre of expression. Morrison’s
strongest works develop out of his ability to embrace and utilise the grand
rhetorical style, evident in Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth and
All-Star Superman, and pull together elements of myth, epic narratives, and the
grand style to amplify the potential meanings embodied within superhero comic
book characters.
Notes
1
Aristotle, The Poetics, trans. Ingram Bywater (New York: The Modern Library,
1984), 164.
2
Ibid., 167.
3
Rhetorica ad Herennium. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce Herzberg, eds., The
Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition
(Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001), 248.
4
Ibid., 248.
5
Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning: The Rhetorical Tradition:
Readings from Classical Times to the Present, eds. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce
Herzberg, 2nd edition (Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001), 743.
6
Rhetorica ad Herennium, 248.
7
Richard A. Lanham, A Handlist of Rhetorical Terms, 2nd edition (Berkeley: U of
California P, 1991), 178.
8
Rhetorica ad Herennium, 215-16.
9
Marcus Tullius Cicero, De Oratore. The Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from
Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition. Ed. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce
Herzberg. (Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001), 342.
10
Ibid.
11
Ibid., 342-3.
12
Longinus. On the Sublime. Translated by D. A. Russell. The Rhetorical
Tradition: Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition. Ed. Patricia
Bizzell and Bruce Herzberg. (Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001), 356.
13
Ibid.

Jonathan C. Evans 11
__________________________________________________________________
14
Barry, Ann Marie. Visual Intelligence: Perception, Image, and Manipulation in
Visual Communication (Albany: State U of New York P, 1997), 75.
15
Eisner, Will. Comics and Sequential Art: Principles and Practices from the
Legendary Cartoonist (New York: W. W. Norton & Co, 2008), 7-8.
16
Perelman, Chaim and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca. The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on
Argumentation. Translated by John Wilkinson and Purcell Weaver (Notre Dame: U
of Notre Dame P. 1969), 66.
17
Ibid., 74.
18
Morrison, Grant. Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and
A Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us About Being Human (New York:
Spiegel & Grau, 2012), 22-69.
19
Morrison, Supergods, xvii.
20
Perelman, Chaim. The Realm of Rhetoric. Translated by William Kluback (Notre
Dame: U of Notre Dame P, 1982), 38.
21
Morrison, Grant and Dave McKean. Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on
Serious Earth (New York: DC Comics, 2005).
22
Ibid.
23
Morrison, Supergods, 225.
24
Morrison, Grant. All-Star Superman (New York: DC Comics, 2010).
25
26
Morrison, Grant. All-Star Superman, 118-24
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Aristotle. The Poetics. Translated by Ingram Bywater. New York: The Modern
Library, 1984.
Aristotle. The Rhetoric. Translated by W. Rhys Roberts. New York: The Modern
Library, 1984.
Bacon, Francis. The Advancement of Learning. The Rhetorical Tradition: Readings

from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition. Ed. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce
Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001.740-45.
Barry, Ann Marie. Visual Intelligence: Perception, Image, and Manipulation in

Visual Communication. Albany: State U of New York P, 1997.
Cicero, Marcus Tullius. De Oratore. The Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from

Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition. Ed. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce
Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001.289-339.

__________________________________________________________________
———. Orator. Translated by G. L. Hendrickson and H. M. Hubbell. The

Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition.
Ed. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001. 339-
343
Eisner, Will. Comics and Sequential Art: Principles and Practices from the
Legendary Cartoonist. New York: W. W. Norton & Co, 2008.
Lanham, Richard A. A Handlist of Rhetorical Terms. 2nd edition. Berkeley: U of

California P, 1991.
Longinus. On the Sublime. Translated by D. A. Russell. The Rhetorical Tradition:

Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition. Ed. Patricia Bizzell and
Bruce Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001. 346-358.
McCloud, Scott. Making Comics: Storytelling Secrets of Comics, Manga and

Graphic Novels. New York: Harper, 2006.
———. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperPerennial,

1994.
Morrison, Grant. Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and A

Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us About Being Human. New York: Spiegel
& Grau, 2012.
Morrison, Grant and Dave McKean. Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious
Earth. New York: DC Comics, 2005.
Morrison, Grant and Frank Quitely. All-Star Superman, Vol. 1. New York: DC
Comics, 2008.
Morrison, Grant. All-Star Superman, Vol. 2. New York: DC Comics, 2010.
Perelman, Chaim and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca. The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on

Argumentation. Translated by John Wilkinson and Purcell Weaver. Notre Dame: U
of Notre Dame P. 1969.
Perelman, Chaim. The Realm of Rhetoric. Translated by William Kluback. Notre

Dame: U of Notre Dame P, 1982.

Jonathan C. Evans 13
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Rhetorica ad Herennium. Translated by Harry Caplan. The Rhetorical Tradition:

Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd edition. Ed. Patricia Bizzell and
Bruce Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001. 243-282.
Jonathan Evans is a recent graduate of Texas Woman’s University in Denton, TX

with a PhD in Rhetoric. His dissertation focused on Comic Book Superheroes as
rhetorical models, particularly Superman, while his Master’s Thesis at
Northwestern State University examined the role of semiotics generated through
both images and literature. His ongoing research is examining the impact and
practicality of visual rhetoric in the FYC (First-Year Composition) classroom. He
is currently a faculty member at the Spring Creek Campus of Collin College.

Images in Space: The Challenges of Architectural
Spatiality in Comics
Daniel Merlin Goodbrey
Abstract
A selection of hypercomics that extend the concept of the Infinite Canvas are
examined to address the challenges of architectural spatiality. As comics gradually
leave behind the trappings of the printed page, the language and tropes unique to
print are slowly being modified and replaced by new structures native to the
screen. Infinite Canvas comics have expanded and made explicit the spatial
network at the heart of the medium. The hypercomic form has introduced new
approaches to the creation of branching, multicursal narrative structures.
Videogame tropes and game spaces have merged with the comics medium,
creating distinct new hybrid forms. As the medium becomes increasingly distanced
from its origins in print, it becomes essential to consider other forms comics could
potentially adopt as a result of this shift in their underlying tropes and processes.
The chapter takes as its primary case study an architecturally mediated hypercomic
created as a practice-lead inquiry into the workings of the form. Alongside comics
theory, the paper draws on the study of narrative space within videogames and new
media. It considers the use of tropes appropriated from digital comics and explores
the tension between fixed sequence and freeform exploration inherent in
architecturally mediated works. Ways in which the relative position in three
dimensional space between reader and panel sequence can be used for narrative
effect are explored. An analysis of how spatial depth impacts on the reader’s
experience of panel sequences is included whilst considering the narrative and
navigational roles played by perceptual tags. Lastly, the importance of site
specificity in architecturally mediated works is examined.
Key Words: Hypercomics, architectural space, spatiality, digital comics,

videogames, installation art, practice.
*****
1. Introduction
A hypercomic is a comic with a multicursal narrative structure.1 This means the
reader of a hypercomic must make deliberate choices as to the path they take
through the comic’s narrative. Typically, these choices may influence:
the sequence in which events are encountered, the outcome of

events or the point of view through which events are seen.2

16 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
In an architecturally mediated hypercomic, this multicursal structure is
designed to inhabit and be navigated via a real world, three dimensional
environment. In his book Comics Art, Paul Gravett asserts that a ‘wide-open space
for multicursal comics was provided by the white cube of the art gallery.’3
Referring to this emergent form as ‘gallery comics’,4 Gravett notes that these are
typically works ‘made specifically for exhibition and not necessarily for
[traditional] publication.’5
My own focus as a comics practitioner began in explorations of digital space

and experimentation with various different forms of screen-based hypercomic.
Over time the scope of the work widened to include a number of architecturally
mediated pieces. This led me to the discovery that many tropes of screen-based
comics could also be usefully applied to real world, three dimensional spaces. It
also caused me to wonder how the reader’s relationship to the comic form was
changed or disrupted via these acts of architectural mediation. To explore these
ideas in more depth I began a practice-led inquiry into architecturally mediated
comics. This culminated in 2013 with a public experiment into the potential of the
medium.
Image 1: Black Hats In Hell. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
The hypercomic Black Hats In Hell6 was installed in the Framework Gallery at
the University of Hertfordshire in April 2013 (Image 1). A second version of the
comic was then installed a few days later in the entranceway of the Platform
Theatre at Central St Martins in London. The plot of Black Hats was that of a
western. It told the story of two rival cowboys and the cycle of violence that lead to
both men’s eventual descent into Hell. The comic was a site specific work that
drew direct influence from the layout of the Framework Gallery. The later version
installed at the Platform Theatre was an adaptation of the original work that used a
new configuration of panels based on the layout of the theatre’s entranceway.

Daniel Merlin Goodbrey 17
__________________________________________________________________
The analysis of the comic has been structured across five interrelated areas. These
are: the use of digital comic tropes; the navigation of spaces; the role of links,
looking and signifiers; comics across three dimensions; and adapting work to new
spaces.
2. Digital Comic Tropes

In Reinventing Comics, Scott McCloud proposes that ‘the monitor which so
often acts as a page may also act as a window’7 on to significantly larger
arrangements of panels. This idea was taken up by early digital comic pioneers8
and soon became known popularly as the Infinite Canvas approach to comic
creation. In an architecturally mediated comic, a wall typically offers a space much
larger than a standard page and as such draws on a collection of tropes similar to
those found in the Infinite Canvas. While a wall remains more fixed and finite than
an equivalent digital space, both media present a creator with a reduced set of
spatial constraints. This allows for greater experimentation with the spatial
relationship between panels and builds on McCloud’s conception of comics as a
‘temporal map’9.
Image 2: Panel Spacing. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
In an Infinite Canvas comic, changes made to the spatial relationship between

panels can influence the reader’s interpretation of the passage of time within the
comic’s narrative.10 Black Hats makes use of this phenomena, keeping to a
standard spacing between the majority of its panels and then varying the distance
and positioning in certain sequences to achieve specific effects. A larger space
between panels in one sequence (Image 2) was used to indicate a longer period of
time passing between the depicted events. Parallel to this earthbound narrative,
another sequence set in Heaven runs higher up the wall. Here all the panels are
positioned much further apart to suggest a more gradual perception of the passing

18 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
of time. Elsewhere an isolated panel is separated in space from the rest of its
sequence (Image 1). This suggests a longer period of time passing without any
further events taking place, leaving the reader to dwell on the single depicted
image.
In an architecturally mediated comic, the relative position in space between
reader and panel sequence can also be used for narrative effect. In Black Hats, the
parts of the story that take place on earth are primarily displayed around eye-level,
locating the reader on the earthly plane. The reader then looks downwards towards
sequences set in Hell and upwards towards sequences set in Heaven. The idea of
Heaven as a higher plane and Hell as a lower one is reinforced through their spatial
positioning relative to the reader.
Image 3: Visual Onomatopoeics. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
Digital comics pioneer John Barber identified the concept of ‘visual

onomatopoeics’11 where the animated movement of a panel matches the action
depicted within the panel. In Black Hats, visual onomatopoeics can be seen
operating in sequences that show the characters rising or falling through space.
Events such as climbing a mountain, ascending towards Heaven or falling into Hell
are mimicked by rising or descending sequences of panels. To read a sequence
showing the fall of the cowboy into Hell (Image 3), the reader must tilt their head

__________________________________________________________________
to follow the panels down the wall. This physical movement on behalf of the
reader reinforces the dramatic nature of the fall depicted within the panels.
3. Navigating Spaces
When reading a traditional comic our eyes follow a linked path from panel to
panel across the page that allows us to understand the narrative contained in the
sequence. Comics theorist Jayms Nichols describes this path as ‘the raster of
reading’12 and further notes that:
Although the raster varies depending on the cultural norms and

differs from location to location, in western culture it usually
runs from left to right, top to bottom across the page.13
In contrast to this fixed reading raster, games theorist Michael Nitsche asserts
that three dimensional space:
implies the option of a different turn at any moment, a new

choice or a different perspective that outweighs traditional nodes
and links.14
Architecturally mediated comics exhibit a clear tension between the freeform

exploration inherent to three dimensional space and the fixed progression dictated
by the arrangement of panels in a sequence. Further complicating this relationship,
architectural spaces may also impose their own raster of reading on a sequence of
panels. This can at times be counter to the left to right, top to bottom raster of the
traditional western page.
PoCom15 was an architecturally mediated, collaborative hypercomic created for
the Concourse Gallery at the Institute of Contemporary Art in 2003. The 17 metre
long work was installed into a space that acted as an entranceway into the rest of
the building. As a result, the majority of foot traffic through the space moved from
right to left. The comic was therefore designed to be read from right to left, so that
the audience could progress through the comic at the same time they moved deeper
into the building. This decision impacted not only on the reading order of panels
but also on their content, which featured characters chiefly moving through the
frame from right to left rather than the more traditional left to right.
The Framework Gallery that contained Black Hats featured a similar flow
of right to left traffic. Accordingly the comic used the same approach taken in
PoCom, matching the raster of reading and flow of action internal to the panels to
the primary flow of people through the space. However, Black Hats was intended
for installation across multiple walls and occupied a space that was significantly
more varied in terms of layout. I became concerned that this could lead to choke
points in the gallery if all in attendance were funnelled to read the story from the

20 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
same starting point. The solution to this problem was to tell the story using a
looping narrative structure.
This approach was influenced by another architecturally mediated hypercomic,
Dave McKean's 2010 work, The Rut.16 The narrative of The Rut loops and
branches multiple times around the room in the Pumphouse Gallery for which it
was created. Gravette notes that the work came presented with ‘no instructions or
set order... [leaving visitors] ...to their own devices.’17 As such the layout
encouraged readers to chart their own paths of exploration through both the room
and the story it contained. In constructing Black Hats without a single clear start or
end point, readers could move into the space and choose their own point at which
to enter and follow the narrative loop. This approach built both on the nature of
three dimensional space to empower the reader with choice and the nature of the
hypercomic to create narrative pathways locally unique to each reader.
Image 4: Arbitrary Tags. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
4. Links, Looking and Signifiers

To make clear its reading order, PoCom made use of another Infinite Canvas
trope identified by McCloud; the trail.18 Trails are lines that serve as navigational
aids by linking together panels in the order they are intended to be read, making the
raster of reading visually explicit. Sometimes (as with PoCom) trails also include
an arrowhead or similar device to further reinforce the direction of reading.
However, given the looser, looping structure at work in Black Hats, I decided to
forgo the use of trails as an explicit signifier of reading order. Instead, positioned at
several points around the room were arrows to indicate the flow of time in the
narrative (Image 4). This approach presented the reader with a direct choice; to
read with the flow of time or against it. The arrows also serve as an example of
what theorist Alan Peacock describes as a ‘perceptual tag.’19

__________________________________________________________________
In discussing the role of perceptual tags in locative media, Peacock divides
their use into two groupings. Embedded tags are ‘things that exist already in the
environment and are appropriated as signs’20 by an art installation or locative work.
Arbitrary tags (such as the time arrows) are ‘deliberately placed and carefully
designed’21 signifiers that have been added into the environment. Another
prominent set of arbitrary tags used in Black Hats were the thick black panel
borders that framed each image in the comic. Thierry Groensteen notes that the
frame around an image in a comic ‘is always a sign of something to be read.’22
This readerly function of the frame sits alongside the functions of closure,
separation, rhythm, structure and expression identified by Groensteen.23
Accordingly the thick panel borders used in the piece act as a key signifier for the
audience that what they see on the walls is not just a collection of images. Rather
they are a narrative sequence; a story told using the medium of comics and
intended to be read as such.
Image 5: Embedded Tags 1. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
The site specific nature of Black Hats meant that embedded tags could also be
incorporated into the narrative. In one sequence, a cowboy arrives home to
discover his homestead has been set ablaze (Image 5). The panels were arranged so
as to incorporate the fire alarm and emergency action instructions that were already
present on the gallery wall. Elsewhere in the space a pre-existing emergency exit
sign was similarly appropriated (Image 6). In this instance the image of the
doorway in the sign carries across thematically into the nearest panel, which shows
the doorway of a saloon. The addition of the word “time” to the sign also draws a
connection between this embedded tag and the time arrows, further re-enforcing
the flow of time within the narrative.

22 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
Image 6: Embedded Tags 2. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
While written words are present in some of the perceptual tags used in Black
Hats, the comic panels themselves are silent and feature no words or word
balloons. On the page, a comic reader is familiar with the act of reading word
balloons as part of a sequence of panels. As part of the process that Groensteen
describes as ‘plurivectoral narration,’24 a reader absorbs the words without visually
losing track of the sequence of images the words form part of. However, in some
architecturally mediated comics the larger scale of the panels on the wall means
reading a sequence involves a physical turn of the head to view all the panels. This
can potentially introduce a discontinuity between the focused reading of text in a
word balloon and the appreciation of this element as part of the sequence as a
whole.
By avoiding the use of written text in its panels, Black Hats avoids this
problem. Although by allowing the images to carry the narrative on their own there
is also potentially some trade-off in clarity. Robert Harvey cautions that wordless
comics can ‘ooze ambiguity and inexplicable action.’25 The intent with Black Hats
was for the larger sequence of panels to cancel out any unwanted moments of
ambiguity that might occur in individual panels. Another approach to the use of
text in architecturally mediated comics can be seen in Luke Pearson’s contribution
to the Memory Palace exhibition at the V&A.26 In Pearson's Infinite Canvas styled
sequence, the conversation between two characters is shown in a separate block of
text beneath the related image sequence. By simply separating out word and image,
the conflict between reading the written text and consuming the larger image
sequence is neatly circumvented.

__________________________________________________________________
Image 7: Blind Corners. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
5. Comics across Three Dimensions

In examining The Rut, comics theorist Jason Dittmer noted how the three
dimensional quality of the work ‘shifted the narrative from being a thread to follow
through the comic to be being emergent from the space of the exhibit itself.’27 One
of the goals of my public experiment was to further explore this potential of the
gallery as a three dimensional space for comics display. In describing his
experience of Black Hats, Gravett notes how the comic ‘uses a corner like a page
turn’28. Just as with the turn of a page in a traditional comic, blind corners can hide
surprises for the reader or suggest a progression in time between the events
depicted on the two joining walls (Image 7).
Image 8: Facing Corners. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
Corners between two facing walls provide other opportunities. In one sequence
(Image 8), one cowboy is shown advancing menacingly on the wife of the other.
Here the relative position in space between the panels helps to foster the suggestion
of eye contact between the two characters, heightening the tension of the scene.
Another key sequence in the comic (Image 9) extends the idea of eye contact
between panels even further. A pair of parallel walls depicts a classic western

24 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
showdown between the story’s two protagonists. The sequences are anchored
together by parallel middle panels that depict the two characters staring out at each
other across the space of the gallery. In this manner the layout of the space situates
the viewer directly within the sequence of panels as the events of the gunfight
unfold. Readers find themselves caught ‘inside a gunfight, between the two
cowboys’ synchronous points of view’29.
Image 9: Inside a Gunfight. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
While given specific focus during this showdown sequence, the idea of being
inside a comic is central to much of Black Hats. By considering the comic in what
Groensteen describes as its ‘dechronologized mode,’30 the reader can explore its
spatial network separately from the vector of the narrative. Through explorations of
the gallery space, the reader can adopt multiple different points of view within the
‘panoptical spread’31 of the comic. In this way the reader is free to chart their own
discovery of the juxtapositions, repetitions and symmetries of layout that exist
between thematically linked sequences within the story.
Conversely, the inherent freedom of three dimensional spaces can also be
deliberately subverted. Nitsche describes the use in videogames of ‘“narrating
architecture” that enforces a certain vision through the limitation of the spatial
practice within it.’32 In Frank Laws’ contribution to Memory Palace,33 we see an
example of this idea at work in an architecturally mediated comic. A series of
panels depicting surrealist urban constructions are arranged inside a tight pentagon
of walls. The reader can only view the work from outside the pentagon through
narrow gaps at each of its corners. This limits the field of view of the reader so that
each corner brings the focus to a different panel in the sequence. In The Rut this
technique is taken even further, with a sequence of masks placed in fixed positions
around the room. By looking through the eyeholes of each mask, previously
unreadable elements of the comic’s sculptural centerpiece become readable. As
Dittmer notes:

__________________________________________________________________
the reader/viewer of this comic is positioned in space such that
they, for a moment, embody one perspective of this fragmented
tale of violence and regret.34
6. Adapting Work to New Spaces

The more an architecturally mediated comic embraces its site specific nature,
the more difficult it becomes to successfully transpose that work to a new location.
This limitation of the medium became readily apparent during the installation of
the second version of Black Hats in the entranceway of the Platform Theatre. The
new location was configured in a significantly different layout to the Framework
Gallery, with the forking nature of the entranceway meaning that foot traffic
naturally flowed in two different directions through the space. The looping nature
of the narrative remained intact but the right to left flow of the raster of reading no
longer aligned as perfectly to how the space was used. In the new version, rather
than the flow of traffic through the space being mirrored in the flow of the
narrative, the right to left flow in the narrative became the major element leading
readers in one direction through the space.
Image 10: The Missing Doorway. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
Elements of layout in the comic that were made in response to architectural

features of the original gallery space were also problematic. The sequence
depicting the cowboy’s retreat to a secluded mountain and eventual plunge into
Hell (Image 3) was originally designed around an open doorway in the Framework
Gallery. At the Platform Theatre the same sequence had to be laid out against a
blank wall where no such doorway existed (Image 10), robbing the arrangement of
some of its visual impact.

26 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
However, in transposing the work, new synchronicities and interactions
between the comic and its environment also suggested themselves. For example, in
the sequence showing an angel looking down on proceedings, the nearby wall
lights added a bright glow to the artwork that reinforced its heavenly setting
(Image 11). The increased space available at the Platform Theatre also allowed
room for the incorporation of a series of comic strips by other artists that served as
tangents to the central narrative. These additional story branches served to enhance
the hypercomic nature of the original, providing divergent and parallel viewpoints
on the landscapes of Hell and the Wild West.
Image 11: New Synchronicities. © 2013. Courtesy of the author
7. Conclusion
As an experimental, practice-led inquiry into the potential of architecturally
mediated comics, working on Black Hats proved to be an invaluable experience.
The work has given me the chance to examine the parallels between digital and
physical manifestations of the hypercomic form. It has provided a context in which
to identify useful strategies for the incorporation of perceptual tags and textual
elements in architecturally mediated works. It has allowed me the opportunity for a
creative exploration of the use of three dimensional space as a narrative device
within the medium of comics. Lastly, it has helped bring into focus some of the
issues raised in the adaptation of site specific works to new locations.
Notes
1
Daniel Goodbrey, ‘From Comic to Hypercomic’, Cultural Excavation and
Formal Expression in the Graphic Novel, ed. Jonathan Evans and Thomas Giddens
(Oxford: Inter-Disciplinary Press, 2013), 291.

__________________________________________________________________
2
Ibid.
3
Paul Gravett, Comics Art (London: Tate Publishing, 2013), 131.
4
Ibid.
5
Ibid.
6
Daniel Goodbrey, Black Hats In Hell, Comic installation, 2013.
7
Scott McCloud, Reinventing Comics (New York: Paradox Press, 2000), 222.
8
T. Campbell, A History of Webcomics (San Antonio: Antarctic Press, 2006), 115.
9
McCloud, Reinventing Comics, 207.
10
Daniel Goodbrey, ‘Digital comics – new tools and tropes’, in Studies in Comics
4, no. 1 (2013): 191.
11
John Barber,, ‘The phenomenon of multiple dialectics in comics layout’
(Master’s thesis, London College of Printing, 2002).
12
Jayms Nichols,, ‘Digital Pages: Reading, Comics and Screens’, in Cultural
Excavation and Formal Expression in the Graphic Novel ed. Jonathan Evans and
Thomas Giddens (Oxford: Inter-Disciplinary Press, 2013), 304.
13
Ibid.
14
Michael, Nitsche, Videogame Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in 3D Worlds
(Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2008), 28.
15
Brooks, Brad, Gauld, Tom, Gravette, Paul et al., PoCom, Comic installation,
2003.
16
McKean, Dave, The Rut, Comic installation, 2010.
17
Gravett, Paul, Comics Art, 132.
18
McCloud, Scott, ‘I Can't Stop Thinking! #4’, 2000, accessed November 11,
2013, http://scottmccloud.com/1-webcomics/icst/icst-4/icst-4.html.
19
Peacock, Alan, Report on the Theatre Beyond Walls Project to the Technology
Strategy Board (Hatfield: University of Hertfordshire, 2009)
20
Ibid.
21
Ibid.
22
Groensteen, Thierry, The System of Comics, trans. Bart Beaty and Nick Nyuyen
(Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi, 2007), 53.
23
Ibid., 39
24
Ibid., 108.
25
Harvey, Robert, Celebrating the 10th Annual Comic Arts Conference (San Diego:
Comic Arts Conference, 2002)
26
Pearson, Luke, ‘Digital prints, pen and ink’, in Memory Palace, Comic
installation, 2013.
27
Dittmer, Jason, ‘The Rut by Dave McKean: Hypercomics: The Shape of Comics
to Come, Pump House Gallery, London, 12 August - 26 September 2010’, in
Studies in Comics 2, no. 2 (2011): 381.
28
Gravett, Comics Art, 132.

28 Images in Space
__________________________________________________________________
29
Ibid.
30
Groensteen, System of Comics, 147.
31
Ibid.
32
Nitsche, Videogame Spaces, 106.
33
Laws, Frank, ‘Ink and acrylic on paper, plaster, hessian scrim, emulsion, timber,
steel’, in Memory Palace, Comic installation, 2013.
34
Dittmer, ‘The Rut by Dave McKean’, 383.
Bibliography
Barber, John. ‘The phenomenon of multiple dialectics in comics layout’. Master’s

thesis, London College of Printing, 2002.
Brooks, Brad, Gauld, Tom, Gravette, Paul et al. PoCom. Comic installation, 2003.
Campbell, T. A History of Webcomics. San Antonio: Antarctic Press, 2006.
Dittmer, Jason. ‘The Rut by Dave McKean: Hypercomics: The Shape of Comics to
Come, Pump House Gallery, London, 12 August - 26 September 2010’. Studies in
Comics 2, no. 2 (2011): 380–387.
Goodbrey, Daniel. ‘Digital comics – new tools and tropes’. Studies in Comics 4,
no. 1 (2013): 187-199.
Goodbrey, Daniel. Black Hats In Hell. Comic installation, 2013.
Goodbrey, Daniel. ‘From Comic To Hypercomic’. In Cultural Excavation and

Formal Expression in the Graphic Novel, edited by Jonathan Evans and Thomas
Giddens, 291-302. Oxford: Inter-Disciplinary Press, 2013.
Gravett, Paul. Comics Art. London: Tate Publishing, 2013.
Groensteen, Thierry. The System of Comics. Translated by Bart Beaty and Nick
Nyuyen. Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi, 2007.
Harvey, Robert. Celebrating the 10th Annual Comic Arts Conference. San Diego:
Comic Arts Conference, 2002.

__________________________________________________________________
Laws, Frank. ‘Ink and acrylic on paper, plaster, hessian scrim, emulsion, timber,
steel’. In Memory Palace. Comic installation, 2013.
McCloud, Scott. Reinventing Comics. New York: Paradox Press, 2000.
McCloud, Scott. ‘I Can't Stop Thinking! #4’. 2000. Accessed 11 November, 2013.
http://scottmccloud.com/1-webcomics/icst/icst-4/icst-4.html.
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Nichols, Jayms. ‘Digital Pages: Reading, Comics and Screens’. In Cultural

Excavation and Formal Expression in the Graphic Novel, edited by Jonathan
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Nitsche, Michael. Videogame Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in 3D Worlds.

Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2008.
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Daniel Merlin Goodbrey is a lecturer in Narrative and Interaction Design at the

University of Hertfordshire in England. A prolific and innovative comic creator,
Goodbrey has gained international recognition as a leading expert in the field of
experimental digital comics.

S/Z in Panels: Adaptation, Polysemous Textuality
and the Graphic Novel
Ryan Cadrette
Abstract
The task of this chapter is twofold: Firstly, it examines whether the graphic
narrative can, or should be, approached as an ‘open’ or plural text, pregnant with a
multitude of possible interpretations rather than a singular definitive meaning.
Secondly, it seeks to discern how the representational strategies of graphic
narrative transform literary texts, attempting to provide a formal means of
quantifying narrative adaptation in terms of addition, alteration, and loss. In order
to address these seemingly diverse inquiries, the chapter draws upon the theory of
polysemous textuality outlined in Roland Barthes’ essay S/Z, assessing the benefits
and limitations that such a framework may bring to the analysis of the graphic
narrative. Using the theoretical framework of S/Z to compare ‘The Song of
Orpheus’ from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman to a translation of the Orpheus myth from
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, I consider whether the medium specific properties of the
graphic novel functionally limit the range of different possible readings, or if the
addition of visual and temporal signifiers instead render the text somehow more
‘writerly’ through the explosion of intertextual referents. Through a systematic
application to both works, the chapter explores whether Barthes’ five narrative
codes are a relevant tool for the analysis of the graphic narrative specifically, and
for the analysis of narrative adaptation more generally. Particular attention is paid
to the transformation of the referential code, and how it contributes to the
expansion of intertextual networks of adaptation and appropriation.
Key Words: Barthes, adaptation, myth, graphic narrative, intertextuality.
*****
Some stories will be told and retold, and through their telling and retelling they
will inevitably experience change. But through this change, the endless evolution
and mutation accompanying the ebb and flow of the story as it spills from page to
screen and back again: what remains the same? What constant makes these tales
recognisable across time and form? In short: what survives? What persists? To
better understand the way that narrative persistence is performed by adapted work,
I will draw upon the theory of textuality and method of textual analysis developed
by Roland Barthes in the essay S/Z.
S/Z is a weird little essay, wherein Barthes performs a close reading of Balzac’s
short story Sarrasine by systematically applying five different ‘codes of
interpretation.’ The project of S/Z is an extension of Barthes’ 1967 essay ‘The
Death of the Author,’ where he seeks to debunk approaches to literary analysis that

32 S/Zin Panels
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provide singular, definitive readings of written works by relying upon postulations
of authorial intent. Against this, he argues that texts are inherently plural – all
writing presents the possibility of a wide range of multiple and varied
interpretations:
A text does not consist of a line of words, releasing a single

‘theological’ meaning (the ‘message’ of the Author-God), but is
a space of many dimensions, in which are wedded and contested
various kinds of writing, no one of which is original: the text is a
tissue of citations, resulting from the thousand sources of
culture.1
Since the act of interpretation is so highly susceptible to such a myriad of

influences and alterations, he says, authorial intent is an inadequate strategy for
approaching textual analysis. As a solution, Barthes effectively calls for a shift
away from author-centered trends of literary criticism towards a model that takes
the plurality of the text as its starting point. Literary scholarship, he claims, should
seek to examine the structures that enable this entire spectrum of possible
interpretations, and to discern the mechanisms that enable the expansion or
limitation of this spectrum.
According to Barthes, the foundation of such an approach is the study of
connotation. He asserts that in semiotic terms, each connotation is the starting point
of a code, the articulation of a voice which is woven into the text. These codes
become the very basis of his method, and by locating, naming, and enumerating
them, he strives to discern an ‘average appreciator’ for the ‘modestly plural’ text,
not to ‘manifest a structure,’ but to ‘produce a structuration.’2 This is the entire
project of S/Z, which breaks Balzac’s original text into fragments in order to
examine the way that these various codes function within writing.
The system of S/Z is thus deeply linked to Balzac’s story, but if we were to
apply these codes to a different text, what would it tell us about narrative? If we
were to apply these codes to a text in a different medium, what could we learn
about the way that narrative structure is transformed by the movement across form?
By way of easing in to this experiment, I will examine ‘The Song of Orpheus,’ a
few chapters from the voluminous Sandman series, and compare them to the
written text of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Sandman, as a graphic narrative, offers an
interesting liminal space between narrative media – it is both graphic and literature,
yet it is also its own form entirely. This liminality is, of course, essential to the way
comics structure narrative meaning, requiring the reader to fill in the gutter, the
narrative space between panels.
This aspect of the graphic narrative is particularly interesting within the context
of Barthes’ notions of the ‘readerly’ and the ‘writerly’. On the one hand, the comic
form is necessarily a writerly text – narrative coherence is entirely dependent upon

Ryan Cadrette 33
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the reader imposing their own interpretation upon the enigmatic gutter, the space
between panels. On very much the other, graphic narratives restrict a certain
amount of imaginative work by actually furnishing images for what could
otherwise only be described in text. While narrative is thus rendered increasingly
plural, a stop clause of sorts is imposed upon the diegesis, closing off speculation
about the way the world and its characters actually look.
In order to understand the specific differences in representational technique
performed by the graphic novel, it becomes necessary to briefly explore Barthes’
system of codes as they are made evident in the written text of Ovid, and then to
consider how these codes change when applied to Sandman.
Barthes identifies five major codes of connotation, under which all acts of
narrative signification can be grouped: the symbolic, the semic, the hermeneutic,
the proairetic, and the referential.
The symbolic code describes the realm of metonymy and metaphor, of
archetype and figure. Rhetorical techniques such as antithesis likewise play a
prominent role in this code: all of these processes lay the groundwork for a ‘vast
symbolic structure’ that lends itself to multiple thematic variations. In the Orpheus
myth, this is most readily apparent in the antithetical opposition between life and
death, particularly as it is manifest within the discrete spatial realms of the
underworld and the surface. It is Orpheus’ threat of transgressing this symbolic
order by retrieving Eurydice from Hades that causes his inevitable failure.
The semic code, or voice of person, deals with what Barthes calls ‘signifiers par
excellence,’ elements ‘which can combine with other similar elements to create
characters, ambiances, shapes, and symbols.’3 The semic code is most significant
where it bears upon the description of a character. According to Barthes, the
character is denoted by the recurrence of semes, of passages of the semic code,
which function to establish the character’s ‘personality.’ Orpheus, for example, is
marked by the semes of song and gentility; these are the qualities that distinguish
him from other actors within the story, the qualities that are most commonly
associated with his character.
Thus, if the semic code of a text is transformed, our understanding of the
characters within that text necessarily changes as well. However, as Barthes goes
on to explain, each character may also function as a figure, as an archetype, and
thus a product of the symbolic code:
The figure is altogether different...As a symbolic ideality, the

character has no chronological or biographical standing; he has
no Name; he is nothing but a site for the passage (and return) of
the figure.4
Each individual in a story thus functions as a character through the semic code
and as figure through the symbolic code. This distinction is particularly relevant

34 S/Zin Panels
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when examining mythic narrative, where the various actors are primarily
archetypal figures rather than psychologically motivated characters. In Ovid, for
example, Eurydice is the archetypal virginal girl-woman, a symbol for love and
purity, rather than a psychologically complex character as such.
The next two codes are the hermeneutic and the proairetic. The hermeneutic
code, or voice of truth, is primarily responsible for propelling a story forward; it
introduces enigma, proposes the questions that the narrative must eventually
resolve. The proairetic code, the voice of empirics, consists of actions and small
narrative sequences. As such, these two codes are temporally bound, and thus
irreversible; they refer to narrative events that occur within a fixed timeline. This,
in turn, renders these codes as the most readerly, the least open to interpretation.
This is perhaps why so many early theories of ‘story’ have focused primarily on
the sort of chains of actions that these codes would describe.
In Ovid, we are driven by questions such as ‘Will Orpheus retrieve Eurydice?’
This is our enigma, our so-called hermeneutic code. But we understand, without
fear of misinterpretation, that Eurydice must die before Orpheus can descend into
the Underworld to try to save her, both of which are proairetic sequences.
Finally, the referential code, also called the cultural code, connotes meaning
through the mobilisation of common bodies of knowledge such as medicine,
psychology, literature, or history. This code is effectively, although not
exclusively, a signifier of intertextuality, particularly when the ‘common bodies of
knowledge’ that are mobilised are other, external narrative texts. By entering into
an intertextual relationship with an especially persistent narrative, adapted works
claim earlier versions as an assumed body of knowledge.
This is most evident in the Orpheus myth when Orpheus’ song brings a moment
of pause to Sisyphus and his rock, Ixion and his wheel, Tityus and his liver. Such
references position Orpheus’ tale in terms of these existing myths in order to
signify the power of his song, which is able to halt these acts of eternal repetitions.
Taking the above factors into consideration, the question remains: What about
the comic form is fundamentally different from the written text?
First, it must be noted that the graphic narrative represents an explosion of
signifying practice. Although narrative is constructed sequentially in comics – the
page is read from left to right, top to bottom – the tabular arrangement of the panels
also conveys all of this information simultaneously. Unlike the Ovid text, where we
are unable to read multiple parts of the narrative at the same time, the illustrated
page can be read in its entirety at once. The page as a whole is thus its own
signifying unit, as are two-page spreads, as are individual images, as are the spaces
between panels, and as are the various units of written text: the comic form
presents an explosion of signifiers which operate simultaneously.
On the first page, as an example, we see Orpheus floating in the sea at either
dawn or dusk, but also simultaneously speaking with his father, Morpheus, the
titular Sandman of Gaiman’s series, in a garden at night. This arrangement is

Ryan Cadrette 35
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clearly meaningful, but can we interpret this sort of meaning by using Barthes’
codes, or is it necessary to elaborate on his existing model? To simply posit an
additional ‘visual code’ would be more problematic than useful. Images are
capable of just as many various signifying functions as text, and attempting to
group them all under a single code would be directly at odds with the spirit of
Barthes’ theories of textuality. Conversely, were we to go so far as to double the
system of codes to account for a ‘visual cultural code’ and a ‘visual hermeneutic
code’ and so on, the whole project of elaboration would become essentially
redundant.
In the case of the first page, such postulation may be strictly unnecessary. The
arrangement of the page is certainly meaningful, here establishing a thematic
destabilisation of notions of space and time, but this meaning is consistent with the
functions of Barthes’ symbolic code. The spatial configuration of the page here
serves as a metaphor for the structuration of the diegesis – in the realm of Dream,
here an inhabitable world as well as a psychic state, time and space do not conform
to the rules of the physical world. Hence, this moment, even with all its
simultaneous imagery, may be described as a product of the symbolic code.
The addition of imagery, and the increased number of representational
techniques that it implies, thus requires us to consider the way Barthes’ codes
might function differently within the comic form. This is perhaps best
accomplished by turning first to the function of the proairetic code, the voice of
actions. Were an idea of ‘story’ to truly be as simple as a narrated sequence of
events, we would expect to find many proairetic moments to remain largely intact.
Using Ovid as a tentative starting point, we would expect any version of the
Orpheus ‘story’ to consist of nine points: a wedding, the death of the bride, the
descent of the groom into an underworld, the submission of a plea, a moment of
pause, the setting of conditions, an ascent back to the surface, a look back, and a
destructive moment of erasure. In the case of Sandman, we find that all of these
moments do indeed survive the translation into the graphic novel form. However,
many more passages of the proairetic code appear alongside these ‘original’
actions, as Orpheus’ exchanges with Dream, Death, and Destruction are added to
create a sense of continuity with the rest of the Sandman series.
The addition of imagery also bears substantially on the way that we conceive of
the symbolic code. Antithesis, for example, may now be conveyed in pictorial as
well as literary terms. We can now see the underworld, and contrast its visual
representation to the world of the living.
However, the symbolic code functions differently in the Metamorphoses than in
Sandman at the level of figure, in the same way that the semic code functions
differently at the level of character. Orpheus becomes more of a character in
Sandman than in Ovid; Gaiman’s script gives the mythical bard added layers of
psychological complexity, additional passages of the semic code bestowing
something of a realist gesture towards a mythic text. This is perhaps best illustrated

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by Orpheus’ tortured relationship with his father, Dream. But it seems likely that
this is a result of Gaiman’s particular intervention into the Orpheus story, rather
than a consequence of the translation into the comic medium as such.
As to the referential code: If we consider the referential code to be the home of
intertextual signifiers, we must now consider that comic book imagery is capable
of citing visual texts in addition to literary works. The right combination of image
and text may prompt a graphic narrative to be read within multiple art historic
contexts simultaneously. The Hellenistic architecture of Dream’s palace is one
such example, referring to a tradition of spatial representations that influence the
reader’s construction of the diegesis.
This brings us to the hermeneutic code. We may expect that the
postulation and resolution of enigma would remain relatively consistent across
versions. Like the proairetic code, the hermeneutic code is irreversibly bound by
time; these enigmas should motivate the proairetic code, explaining the movement
from one narrative event to the next. This, however, is clearly not the case.
Sandman, for instance, fundamentally alters the flow of the Orpheus myth by
introducing new characters that complicate the movements of the key players.
However, even though this work may diverge from the Ovid text in this regard, it
demonstrates an important feature. It is an intertextual work that establishes the
Orpheus myth as a tentative source, and is thus inescapably marked by the enigma
of adaptation. Our reading of such a work is driven not only by our desire to
resolve the mysteries posed by their narratives, but also by a fundamental curiosity
towards the nature of their connection to the Orpheus myth more generally. The
first passage of the hermeneutic code in an adapted work thus concerns this
enigma: in what way does this text relate to the other?
The reflexive intertextuality of Sandman thus continuously calls attention
to the inherent artifice of myth. The referential code consistently positions the
narrative in terms of other myths, of other texts. This problematises our ability to
lay claims to the ‘originality’ of any one version of a text, for our reading is always
already structured by such other works. This is not to say, however, that Ovid’s
version of the Orpheus tale is already necessarily an adaptation as such.
Adaptations are a very particular form of intertextual work, marked not by fidelity
or filiality to a mythical origin text, but by a network of repetition and difference,
of reiteration and variation. This collapses the distinction between adaptation and
appropriation, as scholars like Julie Saunders have defined it, but maintains a
separation between acts of adaptation and acts of citation or quotation. Both deploy
the referential code to access external texts as assumed bodies of knowledge, yet
whereas citation may refer to any text, an adapted work always involves reference
to earlier versions of itself. This reflexivity is destructive of memory; it erases the
pleasure of the original reading with the pleasure of repetition. Upon this new
surface of the text, networks of similarity and difference become inscribed. The
adaptation is thus palimpsestic; the first writing remains, but its memory is erased

Ryan Cadrette 37
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and rewritten by these new structures of meaning. The adapted work is thus always
both a palimpsest and an intertext.
Ovid’s Orpheus is certainly the latter, and to the extent that it has been
translated and edited time and again, it is the former as well. But unlike Sandman,
the Ovid text is not reflexively palimpsestic; it does not call attention to itself as a
version in a series of revisions. This moment of reflection is a defining feature of
the adapted work, as it is this moment that plunges the work into the depths of the
intertextual network that constitutes it. The texts of this network function not
unlike Barthes’ codes - it is by passing through them in chorus that we come to
create meaning, but that meaning is both open and fluid, varying according to the
readers’ awareness of each voice singing the story.
Notes
1
Roland Barthes, ‘The Death of the Author’, Image/Music/Text (New York: Hill
& Wang, 1978 [1967]), 4-5.
2
Roland Barthes, S/Z: An Essay. Translated Richard Miller (New York: Hill &
Wang, 1975), 20.
3
Ibid., 17.
4
Ibid., 68.
Bibliography
Barthes, Roland. S/Z: An Essay. Translated Richard Miller. New York: Hill &
Wang, 1975.
Barthes, Roland. ‘From Work to Text’. The Rustle of Language. Translated

Richard Howard, 56-64. New York: Hill & Wang, 1986 (1971).
Barthes, Roland. ‘The Death of the Author’. Image/Music/Text. Translated Stephen

Heath. New York: Hill & Wang, 1978 (1967).
Gaiman, Neil. ‘The Song of Orpheus’. Sandman. DC: Vertigo, 1991.
Genette, Girard. Paratexts. Translated Jane E. Lewin. Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 1997 (1987).
Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Adaptation. New York: Routledge, 2006.

38 S/Zin Panels
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Mikkonen, Kai. ‘Remediation and the Sense of Time in Graphic Narratives’. In

The Rise and Reason of Comics and Graphic Literature: Critical Essays on the
Form, edited by Goggin, Joyce, and Dan Hassler-Forest, 74-86. Jefferson:
McFarland & Company, 2010.
Ovid. Metamorphoses. Trans. Rolfe Humphries. Bloomington: Indiana University

Press, 1955.
Propp, Vladimir. The Morphology of The Folk Tale. Texas: University of Texas
Press, 1971 (1928).
Sanders, Julie. Adaptation and Appropriation. New York: Routledge, 2006.
Vanderbeke, Dirk. ‘It Was the Best of Two Worlds, It Was the Worst of Two
Worlds: The Adaptation of Novels in Comics and Graphic Novels’. In The Rise
and Reason of Comics and Graphic Literature: Critical Essays on the Form, edited
by Goggin, Joyce, and Dan Hassler-Forest, 104-118. Jefferson: McFarland &
Company, 2010.
Ryan Cadrette is a PhD candidate in the Communications department at the

University of Massachusetts, Amherst, USA. His primary research interests
concern cultures of narrative production, with a focus on the comparative historical
study of digital and print media.

Defining the British Political Cartoon
Louisa Buck
Abstract
Situated within the realms of popular culture and the modern inclination towards
‘dumbing down,’ political cartoons are an anomaly. Simultaneously they are
ephemeral, as well as being charged with historical meaning. They appear in the
broadsheet newspapers, with high expectations of education and class orientation
from its readership. Massively intertextual, their palimpsestuous nature is played
out in the newspapers, where, in a rare opportunity, they appear to be given free
reign to provoke and offend. Serving as a struggle against hegemony, the political
cartoons spotlight particular trends within public opinion and can be seen as a
direct critique, ridicule and/or resistance against government, government figures
and government policies. Paraphrasing George Orwell’s essay ‘Funny but not
vulgar,’ Martin Rowson declared that ‘every joke is a small revolution,’ in a recent
talk at the Cartoon Museum.1 Rowson considers the political cartoon to be ‘an
oasis of anarchy in the topography of newspapers’. The Political Cartoon lies
between satire and serious commentary ‘Throwing light on taboo’ they ‘comment
from a marginal position on prominent issues’.2 In April 1980 Margaret Thatcher
said the cartoon was ‘the most concentrated and cogent form of comment and just
about the most skilled and the most memorable, giving the picture of events that
remained most in the mind’3. A seal of approval that would probably have most
cartoonists cringing in their graves. A genre defined by its opposites, its blatant use
of parody and pastiche, and its disrespect for rules is presented. This chapter is part
of a larger body of research, which forms part of my ongoing PhD in the school of
Arts and Media at the University of Brighton.
Key Words: Political cartoon, intertextual, hegemony, popular culture.
*****
Central to the discussion are ideas of how the political cartoon is utilised as a
form of communication and how it can be read and interpreted by its readers.
To define the meaning of ‘British Political Cartoons’ we begin by analysing
what is understood by the term cartoon.
Cartoons are a unique medium in that they traditionally combine text with
image to communicate; cartoons do exist that only have pictures, and more
recently it is argued that the cartoon can, in some circumstances, only contain
words.4
In ‘The Art of Comics: A Philosophical Approach’5 the pictureless comic is
discussed, but in the understanding that words and their components, the symbols
of the alphabet, are themselves to be seen as image, and therefore the ‘novel’ can

40 Defining the British Political Cartoon
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be seen as a comic in the terms of comics being sequential narrations
communicated through symbols.
Whatever your standpoint is, it is important to understand that in reference to
the cartoon and how it operates, the image is not just an illustration of the text, it is
a fundamental and integral part of the whole, with the use of images and text as a
clear example of the whole being greater than its parts.
Until the 1840’s the meaning of the word ‘cartoon’ was much the same as it
had been since the Renaissance. A two dimensional illustrated visual art form, it
originally derives from the Italian word Cartone and the Dutch word Karton,
meaning strong heavy paper or cardboard, and referred to preparatory drawings
made often for paintings, frescoes, tapestries or stained glass.
‘Just under a century-and-a-half ago, Punch invented the cartoon’.6 Punch
magazine famously applied this term to satirical drawing in 1843, and credits itself
with the birth of the genre, a bone of contention, as the history of the cartoon has
yet to be agreed upon.
In 1843 the construction of the Houses of Parliament was nearing completion
and Prince Albert wished to commission a fresco to decorate some of the walls. A
competition was held and artists were invited to submit their ideas in the form of
cartoons (in the ‘old’ sense of the word). Unused to producing such large scale
work, many of the designs were considered quite poor, and Punch, a recently
founded political satirical magazine, took the opportunity to make fun of these
works.
The word ‘cartoon’ was thus introduced in a new way, to describe satirical
illustration. Soon the term began to be applied to any graphic comment that applied
parody or a sense of the burlesque in trying to capture or ridicule some aspect of
human behaviour.7
The new meaning of the word cartoon has now been applied retrospectively,
where some historians claim the first cartoons were drawn on the walls of caves.
Others have claimed that Egyptian hieroglyphics can be included as part of their
history.8 A case might be made for the Bayeux Tapestry, as being the first British
political cartoon, as a pro-William Norman propaganda image. It certainly is a
piece of visual narration and political comment and contains many of the attributes
pertaining to the cartoon.9 It is generally agreed that the British political cartoon
dates back to the South Sea Bubble prints, 1720, by Hogarth and thereon forms an
unbroken tradition to the present day.10
Although sharing a common history and some definition with all the genres that
fall under the banner of comics and the scholarship of comic studies, the cartoon
displays its own unique characteristics.
From the 19th century onwards, cartoons began to be understood as single panel
humorous illustrations in magazines and newspapers, and later, in the 20th century
moved on to encompass the comic strip and animated films.

Louisa Buck 41
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However, subsets exist within these definitions, the gag cartoon, although
featured within magazines and newspapers, can also refer to humorous drawings
found on greeting cards for example. The gag cartoon often includes text in the
form of a caption beneath the drawing, although occasionally this can be in the
form of a speech bubble, more in the style of the comic strip. The term ‘gag’
indicates a suggestion of humour.
However, the cartoon does not have to be humourous to be considered a
cartoon.
There is always a danger in discussions of cartoons that we

stress the element of humour or propaganda too much at the
expense of the satisfaction the successful cartoon gives us
simply by its neat summing up. Humour is not a necessary
weapon in the cartoonist’s armoury.11
So, it would seem, that the cartoon does not even have to be funny.
Punch defines the cartoon as ‘an index of time’.
It can show you not only what made people laugh at a given
moment, but the cultural context within which the laughter
was set – what the contemporary reader was thinking about,
the language in which he was thinking and expressing those
thoughts, what he was wearing while he was thinking them,
the sort of chair he was sitting in, the type of house which
contained the chair, the relationship between the members of
the household, and between them and other households. From
cartoons, you can discover how people worked, relaxed,
voted, fought, ate, drank, made love, raised children, grew old,
got buried.12
Nicolas Hiley, who heads the British cartoon archive at Kent University,
expands on these ideas in his essay, ‘Showing politics to the people: cartoons,
comics and satirical prints’.13 He sees the cartoon as an important historical
document.
Cartoons can be useful illustrations that catch the eye of the

reader, but they are far more valuable as evidence of an
important set of dynamic social and political relationships.14
And yet, political cartoons can have a short lifespan, necessitating lengthy
accompanying text to interpret them from outside their own historical position, yet
easily understood within its context by its regular broadsheet newsreaders.

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Part of the reluctance of the historian to use cartoons as anything more than
illustrations is down to the fact that the knowledge and symbolism tied up within
the imagery can be so complex and particular to the times of production that the
task involved in deciphering the image can appear to be out of proportion to the
values of the work. The twelve volumes of the ‘Catalogue of Political and Personal
Satires Preserved in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British
Museum’15 which is a primary reference work for the study of 18th and 19th century
satirical prints, successfully takes away some of the mystery hidden within these
particular images by providing detailed descriptions of who the cartoons depict and
the political events they represent.
Occasionally an artist/cartoonist has the forethought to fully explain their work.
It is fortunate, for instance, that the lecture delivered by Cruikshank in support and
explanation of his magnum opus ‘The Worship of Bacchus’16 was transcribed
verbatim in the ‘Weekly Record’17 in 1862. We can be left in no doubt as to
Cruikshank’s meaning and message and how he intended the interpretations to be
derived from his image.
Interestingly, ideas of temperance and moral standards of living do vary
through the ages, especially when we discover that on his death, Cruikshank left
his collections of fine wines and a house to his mistress with whom he fathered ten
children.
On the flip side, when written to by a purchaser, by auction, of a cartoon
produced ten years previously, Martin Rowson, the author of the piece was unable
to shed any insight into the meanings of the said cartoon.18
Considered an important historical document, and yet captured within the daily
newspaper, the cartoon can be ignored and happily discarded with no further
consideration or regard. It is simultaneously ephemeral in meaning and value, and
yet historically insightful and unique in portraying very particular public opinion
on a diversity of issues both socially and politically.
Now, we will consider the cartoon as political comment, and look at what we
mean by the ‘political cartoon’.
Sometimes referred to as editorial cartoons, the political cartoon is a
commentary on current events or personality. Mostly sited within newspapers and
magazines, they are also increasingly deployed on the Internet through websites,
blogs and social networking sites where there is less editorial control.
‘Political cartoons draw upon a wide range of references from everyday life,
popular culture and high art to subvert and make their point’.19
Particularly when working for the broadsheet papers, the political cartoonist has
an expectation of education, prior knowledge and, often, political bias of their
readership.
Your choice of topic will be partly guided by what the readers

are aware of, and also your treatment of that topic. You can

Louisa Buck 43
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make some broad assumptions about readers of ‘The
Independent’, which means that your cartoon might reference
images from film, art or literature, without too much fear of
being misunderstood.20
Hugely intertextual, the palimpsestuous nature of the political cartoon can bring
depth of connotations to the image, where it can come to be understood on several
levels. As the adage goes, ‘Show the cartoon to five different people and you’ll get
five different responses’21.
Sometimes the cartoon can reference several other previous texts, and yet still
deliver a political comment/message when only some of these are recognised.
Readers can quite simply recognise Steve Bell’s image of John Major in his
underpants as a joke at the expense of the PM, with his total dissimilarity to any
ideas of Superman, but perhaps only some will recognise that Superman is himself
a parody to the concepts of the hero myths derived from the stories of Greek
mythology.
Genette22 refers to five types of transtextual relationships. Within concepts of
Cognitive Poetics, ideas of textual transcendence; textual links with other text, and
how context of the image can change its meaning are dealt with. All appear
relevant in the understanding of the political cartoon.
By the term ‘intertextuality’ he refers to the actual presence of one text within
another, so this might refer to direct quotations, allusions or plagiarism.
The surrounding text, or Paratext, is particularly key to the ‘anchorage’23 of the
meaning and contextualisation of the cartoon. So, for example, where the cartoon
is sited within a newspaper, the surrounding news stories, the title of the page, the
front page headline, captions, the political bias of the newspaper, and in fact any
elements ‘outside’ of the text (cartoon) can have a major effect on its meaning and
control its reception.
Metatextuality is implicit mention of one text on another text, but does not
necessarily cite it; part of the assumption on the part of the cartoonist is that he/she
is understood by his/her audience. Part of the satisfaction of the political cartoon, is
the ‘in’ joke, being part of the elite crowd that is smart enough to comprehend the
allusions referred too. Commentaries operate in some respects on ideas contained
within the sociological theory of humour, where understandings of group
behaviour, social norms, values, social interactions and cultural text are particular
within different social groups. These encourage group solidarity and challenge
norms and stereotypes.24
Hypertextuality represents the relationship between a hypertext (the original
text) and the hypotext (later text), particularly where the hypotext has been
transformed, modified, elaborated or extended. This would include parody, spoof,
sequel or translation. In these direct allusions to past text the political cartoonist
often includes a sidebar where due reference is paid to the original work.

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Lastly, Genette refers to architextuality, which is an explanation of text as
genre types, playing to the author’s expectations of a reader’s interpretations.
Political cartoons often have political bias, and the cartoonist relies on their
audience’s awareness of this aspect of their work to facilitate the interpretation of
the image.
Interestingly, the majority of the political cartoonists come from

the left of the political spectrum and while there have been some
successful right wing cartoonists, the profession by its nature
seems anti-establishment; the desire is always to poke fun at
those who hold power over us, to prick the pomposity of the so-
called great and the good.25
‘Often deceptively simple and economical in its line, the space historically
afforded to the political cartoon in British newspapers has led to a tradition of fine
draughtsmanship.’26
‘It is a visual essay that sums up complicated events or situations in a few,
simple, sketched black lines’.27
Steve Bell describes them as ‘art with attitude’.28
They are a combination of satire, caricature and a struggle against hegemony.
Martin Rowson29 described satire as a subset of humour. Within the political
cartoon he believes that it can only be considered satire if it is an attack on
someone in a higher position than ourselves… ‘an attack on the little man is just a
joke’.
It’s my job, as a satirical cartoonist, to give offence. But I need

immediately to qualify that statement. I see my job as giving
targeted offence, because satire, to borrow HL Mencken’s
definition of journalism, is about comforting the afflicted and
afflicting the comfortable. In other words, if I draw rude pictures
of people less powerful than myself, what I do ceases to be
satire, and creeps into one of the wider spheres of aggressive,
bullying humour and into areas I consider offensive.30
‘Visual satire mocks art and life with zest and fury’.31 Satire can be understood
in relation to the superiority theory of humour, where pleasure can be derived
through witnessing the ridicule of those in power.
Caricature is closely connected with the political cartoon. Their histories are
intertwined, some of the earliest examples date back to the work of Leonardo Da
Vinci, at a time when artists of the Renaissance were exploring ideas of beauty;
they were also intrigued by ideas of the grotesque. The first book of caricature
came out in England, Mary Darly’s ‘A Book of Caricaturas’32 in c.1762, and its

Louisa Buck 45
__________________________________________________________________
tradition continued with artists like Hogarth, Gillray, Cruikshank and Rowlandson
right through to the present day, where similar concepts were deployed on
television through the puppets of the ‘spitting image’.33
Whilst a caricature is a satirical illustration of a person or thing, a cartoon is a
satirical illustration of an idea. From the Italian caricare, meaning loaded, it is
essentially a ‘loaded portrait’. Navasky34 theorises that the brain responds more
quickly to a caricature than to a photo of the same person. Unsurprisingly, as
caricature tends to emphasis the same features as the brain to distinguish from
person to person. In some ways, the caricature shows a better likeness, as it reveals
the ‘essence’ of a person, and it is because of this that the cartoon caricature can
have such a lasting impact and create long term damage to the ridiculed victim. It
is impossible to imagine David Cameron without a condom pulled tightly over his
head every time one views his shiny skin, thanks to the portrait so mercilessly
invented by Steve Bell and adopted by so many other cartoonists since.
Most importantly though, the Political cartoon can be seen as a struggle against
‘hegemony’. The term was first used by the Italian philosopher, Antonio Gramsci35
to explain the domination of one social class over another, not only economically,
but culturally as well, via the Ideological State Apparatus (as explained by
Althusser36), through education, the family, the media and religious organisations,
to such an extent, that through indoctrination, the dominated class becomes a
willing component and comes to believe that this is the ‘natural order of things’.
The political cartoon is given the unusual position of being allowed to directly
oppose and ridicule this state dominance.
Although there have been attempts to censor or silence the cartoonist,
surprisingly these attempts have been short lived, and, we are now at a stage where
cartoonists like Steve Bell seem to have been given free reign to be offensive in a
way previously unimaginable in the printed word.
Peter Brookes, the cartoonist for The Times, ‘sees himself in permanent
opposition, ‘it sounds pompous to say that you’re looking for the truth behind
appearances, but that’s what it’s actually about’.37
In many ways, the cartoonist has come to censor him/herself. Following the
death of at least 100 people following the Danish Muhammad cartoons in 200538,
any cartoonist portraying similar images has to take responsibility on the outcomes,
and consequently it is generally understood that some subjects are too
inflammatory.
Following the terrorist attacks of 9/11 in America, cartoonists ‘dried up’ after
accusations of being ‘un-American’ were hurled at them if they dared to criticise
George Bush. Fortunately the American people returned to their senses, and the
justifiable vilification of Bush could continue once more.39
In 1934, David Low began a series of cartoons in the London Evening Standard
of Hitler, often showing him as a spoilt child. Hitler’s fury reached such a
crescendo, that finally after several attempts to curb Low, the foreign secretary

__________________________________________________________________
took Low to lunch, and in the interest of securing international peace, Low agreed
to temper his output.40 He was included in ‘The Black Book,’ which held a list of
British citizens to be arrested on the successful invasion of Britain by Nazi
Germany.
With an unbroken history, unique for its freedom of expression, dating back to
the bubble prints by Hogarth in 1720, the British political cartoon remains true to
its heritage. It has never bowed down in the face of opposition, in fact it has
welcomed it – rude, opinionated, cruel, funny (sometimes), relevant (mostly),
outspoken, historically important, ephemeral, it champions the little man and
ridicules the powerful.
Margaret Thatcher summed it up: In April 1980 she said the cartoon was, ‘the
most concentrated and cogent form of comment and just about the most skilled and
the most memorable, giving the picture of events that remained most in the
mind’,41 a seal of approval that would probably have most cartoonists turning in
their graves’.
Notes
1
Cartoon Museum 2012
2
Cristina Peñamarin, Polemic Images: Metaphor and Index in the Language of
Political Cartoons, Quaderni di studi semiotici, no. 80/81 (1998).
3
Timothy Benson, The Cartoon Century: Modern Britain through the Eyes of Its
Cartoonists (Random House UK, 2007). 9
4
Kenneth Koch, The Art of the Possible: Comics, Mainly without Pictures (Soft
Skull Press, 2004).
5
Aaron Meskin, Roy Cook, and Warren Ellis, The Art of Comics: A Philosophical
Approach (John Wiley & Sons, 2011).
6
Punch, The Punch Cartoon History of Modern Britain: Punch Cartoons 1841-
1987 (Punch, 1988). n.p.
7
John Geipel, The Cartoon. A Short History of Graphic Comedy and Satire.
(London: David and Charles (Publishers) ltd, 1972). 14
8
Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester, A Comics Studies Reader (University Press of
Mississippi, 2009).13
9
Bayeux Tapestry 1067
10
Michael Wynn Jones, The Cartoon History of Britain (London: Tom Stacey Ltd,
1971). 18-19
11
Ernst Hans Josef Gombrich, Meditations on a Hobby Horse and Other Essays on
the Theory of Art (Phaidon Press, 1994). 131
12
Punch, The Punch Cartoon History of Modern Britain: Punch Cartoons 1841-
1987.

Louisa Buck 47
__________________________________________________________________
13
Richard Howells and Robert Matson, Using Visual Evidence (McGraw
Hill/Open University Press, 2009). 24-41
14
Ibid., 38
15
By Frederic George Stephens (four volumes covering prints up to 1770 and
published 1870- 1883) and Mary Dorothy George (seven volumes covering prints
between 1771-1832 and published 1935-1954).
16
The worship of Bacchus, or, the drinking customs of society: 1864 by George
Cruickshank. Tate, London
17
John Stewart, The Worship of Bacchus...Painted by Mr. George Cruikshank (W.
Tweedie, 1864).
18
2011 Roundtable talk with Martin Rowson, Steve Bell, Peter Brookes and
Nicholas Garland, held at the Cartoon Museum, Little Russell Street, London.
19
Leo Duff and Phil Sawdon, Drawing: The Purpose (Intellect Books, 2008). 6
20
Ibid., 12
21
Ibid.
22
Gerard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree (University of
Nebraska Press, 1997).
23
Roland Barthes and Stephen Heath, Image, Music, Text (Fontana Press, 1977).
38-40
24
Sheri Klein, Art and Laughter (I. B. Tauris, 2007). 10-11
25
Duff, Drawing: The Purpose, 6
26
Ibid.
27
Benson, The Cartoon Century, 9
28
Ibid.
29
In conversation at the Cartoon Museum, London. 7 March 2013.
30
Martin Rowson, "Dark Magic," Index on Censorship (2009).
31
Klein, Art and Laughter, 16-17.
32
Mary Darly, A Book of Caricaturas, 1762.
33
British satirical puppet show, ITV, 1984-1996.
34
Victor Navasky, The Art of Controversy: Political Cartoons and Their Enduring
Power (Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013). 25
35
Antonio Gramsci, 1891 -1937, was an Italian writer, politician, political theorist,
philosopher, sociologist, and linguist.
36
Louis Pierre Althusser 1918 -1990 was a French Marxist philosopher.
37
Benson, Cartoon Century, 9
38
12 editorial cartoons, depicting the Islamic prophet Muhammad, were published
in the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten on 30 September 2005
39
Chris Lamb, Drawn to Extremes: The Use and Abuse of Editorial Cartoons
(Columbia University Press, 2004). 1-29
40
Navasky, The Art of Controversy, 9-11

__________________________________________________________________
41
Benson, Cartoon Century, 9
Bibliography
Barthes, Roland., and Stephen Heath. Image, Music, Text: Fontana Press, 1977.
Benson, Timothy The Cartoon Century: Modern Britain through the Eyes of Its
Cartoonists: Random House UK, 2007.
Darly, Mary. A Book of Caricaturas, 1762.
Duff, Leo, and Phil Sawdon. Drawing: The Purpose: Intellect Books, 2008.
Geipel, John. The Cartoon. A Short History of Graphic Comedy and Satire.
London: David and Charles (Publishers) ltd, 1972.
Genette, Gerard Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree: University of

Nebraska Press, 1997.
Gombrich, Ernst Hans Josef Meditations on a Hobby Horse and Other Essays on
the Theory of Art: Phaidon Press, 1994.
Heer, Jeet, and Kent Worcester. A Comics Studies Reader: University Press of
Mississippi, 2009.
Howells, Richard, and Robert. Matson. Using Visual Evidence: McGraw Hill/Open
University Press, 2009.
Jones, Michael Wynn. The Cartoon History of Britain. London: Tom Stacey Ltd,
1971.
Klein, Sheri. Art and Laughter: I. B. Tauris, 2007.
Koch, Kenneth. The Art of the Possible: Comics, Mainly without Pictures: Soft
Skull Press, 2004.
Lamb, Chris. Drawn to Extremes: The Use and Abuse of Editorial Cartoons:
Columbia University Press, 2004.

Louisa Buck 49
__________________________________________________________________
Meskin, Aaron, Roy. Cook, and Warren Ellis. The Art of Comics: A Philosophical
Approach: John Wiley & Sons, 2011.
Navasky, Victor. The Art of Controversy: Political Cartoons and Their Enduring
Power: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013.
Peñamarin, Cristina. Polemic Images: Metaphor and Index in the Language of

Political Cartoons. Quaderni di studi semiotici, no. 80/81 (1998).
Punch. The Punch Cartoon History of Modern Britain: Punch Cartoons 1841
1987: Punch, 1988.
Rowson, Martin. Dark Magic. In Index on Censorship, 2009.
Stewart, John. The Worship of Bacchus...Painted by Mr. George Cruikshank: W.

Tweedie, 1864.
Louisa Buck is a practice based PhD candidate at the University of Brighton,

United Kingdom. She has a background in Fine Art, Sculpture and Illustration. Her
research is a critical investigation into the role of Greek mythology in
contemporary British political cartoons.

Bourdieu vs. Batman: Examining the Cultural Capital of the
Dark Knight via Graphic Novels
Amy Maynard
Abstract
Bill Finger and Bob Kane’s character of Batman is undoubtedly one of the most
popular characters in the DC superhero-verse, instantly identifiable to a range of
audiences. The chapter examines how the perception of Batman had changed since
he has been the focus of Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (1986) by Frank
Miller, Batman: The Killing Joke (1988) by Alan Moore and Brian Bolland, and
Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth (1989) by Grant Morrison
and Dave McKean. I discuss how the aforementioned graphic novels increased
Batman’s status in popular culture, his ‘capital,’ not only because the medium of
the graphic novel at that time (1985-1990) was being heavily marketed as more
literary than the comic book, but also because these graphic novels directly
addressed socially-relevant and complex themes related to urban neuroses,
psychological trauma, and class warfare. The public’s perception of the ‘idealised’
superhero was also undergoing a fundamental change, superheroes increasingly
being presented as morally-conflicted vigilantes rather than mythical saviours,
Batman being the most prominent of this ‘new’ type of hero. By utilising Pierre
Bourdieu’s Theory of Capital, I argue how different mediums, authors and
audiences developed Batman’s cultural capital, Bourdieu’s Theory of Capital
concerned with the ways in which consumers of cultural goods use said goods as
markers of status, and how these ideological markers are constructed through
social conditions. The chapter concludes with a depiction of how the world of
Gotham has become embedded in Western popular culture via the aforementioned
graphic novels, and the media inspired by them, such as Nolan’s trilogy of films
and the Arkham Asylum video games. Batman has become a symbol of both the
bourgeoisie and the proletariat alike, representing our fears in regards to change,
urbanisation and class.
Key Words: Graphic novels, Batman, Pierre Bourdieu, Theory of Capital,

superheroes, class, marketing, themes, fear, popular culture.
*****
1. Introduction
In the 1980s, DC published three graphic novels featuring the character of
Batman - The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller, published in 1986; The Killing
Joke, by Alan Moore and Brian Bolland, published in 1988; and Arkham Asylum:
A Serious House on a Serious Earth by Grant Morrison and Dave McKean in
1989. As well as being commercially successful, the graphic novels were critically

52 Bourdieu vs. Batman
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acclaimed, and changed the public’s perception of Batman. Such perceptions can
be understood in terms of cultural capital. My argument is that the success of these
graphic novels was due to the cultural capital of the medium; the cultural capitals
of the authors; and the maturation of the character. In subsequent media
adaptations, the darker version of the character and Gotham, carried on from the
graphic novels, is the version that has had the best critical response, as
demonstrated by the response to the Nolan trilogy of films, released in 2005, 2008
and 2012, and the Batman: Arkham Asylum video games, released in 2009 and
2012.1
2. The Cultural Capital of the Medium

To understand how the character of Batman changed in the Eighties, we must
first look at how the medium changed, in terms of industry practices, audience,
form and content. Comics used to be circulated via distribution channels to
newsstands, and then sold to the general public. However in 1971-1972 this system
gradually gave way to the direct distribution system, where companies such as
Seagate Co. sold comics directly to comic specialty stores.2 Comic book specialty
stores, by the mid Seventies, were in their hundreds, and only ten years later there
were an estimated 4,000 comic shops in the U.S.3
The audience had changed as well – surveys in the 1970s found that the
average superhero comic buyer was a male aged 16-24.4 And most of those buyers
were buying Marvel comics rather than DC comics, impressed by Marvel’s re-
imagining of the superhero as a flawed individual, and grounding their narratives
in a similar yet alternate reality.5 Marvel also had popular letter pages, in which
consumers could directly communicate with the publishers.6 DC had also
incorporated letter pages with reasonable success, and thus when Batman changed
in tone and direction in the Seventies, the fans wrote in to show their approval.7
Audiences were ready for a more mature character, a more mature genre.8
The ‘comix’ movement of the late Seventies and early Eighties also had an
effect on the medium. Comix were expressly created and marketed for an adult
audience, and used the medium to express ideas about social and political issues.
Comix were creator owned, and thus self-expression went before commercial
interests. 9
Thus we come to the first text to be labelled and marketed a ‘graphic novel’, Will
Eisner’s A Contract with God (1978). Published in hardback book form, and
comprising of four stories that had not previously been serialised, Eisner’s
intention was for the text to work ‘as a whole’, and for the production to be ‘large
scale’. A Contract with God was a statement about what comics could achieve both
in term of medium and content.10
A Contract with God was a milestone for comics, however in terms of
attracting audiences outside of the comic book subculture and garnering
mainstream press attention, the graphic novels that changed the rhetoric around

Amy Maynard 53
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comics from the period of 1985-1990 were Maus (the first edition printed in 1986,
the second in 1991), Watchmen (1987), and The Dark Knight Returns (1986).
These graphic novels, referred to as the Big Three by comics theorist Roger Sabin,
were the texts that captured the consciousness of the wider public, and raised the
cultural capital of the medium.11
To clarify how cultural capital is applicable to my argument - cultural capital is
knowledge about practices or texts that is seen as legitimate, the legitimacy of
which determined by field and social relations.12 To quote Pierre Bourdieu,
... The apprehension and appreciation of a work also depends on

the beholder’s intention, which is itself a function of the
conventional norms governing the relation to the work of art in a
certain historical and social situation, and also of the beholder’s
capacity to conform to those norms, i.e. his artistic training. 13
Graphic novels were seen as having more cultural capital than the comic – the
phrase ‘comics grow up’ was often used to describe them.14 The comic book
subculture had strong social capital, in that the fans that made up the subculture
had an autodidactical knowledge of the comics medium, and convened in comic
shops to spend economic capital and trade knowledge. However, this social capital
had no currency outside the fandom, and comic book fans as a result remained
stigmatised.15
It should be noted that the stigmatised fans still made up the bulk of the buying
power for graphic novels as well as comics (particularly in the case of The Dark
Knight Returns, which was released as serialised comics before being collected and
bound in the graphic novel), and so DC were careful to praise their core audience –
often describing them as articulate and educated.16
There was, however, a desire to find new audiences, with senior DC editor Paul
Levitz saying of graphic novels, ‘we’re seeing the book format, as a format, is
acceptable to people who are unwilling to shop for the periodical’.17
The graphic novel’s name alone connotes literature, distancing it from the
juvenile connotations of the ‘comic’, and the Big Three were published at a time
when, to quote Roger Sabin, ‘there was pressure on the arbiters of taste to expand
their horizons’.18
Graphic novels were touted as the next stage in literature, and as well as being
sold in bookstores and discussed on university campuses, they were covered in the
mainstream press. Book publishers began to experiment with their own lines of
graphic novels, and graphic novels won awards. Graphic novels had objectified
capital – they had been judged to be ‘legitimate’.19
Putting aside the media hype, the graphic novels that sold well and had staying
power weren’t because they were presented in a different form to the comic, but
because the authors had managed to take a medium and a genre and make both an

53 Downloaded from Brill.com 04/08/2024 07:38:10PM
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artistic statement, rather than simply conforming to what comics had been
perceived to be – a medium subordinate to literature – and in the case of the
superhero genre, a ‘macho fantasy trip’.20
3. The Cultural Capital of the Authors

‘Batman sold regardless of who the creative team was. So, if a writer was
giving you trouble, to hell with him. Get out your Rolodex, call up the next warm
body. ... Then DC in particular began to emphasise the creators. The audience
became sophisticated and started to demand a certain quality level.’ 21
The above statement is from Batman editor Dennis O’Neil. In 1985, sales for
Batman were at their lowest. However, the direct distribution system that had been
put in place in the Seventies, and the fan letters, meant that comic book consumers
expressed their preference for authors and illustrators by buying their work and
writing to the publishers.22 Later on, the graphic novel format would expand the
audience base further by being stocked in bookstores instead of just comic stores.23
In 1982 Pacific Comics put in place a royalty system for creators, based on
quality and quantity of work, replacing the old flat-rate-per-page system. DC and
Marvel followed suit in order to hold on to their own creators.24 Yet this didn’t stop
the practice of ‘poaching,’ in which a publisher would offer money and creative
terms to a popular creator to work for them.25
DC poached Frank Miller, who had a successful run on Daredevil at Marvel in
1983, offering him his own comic title (Ronin), and following Ronin’s success, a
story arc about Batman, resulting in the publication of The Dark Knight Returns.26
The Dark Knight Returns sold out its comic serial run, and sold 85,000 copies in
bookstores.27 Part of the Big Three, it also garnered mainstream press attention.28
Moore and Morrison had been scouted from Britain, Moore because of his
work on 2000AD, Morrison because of his work on Zenith. Along with the artists
Dave McKean and Brian Bolland, they would be known as part of the ‘Britpack’,
who brought a new energy to comics.29
4. The Maturation of the Character

The energy that these authors and illustrators brought to their texts was
palpable. The graphic novels were notable for introducing not only a darker
Batman, but also a Batman that dealt with issues related to urban neuroses, trauma,
and questions of status quo. The Dark Knight Returns’ narrative addresses rising
crime rates (usually attributed to those of the lower class and street gangs), nuclear
war, conflicting political ideologies, and homophobia. Batman is alternately
described as a hero and a menace to society, and Miller’s portrayal leaves room for
both interpretations. Gotham is presented as a dark mirror to our own society.30 To
quote Miller, ‘I simply put Batman, this unearthly force, into a world that’s closer
to the one I know. And the one I know is terrifying.’ 31

Amy Maynard 55
__________________________________________________________________
Even though Miller thinks Batman is more ‘obsessed’ than mentally unstable,32
Batman’s sanity gets called into question in The Killing Joke and Arkham Asylum.
The Killing Joke also tests the sanity of Lieutenant Gordon, as the Joker inflicts
psychological and physical trauma upon him and his daughter Barbara. The Killing
Joke however is largely an origin story about Batman’s greatest foe, Moore
providing detail to an established back story.33
Batman’s own origins are revisited in Arkham Asylum, and are contrasted with
that of Amadeus Arkham, the founder of the asylum. In both narratives there are
undercurrents of fear of the Other, whether they are physically or sexually
Other.3435
The graphic novels not only pushed the boundaries of what the superhero genre
could achieve, but also expanded the fictional world of Gotham, making Batman
more socially relevant and nuanced than ever before. Batman, in his first title
comic, was proclaimed to be ‘this weird figure of the dark... this avenger of evil’, 36
and the graphic novels brought back this element into the character and Gotham.
Batman’s world is one of inequality, fear, and blurred lines. Even though the
origins and motivations of the character have remained relatively static since his
creation – Bruce Wayne fights crime as his vigilante alter-ego Batman to avenge
his parents and restore order to Gotham – under different authors and through
different mediums, Batman is a superhero that sparks a renewed interest into the
world of Gotham, and discussion about what the superhero genre can achieve in
terms of graphic content. (My usage of the term ‘graphic’ here encompassing both
confrontational material, and the striking artwork by Miller, Bolland and McKean).
According to Will Brooker, Batman has now become a cultural signifier that has a
multiplicity of incarnations, these incarnations featured in everything from novels
to films to video games. 37
Other media that have come close to achieving the level of cultural capital are
the trilogy of films by Christopher Nolan, and the Arkham Asylum series of
games.
The Nolan films, as well as being commercially successful, were a critical
success. The trilogy explored the consequences of Batman’s actions in a realistic
environment, and also attracted discussion and controversy over their portrayal of
economic collapse, perceived political ideologies, and levels of violence.3839
The Arkham Asylum video games, meanwhile, have received praise from the
gaming community, and have had a considerable impact on mainstream culture as
well. Batman: Arkham Asylum has even broken the Guinness World Record for the
Most Critically Acclaimed Superhero Game Ever.40 The games are popular not
only because of the cultural capital of Batman and the graphic novel that it was
based on, but also because of the Batman mythos incorporated into the game. The
cultural capital of Paul Dini, a revered comic writer and scriptwriter of Batman:
Arkham Asylum, also contributed to its popularity and positive critical response.41

__________________________________________________________________
5. Conclusion
Batman has achieved cultural capital because the medium and genre came of
age during the publication of the three graphic novels listed, and the popularity and
cultural legacy of these graphic novels was only possible due to the cultural capital
of the authors, and the changes occurring in the comic industry, in regards to
audience, form and content. The cultural capital inherent in the character, as
Batman and his world has been updated to suit the times, Gotham embedded in our
popular culture. Even now, almost thirty years after its publication, the battle
between Superman and Batman in The Dark Knight Returns will be re-enacted in
the Man of Steel sequel.42
Notes
1
Even though the animated TV shows Batman: The Brave and the Bold and
Batman: The Animated Series were highly regarded, their target audience was
children. The media adaptations I have decided to focus on are those aimed at an
adult audience, as with the graphic novels.
2
Hatfield, Charles, Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature, (Mississippi:
University of Mississippi Press, 2005), 22.
3
Patrick Parsons, ‘Batman and His Audience: The Dialectic of Culture,’ The Many
Lives of the Batman, (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), ed. Roberta E.
Pearson and William Urrichio, 77.
4
Parsons, ‘Batman and His Audience: The Dialectic of Culture’, 78.
5
Hatfield, Alternative Comics 11; Parsons, ‘Batman and His Audience: The
Dialectic of Culture’, 74-75; Morrison, Grant, Supergods: What Masked
Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and a Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us
about Being Human (New York: Spiegel and Grau, 2011), 94-96.
6
7
Dennis O’Neil, Preface to Batman in the Seventies (New York: DC Comics,
1999), vii-viii.
8
Morrison, Supergod, 21-24; Boichel, Bill ‘Batman: Commodity as Myth’, The
Many Lives of the Batman, (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), ed. Roberta
E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 5-13.
9
Hatfield, Alternative Comics, 6-18.
10
Roger Sabin, Adult Comics: An Introduction (London and New York:
Routledge, 1993), 238-239.
11
Ibid. 246.
12
Pierre Bourdieu Distinction: A Critique on the Judgement of Taste (Harvard:
Harvard University Press, 1984) 66.
13
Ibid 30.
14
Sabin, Adult Comics 87.

Amy Maynard 57
__________________________________________________________________
15
Jeffrey A. Brown ‘Comic Book Fandom and Cultural Capital,’ The Journal of
Popular Culture, 13 (1997) 15-17; Paul Lopes, ‘Culture and Stigma: Popular
Culture and the Case of Comic Books’, Sociological Forum, 21 (2006) 390.
16
Christopher Sharrett ‘Batman and the Twilight of the Idols: An Interview with
Frank Miller,’ The Many Lives of the Batman (London and New York: Routledge,
1991), ed. Roberta E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 30.
17
Brownstein, Charles, ‘DC Pushes Graphic Novel, Backlist Growth’, Publisher’s
Weekly, 11th June 2001, 17.
1818
Sabin, Adult Comics, 92.
19
Ibid. 92-95, 242-243.
20
Hatfield, Alternative Comics, 162; Sabin, Adult Comics, 95; Roberta E. Pearson
and William Urrichio, ‘Notes from the Batcave: An Interview with Dennis
O’Neil’, The Many Lives of the Batman, (London and New York: Routledge, 1991)
ed. Roberta E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 30.
21
Pearson and Urrichio, ‘Notes from the Batcave: An Interview with Dennis
O’Neil’, 27.
22
Boichel, ‘Batman: Commodity as Myth’, 15; Pearson and Urrichio, ‘Notes from
the Batcave: An Interview with Dennis O’Neil’, 27.
23
24
Boichel, ‘Batman: Commodity as Myth’, 15; Pearson and Urrichio, ‘Notes from
the Batcave: An Interview with Dennis O’Neil’, 28.
25
Steve Englehart, Preface to Batman: Strange Apparitions (New York: DC
Comics, 1999), vii-viii.
26
Boichel, ‘Batman: Commodity as Myth’, 15.
27
Eileen Meehan, ‘‘Holy Commodity Fetish, Batman!’: The Political Economy of
A Commercial Intertext’, The Many Lives of the Batman, (London and New York:
Routledge, 1991), ed. Roberta E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 53.
28
29
Ibid. 60, 95.
30
Frank Miller, The Dark Knight Returns (New York: DC Comics, 1986) 11, 59,
65-66, 102, 119.
31
Sharrett, ‘Batman and the Twilight of the Idols: An Interview with Frank
Miller’, 39.
32
Ibid. 38.
33
Alan Moore and Brian Bolland, The Killing Joke, (New York: DC Comics
1988).
34
Arkham’s family are murdered/sexually assaulted by an escaped prisoner, who
had been a patient of Arkham’s. Clayface and the recurring image of ‘The Tunnel
of Love’ represent sexual disease, the Joker, Arkham and Dr Cavendish cross-
dress, and the Mad Hatter is depicted as a paedophile. All of these characters are
seen to be mentally ill, and in the case of Clayface, physically grotesque.

__________________________________________________________________
35
Grant Morrison and Dave McKean, Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a
Serious Earth (New York: DC Comics 1989).
36
Bill Finger, Bob Kane and Jerry Robinson, Batman #1 (New York: DC Comics
1939).
37
Will Brooker, Batman Unmasked: Analysing a Cultural Icon (New York and
London: Continuum, 2000), 9.
38
Even though Tim Burton’s films raised Batman’s commercial profile, Nolan’s
films raised Batman’s cultural capital, as evidenced by the number of awards and
acclaim that they have received by professional arts bodies. They are also closer in
theme and tone to the graphic novels.
39
Guttierez, Peter, ‘The Dark Knight Trilogy: A Study Guide’, Screen Education
78, (2011) 68; Scott Foundas, ‘Cinematic Faith’, filmcomment.com,
November/December,2012, http://filmcomment.com/article/cinematic-faith-
christopher-nolan-scott-foundas; David Sirota, ‘Batman Hates the 99 Percent’,
salon.com, Viewed 19 July 2012,
http://www.salon.com/2012/07/18/batman_hates_the_99_percent/; Joe Queenan,
‘Man of Steel: Does Hollywood Need Saving from Superheroes?’, the
guardian.co.uk, 12 June 2013,
http://www.theguardian.com/film/2013/jun/11/man-steel-hollywood-break-
superheroes.
40
Comicbookresources.com, ‘Batman: Arkham Asylum Awarded a Guinness
World Record’, Viewed 1 July 2013,
http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=article&id=22758.
41
Parjanya C. Holtz, ‘Batman: Arkham Asylum Is a Masterpiece. Who Would
Have Thought?’, totalplaystation.com, Viewed 1 July 2013,
http://totalplaystation.com/ps3/batman-arkham-asylum/reviews/8557/.
4242
Josh Wigler, ‘Is ‘Batman vs. Superman’ the Name of Snyder’s Man of Steel
Sequel?’ comicbookresources.com, Viewed 16 August 2013,
http://spinoff.comicbookresources.com/2013/07/23/is-batman-vs-superman-the-
name-of-snyders-man-of-steel-sequel/.
Bibliography
Alan Moore and Brian Bolland, Batman: The Killing Joke, New York: DC Comics,
1988.
Boichel, Bill. ‘Batman: Commodity as Myth’, The Many Lives of the Batman,
edited by Roberta E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 4-17. London and New York:
Routledge, 1991.

Amy Maynard 59
__________________________________________________________________
Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique on the Judgement of Taste.

Harvard: Harvard University Press, 1984.
Brooker, Will. Batman Unmasked: Analysing a Cultural Icon. New York and
London: Continuum, 2000.
Brown, Jeffrey A., ‘Comic Book Fandom and Cultural Capital’, Journal of
Popular Culture, 13 (1997): 13-29.
Brownstein, Charles. ‘DC Pushes Graphic Novel, Backlist Growth’, Publisher’s

Weekly, (2001): 17.
C. Holtz, Parjanya. ‘Batman: Arkham Asylum Is a Masterpiece. Who Would Have

Thought?’ totalplaystation.com, Last modified October 5, 2009, Accessed July 1,
2013. http://totalplaystation.com/ps3/batman-arkham-asylum/reviews/8557/.
Comicbookresources.com, ‘Batman: Arkham Asylum Awarded a Guinness World

Record’, Last modified August 31, 2009, Accessed July 1, 2013.
http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=article&id=22758.
Englehart, Steve. Batman: Strange Apparitions, (New York: DC Comics, 1999), i-

ix.
Finger, Bill, Kane, Bob and Robinson, Jerry. Batman #1, Spring (New York: DC
Comics, 1940).
Foundas, Scott. ‘Cinematic Faith’, filmcomment.com November/December 2012,

Accessed July 5, 2013.
http://filmcomment.com/article/cinematic-faith-christopher-nolan-scott-foundas.
Gutierrez, Peter. ‘The Dark Knight Trilogy: A Study Guide’, Screen Education 78,
(2011): 67-71.
Hatfield, Charles. Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature. Mississippi:

University of Mississippi Press, 2005.
Lopes, Paul. ‘Culture and Stigma: Popular Culture and the Case of Comic Books’,
Sociological Forum 21 (2006): 387-414.

__________________________________________________________________
Meehan, Eileen. ‘‘Holy Commodity Fetish, Batman!’: The Political Economy of a

Commercial Intertext’, The Many Lives of the Batman, edited by Roberta E.
Pearson and William Urrichio, 47-65. London and New York: Routledge, 1991.
Miller, Frank. Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. New York: DC Comics, 1986.
Morrison, Grant and McKean, Dave. Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a

Serious Earth. New York: DC Comics, 1989.
Morrison, Grant. Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and a

Sun God from Smallville Can Teach Us about Being Human. New York: Spiegel
and Grau, 2011.
O’Neill, Steve. Preface to Batman in the Seventies, (New York: DC Comics, 1999)
i-x.
Parsons, Patrick. ‘Batman and His Audience: The Dialectic of Culture’, The Many
Lives of the Batman, edited by Roberta E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 66-90.
London and New York: Routledge, 1991.
Pearson, Roberta E. Pearson and Urrichio, William. ‘Notes from The Batcave: An
Interview with Dennis O’Neil’, The Many Lives of the Batman, edited by Roberta
E. Pearson and William Urrichio, 18-32. London and New York: Routledge, 1991.
Phillips, Jevon. ‘Beautiful Batarangs Fly From Reviewers as ‘Batman: Arkham

Asylum’ is Released’, latimes.com, Last modified August 25, 2009, Accessed July
1, 2013.
http://herocomplex.latimes.com/uncategorized/batarangs-fly-from-reviewers-as-
batman-arkham-asylum-is-released/.
Queenan, Joe. ‘Man of Steel: Does Hollywood Need Saving from Superheroes?’
the guardian.co.uk, Last modified June 12, 2013, Accessed August 16, 2013.
http://www.theguardian.com/film/2013/jun/11/man-steel-hollywood-break-
superheroes.
Sabin, Roger. Adult Comics: An Introduction. London and New York: Routledge,
1993.
Sharrett, Christopher. ‘Batman and the Twilight of the Idols: An Interview with
Frank Miller’, The Many Lives of the Batman, edited by Roberta E. Pearson and
William Urrichio, 33-46. London and New York: Routledge, 1991.

Amy Maynard 61
__________________________________________________________________
Sirota, David. ‘Batman Hates the 99 Percent’, salon.com, July 19 2012, Accessed
August 16, 2013.
http://www.salon.com/2012/07/18/batman_hates_the_99_percent/.
The Many Lives of the Batman, edited by Roberta E. Pearson and William
Urrichio, London and New York: Routledge, 1991.
Wigler, Josh. ‘Is ‘Batman vs. Superman’ the Name of Snyder’s Man of Steel
Sequel?’ comicbookresources.com, Last modified June 23, 2013, Accessed August
16, 2013.
http://spinoff.comicbookresources.com/2013/07/23/is-batman-vs-superman-the-
name-of-snyders-man-of-steel-sequel/.
Amy Maynard is a PhD student who is studying modern Australian comics

production at the University of Adelaide. She is a co-founder of the Inkers and
Thinkers Symposium, Australia’s largest comics studies conference.

M, John J. Muth’s Adaptation of Lang’s Film: An Inference
Bridge from Film to Comic
Julio Gutiérrez G-H
Abstract
Comics and films share some narrative codes related to conceptual inferences and
what Scott McCloud terms ‘closure’. Analysing both graphic adaptation and film,
an expected finding is that Muth performs the adaptation sharing some techniques
from the film of Lang, but also innovating in his own medium through the use of
line, page layout and language. Furthermore, I discuss Linda Hutcheon’s theory of
adaptation, by taking into consideration the narrative codes that film and comics
share and the way both media perform an ‘illusion of movement,’ each one in its
own way. The interaction between comics and ‘audience’ not only as readers, but
also as spectators through conceptual inferences puts comics into a hybrid status
between printed and shown media. Hutcheon asserts that comic adaptations should
be seen both as ‘told’ and ‘shown’ media. The chapter engages semiotic analysis to
explore the role of the reader that includes actively constructing the narrative of
graphic media.
Key Words: Graphic novel, adaptation, film, intermediality, inference, closure.
*****
There are plenty of references to the deep bond between films and comics. In
her book Los lenguajes del cómic1, Barbieri states that both media share some
aspects of their respective languages; similarly Scott McCloud describes film
photograms as very, very slow comics2. The dialogue between both media allows
producing plenty of adaptations in both ways: the Batman and Superman franchise
is just the tip of the iceberg. Watchmen, Marvel superheroes and many others have
opened a field of comic book to film adaptation that is growing every year. The
same applies conversely: movies get adapted into comics. The chapter analyses this
phenomenon, with particular reference to Fritz Lang’s M adaptation into a graphic
novel by Jon J. Muth.
In most cases, the concept of adaptation has been related to a lower copy, an
opaque version of an ‘original,’ a simplification. Researchers like Thomas Leitch
have tried to revert this mistaken idea. In his article, Leitch casts down some
prejudices that rule in both spectators’ and critics’ minds. He states that adaptations
should be understood as an autonomous work which has its own singularities such
as those provided by the medium the adapter is using: you can tell a story using
different media (films, novels, comics, opera), and that decision will change the
way the characters, the plot and the context of that story is developed.
In her book A theory of adaptation, Linda Hutcheon also discusses this issue.

64 M, John J. Muth’s Adaptation of Lang’s Film
__________________________________________________________________
For her – as for Leitch – it is essential to overcome the prejudice of seeing
adaptation as a mere copy. Some authors, such as Ferstl and Lefevre amongst
others followed this same idea. Hutcheon understands adaptation as a repetition
without replication, but with variation: ‘an adaptation is a derivation that is not
derivate –a work that is second without being secondary. It is its palimpsestic own
thing’.3 For Hutcheon, therefore, the concept of adaptation goes beyond the copy.
The author, in her definition of this type of work, particularly recognises a duality:
on one hand, adaptation is not dependent on its source; it is not necessary to know
the previous work to understand the new version (though it often proves to be a
great contribution). On the other hand, this new version of a previous work
provides the familiarity of an intertext that the spectator identifies and draws
satisfaction from in a certain way. In this sense, adaptation is an autonomous text
that is also in constant tension with its source text since it is a repetition without
replication.
This duality may be seen as a claim that places adaptation below its source text.
However, it must be intended as an autonomous text, not a mirror of its referent but
something new, a variation:
An adaptation is assumed to be a window into a text on which it

depends for its authority, and the business of viewers and
analysts is to look through the window for signs of the original
text. But texts themselves are assumed to be not windows but
paintings that invite readers to look at or into them than through
them.4
In this sense we can derive that adaptation is a total rewriting from a work,
autonomously and independently from its source that, however, invites a dialogue
with its referent. For this reason, the role of the reader is essential in building a
sense for the adaptation: for Hutcheon, it is the audience (reader, viewer,
consumer) that activates the intertext and interacts with the medium (written,
drawn, filmed) in which adaptation is made. Hutcheon presents a typology of
modes of interaction between the public and adaptations, according to the media
that is being used. Hutcheon lists three categories: telling, related to strictly
narrative media as literature; showing, related to scenic media such as theatre, film
and opera, and interacting, which includes all media in which the subject interacts
with the story, as in the case of video games.5
In the case of adaptations into comics, she locates them in the field of telling
interactions, associated with printed media such as literature. Despite the fact that
comics bear some similarities to the written medium that can place it comfortably
in the telling mode of interaction, this distinction deserves a brief discussion. Many
researchers have concluded that comics are a hybrid medium, mainly relating it to
both literature and films. Porter Abbott focuses on the dialogue that comics enable

Julio Gutiérrez G-H 65
__________________________________________________________________
with films and narratives, emphasising this combined nature: ‘a narrative art that
draws, like some hypertext fiction, on both film’s visuals and prose’s narrative
flexibility is the comic strip’.6 Therefore, comics do not work exclusively through
telling interactions with the reader, but also with showing.
The comic is not only a printed, still medium (related to telling) but also a
performative one (related to showing), since the drawing through the panelling
portrays the narrative and brings in something different from written literature: the
illusion of movement in the reader’s mind. In that line, Sergio Brancato compares
comics to films, finding that despite there being a lot of similarities between both
media, in comics the illusion of movement is not a mechanical process tricking the
eye, but one demanding the reader to write him or herself the story through
reading. As Thierry Groensteen states, the simultaneous mobilisation of both
written and visual codes imply a different way of reading comics that demands a
more active participation of the reader.
Taking this into count, in Hutcheon’s classification of adaptations, comics
share both telling and showing modes of interaction, because despite the action
being frozen on paper, the reader gives life to it through inferential reading guided
by the gutter, that space between the panels in which the reader completes the
actions missing between frames.7
Therefore, comics demand a strong presence of the reader so as to complete the
whole story that is partially told on paper. And, in the particular case of Fritz
Lang’s M graphic adaptation, for those actions from the readers of filling in blanks
work as a bridge between the graphic version and its source.
The most interesting aspect about Lang’s film is the way both sound and visual
edition become narrative resources to show the unseen. The director was once
asked why he edited Elsie’s murder scene not showing the brutal crime. For him, it
was ‘a matter of taste, and tact. You can’t show such thing’.8 However, it can be
narrated: ‘All spectators –even those not allowing themselves to figure out what
happened to that poor child– have a shivering feeling that disturbs them. But each
one has a different sensation, because each one imagines the most horrible thing’.9
Precisely, that infinite variety of deaths Elsie can suffer come from the spectator’s
mind, ‘the posterior killing of Elsie takes place outside of the frame, which forces
the spectator to fill on his own those atrocious omissions’.10 In his book Cómo se
hace un cómic, Scott McCloud described this as closure:
The phenomenon of observing the parts but perceiving the whole

has a name. Is called closure. In our daily life, we do the closure
filling mentally that is incomplete, based on experience. There
are forms of closure that are pure inventions of storytellers to
produce suspense or keep the public guessing. Other closures are
made automatically, without any effort.11

__________________________________________________________________
It is interesting to remark that McCloud states that this phenomenon can be
found also in motion pictures: ‘in films, closure occurs all the time -in fact, 24
frames per second- because the mind, aided by vision persistence, transforms a
series of pictures into a story in constant motion’.12 Closure, therefore, can happen
as well in films as in comics, even in real life, as he explains in his book. If you see
someone sitting behind a desk, you assume that he or she still has legs, despite
your not seeing them. For this author, closure is the core of comics’ narrative and
implies the active collaboration of the reader to make the story happen. The
procedure of building the story so that the reader has to fill in gaps has been
profited in both versions of M, each one in its own way.
The best example to compare comic and film under this spotlight is when the
murderer appears for the first time: in the movie, Lang chooses to frame his
silhouette projected on the poster offering reward for his capture. The closure is
made in our association of the shadow to the killer, but also his whistling of ‘In the
Hall of the Mountain King’. Without actually seeing the character we are already
aware of his presence by means of the closure. In Muth’s version, the scene is
rebuilt in a long and sober sequence that lasts many pages. Applying photographic
realism in the illustrations, he depicts the same scene dialoguing with Lang’s film
editing of that sequence, showing in parallel the mother preparing lunch and the
child tempted by the balloon that Hans (the killer) bought her. During the scene,
Muth shows only the shadow of the killer and, superimposed to the picture, the
musical notes of the song Hans whistles every time he’s about to kill. In contrast
with the realistic but diffuse images, the music is marked with dense colours
purposely, so as to imitate in a graphic code the relevance that Lang gives to the
sound in the motion picture.13
But the closure of the music goes deeper in Muth’s adaptation: in order to
depict the presence of the killer while he is out of the frame, Lang gives the sound
an important role in some scenes, particularly when the blind man recognises Hans
whistling without having him on camera, so that the sound itself becomes an
extension of the character’s personality and allows us, as spectators, to identify the
whistling with the criminal. In the case of the graphic version of M, Muth uses the
same written music as before but he displaces it out of the frame, as Lang does in
the film. The visual effect is a form of closure: the presence of the killer is depicted
in the music drawn over the frame and along the blank space in the side of the
page, and then continues in the lower panel coming from the blank space into the
frame.14 There are many more examples to mention, but it is rather relevant to go
forward with other issues.
Closure, then, was defined as a phenomenon of observing the parts but
perceiving the whole: in other words the exercise of inference. Therefore, closure
is not just about hidden characters, partly shown objects, people and specific
actions, but much more. If we conceive closure as a kind of inference, it should not
be conceived only from its visual nature, but also as a narrative structure that may

__________________________________________________________________
imply filling in blanks in the story, as in the scene of Elsie’s crime. Both Lang and
Muth give us incomplete information about what really happened to the child: the
only visual cues in both versions are a balloon stuck in the electric lines and a ball
near some bushes. Then, irrupting this disturbing scene, the sound of the voice of
Elsie’s mother crying her name aloud. Lang was experimenting with film edition,
trying to tell a story using the gap and the spectator’s imagination as much as
possible. Muth does the same, emulating that effect but also profiting one of the
most important narrative resources in comics: the ellipsis.15 As readers, as
spectators, we tend inevitably to bond cause and consequence:
The study of causal inferences encompasses both physical causes

and motivational causes. In the latter regard, the perceived
relationship between the sentences of Laurie left early for the
birthday party. She spent an hour shopping at the mall is based
on the reader’s inference that Laurie was motivated to buy a
birthday present. In general terms, causes, goals and motives all
enable particular outcome events and reactions.16
Causal inferences are the base of graphic narrativity: we see a causal relation
between two pictures and we give them life and motion in our minds, literally
filling the gap between panels: the gutter, in other words. In his book The system of
comics, Groensteen describes this action as the readerly function. Despite defining
the narrative of comics focusing on the page layout and the relationship between
pages and sequences (iconic solidarity), he reaches the same conclusion as
McCloud, who aims his definition of narrative in transitions between panels: the
reader does almost all the job.
Another good example of the use of narrative inferences in both versions of M
is also related to sound: in this case, the famous scene in which both the police
forces and the criminal syndicate plan the capture of Hans Beckert, the killer. In
the film version, both meetings are blended in a dialogue that allow the spectator,
due to the film editing, to understand that both conversations are happening at the
same time, but more importantly, that both aim towards the same goal: to chase
Beckert and to condemn him. As a result of the editing work of Lang, the spectator
perceives a whole built from two different parts:
143. A bit from above. The camera, behind the scammer frames
the conference. Schränker: Gentlemen, it is necessary that our
partners can continue with their business without being bothered
by the growing nervousness that seems to have overtaken the
criminal brigade. I ask you ... He makes a threatening gesture / /
144. A little from above. Conference at police headquarters. On
both sides of a long table are seated senior official Criminal

__________________________________________________________________
Brigade. In front of them, coffee cups and liqueur glasses.
Smoke. In the background, the police chief took the head of the
table, ending the gesture begun by Schränker in the above
sequence. Police Chief: ... to state their opinion, gentlemen. He
sits.17
This narrative experiment from Lang pays off in many ways: first, there’s the
symmetry set between two opposite forces which aim for the same goal; second,
there’s the concatenation of two different spaces and situations upon the same
discourse. The German director explains it:
I was the first to superimpose the last words of a sentence

corresponding to a sequence with the first images of the next
sequence. This resource not only speeds up the pace of the film,
but emphasizes the necessary associations of ideas from a
dramatic point of view, between two successive scenes (...). Also
for the first time two opposite scenes are handled in dialogue, so
that it is a whole.18
Muth achieves the same in his adaptation of the film, organising the whole
scene in a long sequence in the second chapter, ruled by symmetrical page layouts
in which can be seen, alternately, panels showing the police and the crime
syndicate. Muth seeks for this symmetry mirroring the layouts in every pair of
pages along the sequence. To emulate the illusion of the single monologue that
Lang achieves through sound editing, the artist places some of the dialogue
balloons in two panels simultaneously, breaking the distance between both
opposite spaces integrating them visually and verbally and creating bridges
between gutters, speeding up the pace of the sequence, just as Lang did in his
film.19
This page layout gives the reader some cues to complete both conversations
filling each other’s gaps through causal inferences ruled by the discourse itself but,
also, by the same goal these opposite groups share: to catch the murderer. Despite
the fact that both sides are moved by different motives, in this sequence the reader
finds there is a stronger force guiding the steps of the institutional forces of justice
and the criminals through the same path. There is a shared motivation linking the
two accounts into one, making this double and spiralling discourse into a single
monologue.
At the end, the experience of the reader is fundamental to build the whole story
by taking the graphic resources the adapter uses to propose his or her version of the
original. An adaptation, as Hutcheon states, is an imitation without replication, a
translation of a story to another media, a reconstruction that the text claims to be
performed by the reader:

__________________________________________________________________
the construction of coherence is the result of inferential processes
that take place as the reader proceeds through the text. That is,
the reader draws on his or her background knowledge to identify
relations implied by the text, to activate information about
events, facts, and themes that are not mentioned in the text, or to
engage in both activities at the same time.20
In conclusion, since both films and comics profit from narrative inferences and
closure, in the case of adaptations this resource works as a bridge between those
two different texts that is also a window that reveals a new vision of an old story,
an intimate interpretation made by an illustrator: an imitation without replication.
Notes
1
Some of the works quoted in the paper are written originally in Spanish.
Translations are my own.
2
Scott McCloud, Cómo se hace un cómic, el arte invisible (Barcelona: Ediciones
B, 1995), 8.
3
Linda Hutcheon, A theory of adaptation (New York: Routledge, 2006), 9.
4
Thomas Leitch, ‘Twelve fallacies in contemporary adaptation theory’. Criticism
45,nº2 (2003): 166.
5
Hutcheon, A Theory, 27
6
H. Porter Abbot, The Cambridge introduction to Narrative (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2008), 123.
7
McCloud, Cómo se hace, 68-69.
8
Peter Bogdanovich, Fritz Lang en América (Madrid: Fundamentos, 1972),77.
9
Ibid., 78.
10
Adam Kempenaar, Introduction to M (Girona: Rossel Fantasy Works, 2008), 8.
11
McCloud, Cómo se hace, 63.
12
Ibid., 65.
13
Jon J. Muth, M (Girona: Rossel Fantasy Works, 2008), 25.
14
Ibid., 84.
15
Ibid., 28-29.
16
Murray Singer, ‘Discourse inference processes’, in Handbook of
Psycholinguistics, ed. Morton Gernsbacher (San Diego: Academic Press, 1994),
489.
17
Fritz Lang, M, el vampiro de Düsseldorf (screenplay) (Barcelona: Aymá, 1964),
79-80.
18
Ibid., 27.
19
Muth, M, 58, 66.

__________________________________________________________________
20
Paul Van den Broek, ‘Comprehension and memory of narrative texts, inference
and coherence’, in Handbook of Psycholinguistics, ed. Morton Gernsbacher (San
Diego: Academic Press, 1994), 540.
Bibliography
Abbott, H Porter. The Cambridge introduction to Narrative. Cambridge University

Press, 2008.
Barbieri, Daniele. Los lenguajes del cómic. Barcelona: Paidós, 1998.
Bogdanovich, Peter. Fritz Lang en América. Madrid: Fundamentos, 1972.
Bortolotti, G.; Hutcheon, L.. “On the Origin of Adaptations: Rethinking Fidelity
Discourse and “Success”—Biologically”. New Literary History 38 (2007):
443–458.
Brancato, Sergio: Fumetti: guida ai comics nel sistema dei media. Roma:
Datanews, 2000.
Eisner, Will: Comics and sequential art. Florida: Poorhouse Press, 2000.
Gasca, L.; Gubern, R: Los discursos del cómic. Barcelona: Cátedra, 2011.
Groensteen, Thierry: The system of comics. University Press of Mississipi, 2007.
Hutcheon, Linda: A theory of adaptation. New York: Routledge, 2006.
Kempenaar, Adam: Introduction to M, by Jon J. Muth. Girona: Rossel Fantasy

Works, 2008.
Lang, Fritz: M, el vampiro de Düsseldorf (screenplay). Barcelona: Aymá, 1964.
__________: M, el vampiro de Düsseldorf (motion picture). Produced by Janus

Films. Berlín, 1931.
Lefevre, Pascal: “Incompatible visual ontologies?”, in Film and Comic Books,

edited by Gordon, Ian, Jancovich, Mark, & McAllister, Matthew, 1-12. University
Press of Mississippi, 2007,

__________________________________________________________________
Leitch, Thomas: “Twelve fallacies in contemporary adaptation theory”. Criticism

45, nº 2 (2003): 149-171.
McCloud, Scott: Cómo se hace un cómic, el arte invisible. Barcelona: Ediciones B,

1995.
Muth, Jon J.: M, Girona: Rossel Fantasy Works, 2008.
Singer, Murray: “Discourse Inference processes”. In Handbook of

psycholinguistics, edited by Morton Gernsbacher, 479-515. San Diego: Academic
Press, 1994.
Van den Broek, Paul: “Comprehension and memory of narrative texts, inferences
and coherence”. In Handbook of psycholinguistics, edited by Morton
Gernsbacher, 539-588. San Diego: Academic Press, 1994.
Julio Gutiérrez G-H is a PhD student at the Pompeu Fabra University (UPF), in
Barcelona (Spain). As part of the Research Group “Comparative Literature” at
UPF, his interests are Contemporary Literature, Comics, Transmediality and
Narratology. Currently, his research and writing is devoted to his thesis about
adaptations into comics, particularly the case of Alberto Breccia. In parallel, he is
working in some articles concerning other graphic adaptations of iberoamerican
literary works.

Framing the Subconscious: Envisioning the Polysemic Narrative
of the Graphic Novel as a Reference Point for Psychoanalytical
and Semiotic Discourse
John Harnett
Abstract
The graphic novel can offer a rich source of alternative, yet correlative,
perspectives on how narrative operates. Alternative on an aesthetic level, given the
unique sense of fragmentation delivered through panel layout and alignment on
each page. Correlative in that the ideas it is capable of expressing appeal to
established practices of discourse. The particular discourses employed in the
chapter are psychoanalysis and semiotics. To aid this process key moments from
Frank Miller and Klaus Janson’s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and Alan
Moore and Eddie Campbell’s From Hell have been selected. Focus on these
particular graphic novels is based on the fact that the protagonists of each offer up
a rich source of investigation into the subconscious disparity that arises as a result
of over-investment in the Freudian concept of the dream-work. By viewing each
protagonist through the scope of Freudian terminology it is intended to
demonstrate that the panel can be read as a psychoanalytical device in itself,
representing, in essence, the narratological equivalent of a Rorschach card. It will
be argued that such a reading permits access to the depths of a protagonist’s
psychological make-up. The secondary focus of the chapter, one very much inter-
twined with the psychoanalytical approach, is to demonstrate how the graphic
novel can take terminology from the discourse of semiotics and effectively adapt it
to suit such an inter-disciplinary medium. Drawing on semiotic research in such
areas as metonymic representation it will be demonstrated how the operative
functions both within and between corresponding panels on a page can be reread as
symbolic representations of familiar terms within the field of semiotics. Terms
covered shall include metonym, synecdoche, and displacement. Both approaches
are drawn on to highlight how such a malleable medium can represent a fresh
canvass upon which to screen enduring practices of narrative discourse.
Key Words: Narrative, panel, semiotics, subconscious, dream-work, metonym,

displacement, symbolism, totem.
*****
The graphic novel is an open invite to inter-disciplinary studies. The chapter

demonstrates how it embodies an effective template from which to extrapolate
pathways into the psychoanalytical and semiotic breakdown of narrative discourse.
To this aim one particular, and shared, aspect from two of the most esteemed
graphic novels from within the medium’s canon will be examined, Frank Miller

74 Framing the Subconscious
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and Klaus Janson’s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and Alan Moore and Eddie
Campbell’s From Hell. The aforementioned shared aspect in both novels that is
being held to account is the representation of, and the consequent excitation
initiated by, the dream-work in a medium reliant on a symbiosis of text and image.
In The Interpretation of Dreams Sigmund Freud repeatedly posits the idea that
a dream, ‘is expressed as it were in a pictographic script,’1 expanding on this
analogy to clarify that the dream-work, ‘makes full and powerful use of the
pictorial form.’2 Indeed, this concept of a pictographic script plays such an
important role in Freud’s earliest attempts to outline the structure of the dream-
work that The Interpretation of Dreams contains a single page, eight panel sample
of sequential narrative in its additional notes which ‘narrates’ the details of a
French nurse’s dream.3 The illustrative techniques of this recreation consist of a
visual sense of progressive compression of the dreamer within each consecutive
panel. She is almost engulfed by a growing body of water which leads to her
awakening in the eighth panel. This technique visually reflects the state of anxiety
which eventually terminates the dream and brings the dreamer back to the waking
world. A similar approach is used in both The Dark Knight Returns and From Hell
and the consequent side effects it elicits within the subconscious of each novel’s
protagonist opens an interesting doorway into how the medium operates.
In Frank Miller and Klaus Janson’s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns the
protagonist, Bruce Wayne, is perpetually haunted by metonymic echoes from his
own dreams and flashbacks. This is first established through a visual reconstruction
of an early childhood experience, re-enacted as a dream, by the now middle-aged
Wayne. Through the process of a dream/flashback Miller and Janson depict Wayne
in his youth falling through a hole in the ground on the Wayne manor estate and
into a cave deep beneath the grounds (See Images 1 and 2).
As seen in the nurse’s dream in The Interpretation of Dreams we are once
again presented with a form of visual narration where the dreamer is engulfed. In
this case the black wings of an approaching bat eventually shroud the young
Wayne in consuming darkness. One of the medium-specific narrative techniques
that this sequence exploits is called bleed effect, whereby the parameters of the
panel that first introduces the reader to the bat extends to the lower right-hand
limits of page 10. (See Image 1). According to comics theorist Scott McCloud this
tool of the trade creates an atmosphere where, ‘Time is no longer contained by the
familiar icon of the closed panel, but instead hemorrhages and escapes into
timeless space.’4 This unique form of visual expression mirrors the air of dreamlike
timelessness and inescapability that introduces Wayne to the Jungian totemic
Bat/Demon figure (See Image 3). This archetypal projection will come to
emblematise the most significant reliance on metonym and displacement within
Wayne’s subconscious. Subsequently, it will provide one of the key anchorage
points of visual resonance in the novel as a whole.

John Harnett 75
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Image 1: Subconscious descent and the ‘bleed-effect Bat’. From Batman: The
Dark Knight Returns ™ and © DC Comics, pg. 10.
All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Image 2: Subconscious descent (contd) From Batman:The Dark Knight

Returns ™ and © DC Comics, pg. 11.

__________________________________________________________________
Image 3: Totemic ‘adoption’. From Batman: The Dark Knight Returns ™ and
© DC Comics, pg. 47. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Wayne will visualise this adopted totemic father-figure five times in total in the
novel and in a redefining context each time. Returning to Freud, he states that:
Wild beasts are as a rule employed by the dream-work to

represent passionate impulses of which the dreamer is afraid,
whether they are his own or those of other people. (We have
not far to go from here to cases in which a dreaded father is
represented by a beast of prey or a dog or a wild horse – a form
of representation recalling totemism.)5
This reference to a dreaded father attains powerful validation from the

behaviour of the orphaned Bruce Wayne himself. In fact, he even projects a life
and personality of its own onto this symbol. In a process that clearly betrays the
emergence of a split-personality within the mind of the novel’s protagonist this
powerful totem ‘speaks’ to Wayne in a consistently degrading and damning
manner:
You are nothing – a hollow shell, a rusty trap that cannot hold
me. Smouldering I burn you – Burning you, I flare, hot and
bright and fierce and beautiful . . . You try to drown me out ...
but your voice is weak.6
This dream of symbolic entombment, presided over by a terrifying watcher, and

the subsequent excitation process that its residual anxiety creates is responsible for
another visualised manifestation of psychic and diegetic resonance within the
narrative. This is represented by the individual pearl fragments of his mother’s

John Harnett 77
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shattered necklace (see Image 4). In a sequence lasting 27 panels Wayne relives his
parents’ murder through progressive snapshots of synecdochic representation.
Here, the most significant psychic echo for the protagonist twins the resonance of
metonymic representation within the graphic medium with the overpowering
censoring effect of displacement within the dream-work. The absence of text in
this sequence brings to mind the removal of what Roland Barthes calls
‘anchorage,’ whereby the alignment of text alongside an image helps to
contextualise and specify its implied meaning.7 In such instances as seen here
Barthes notes how, ‘all images are polysemous; they imply, underlying their
signifiers, a ‘floating chain’ of signifieds, the reader able to choose some and
ignore others.’8 In this sequence the image of each disjointed pearl comes to
symbolise this chain effect on both a narrative and diegetic level. Each pearl
mirrors the connotative significance of the very panel that contains it. When
viewed in isolation its meaning is destabilised. When viewed as an integral part of
a sequence, be it a sequence of pearls in a necklace or a sequence of panels in a
mode of narrative, it achieves wholeness and semantic causality is re-established,
thus acting as a displaced linkage point between reality and the dream-work (see
Image 4-1).
Images 4 and 4-1: Metonymic ‘echoes’ of displacement and narratological

‘chain-links’. From Batman: The Dark Knight Returns ™
and © DC Comics, pg. 16.

__________________________________________________________________
What follows is the deployment of a highly compressed panel layout, aligned in
time with Wayne’s attempt to quickly flick through television channels. Such
compression, however, fails to contain the final manifestation of release in Wayne
as he charges blindly into a towering statue inside the mansion (See Image 5).
Image 5: The harmony of visual ‘braiding’. Narrative technique meets cathartic

release. From Batman: The Dark Knight Returns ™
and © DC Comics, pg. 17.
The diminished size of the panels just previous to this outburst (see Image 4-1)
can in their own sense be read as metaphoric markers of a rapidly increasing sense
of anxiety that is persistently goaded by the refusal of individual pearl fragments to
stay locked within the dream-work, flowing now into every waking thought. The
crossover effect that such narratological and diegetic braiding creates adds
significant weight to a combined semiotic and psychoanalytical reading.
Approached in this case through the semiotic theories of Professor Kaja Silverman
this technique literally visualises the same sense of pressure reflected in the
fundamental drive of the dream-work to utterly disregard any interest:
in indicating or even maintaining relationships between different

elements.

John Harnett 79
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It seeks to collapse distinctions – to achieve an absolute
identification between repressed materials and those which
substitute for them in the dream, as well as between the various
dream-thoughts.9
Indeed, in a masterful nod to the effect that such a sense of collapse has not
only on the mind of Bruce Wayne and on the process of cognitive perception
within the reader of sequential narrative, the delineating function of panel
arrangement and frame boundaries does indeed begin to collapse before the eyes of
the reader. The very ‘language’ of narration synonymous with the medium yields
to the primal urge for Wayne’s subconscious to at last submit to the taunting
echoes of the demonic father figure that the bat now represents. The consequent
destruction of this statue against the brooding backdrop of a sky pregnant with
menace deconstructs the format of the medium itself. It takes over eight panels,
doubly recast as window frames within the mansion, to eventually contain the
power of this dramatic release. As the statue comes crashing down so too do the
last vestiges of repression within the subconscious of Bruce Wayne, ‘The time has
come. You know it in your soul. For I am your soul . . . You cannot escape me.’10
From a semiotic perspective too this pushes the syntagmatic clusters of narrative,
and in this case sequential narrative, to their very limits as both narrative technique
and story-world become one.
A similar sense of blending between narration and diegesis, or dream and
reality, can be seen in the next manifestation of the dream-work to be submitted for
analysis. In this case, the vision that William Gull experiences in Alan Moore and
Eddie Campbell’s From Hell and the intensely graphic effect it has on his sanity.
Reference to a connection point between dementia and the dream-work can be
found early on in The Interpretation of Dreams when Freud identifies the dream as,
‘the first member of a class of abnormal psychical phenomena of which further
members, such as hysterical phobia, obsessions and delusions,’11 are also counted.
This fragile demarcation between the dream-work and the waking world is
satisfied in From Hell through William Gull’s vision where he encounters a force
beyond himself which comes to serve as his own totem, or symbolic guide, in his
macabre quest. When out on the Scottish Highlands early in the novel Gull is
confronted with a series of illusionary figures, all deceased in reality, which he first
attributes to formations in the surrounding fog.
Campbell’s and Moore’s syntagmatic alignment of one figure after another
from beyond the grave corresponds with Freud’s take on the arbitrary sense of
sequential causality within the dream-work itself. He observes that, ‘dreams are
disconnected, they accept the most violent contradictions without the least
objection, they admit impossibilities, they disregard knowledge which carries great
weight with us in the day-time.’12 In the context of this chapter such an observation
is validated even further by his conclusion that, ‘anyone who when he was awake

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behaved in the sort of way that is shown in situations in dreams would be
considered insane.’13 With this warning in mind this visual reconstruction creates
the perfect sense of anticipatory set design that the medium is so comfortable with.
As Gull reaches the top of the hill that his now dead colleague James Hinton has
been pointing at the reader must turn the page and encounter the full force
denouement of one of the novels only splash pages. According to Will Eisner, one
of the foremost pioneers of the medium, this technique:
permits a change of time, a shift of scene, an opportunity to

control the reader’s focus. . . . Properly deployed it seizes the
reader’s attention and prepares his attitude for events to follow. It
sets a “climate”.14
In this case the climate being set visually elicits the same conclusions observed
in both the French nurse and Bruce Wayne’s dreams, that being a sense of
diminution, compression and even insignificance leading to an awakening. All
three elements are on view here as the Masonic deity known as Jahbulon towers
over Gull to an extent whereby he is almost dwarfed out of view. Although in this
case what is being exposed is a gradual descent into madness; the vision that
initiates his psychic descent falls in line with Freud’s own conclusions on the
climactic nature of all dreams, whereby:
the first thing we see is the perceptual content that has been
constructed by the dream-work and immediately afterwards we
see the perceptual content that is offered to us from outside
ourselves.15
From a narrative-driven perspective the perceptual content constructed by the

dream-work here is expressed through the conclusive deployment of the splash
page. However, the perceptual content Gull draws from this vision in the waking
world will set the scene for his chilling approach to the Freudian concept of
displacement. William Gull, inspired by his newly adopted God, recasts his victims
as waypoints towards further epiphany and a more transcendental form of
existence. This is captured from the outset in Gull’s disassociated facial expression
as he observes the disembowelled corpse of his first victim, Polly Nichols, and
notes with an air of scientific detachment, ‘Did you see? She was full of light.’16
Just as Wayne’s totemic Bat-demon represents an attempt to focalise his own
destabilising subconscious so too does this euphoric visualisation of light help Gull
to trace a path to a higher form of knowing. The novel’s concluding mutilation
following Marie Kelly’s murder completes the construction of a highly illusory
network of signification through a medium of blood and dismembered flesh in a
prolonged and distressingly ‘silent’ sequence due to the lack of text. As noted

John Harnett 81
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above, this absence of text denies the reader the ‘reassuring’ presence of Barthes’
anchorage whereby, ‘various techniques are developed in such a way as to counter
the terror of uncertain signs; the linguistic message is one of these techniques.’17 In
this sequence of seventy individual panels, however, there is no way to counter the
terror as Gull’s blade carves its way through the corpse of Marie and he removes
organs and tissue with a twisted sense of intimacy as though having a metonymic
otherworldly value.
For Gull, this act of psychotic displacement increases Marie’s appeal to him by
an extension of what Silverman terms in her application of semiotics to narrative
discourse a ‘signifying network.’18 The macabre ‘gifts’ that Gull bestows on the
gradually unrecognisable corpse of Marie elaborate this network as he slices off
one of her breasts and places it under her head, ‘A pillow. .. pillow for you ...’19 He
has by now thoroughly reached the conclusion that, ‘consciousness itself is naught
but symbols; metaphors which build upon themselves and thus extend their
metaphysical domain.’20 Consequently his symbolic reimagining of the human
body as a conduit towards spiritual fulfilment ties this sequence in with efforts
Freud has made towards extrapolating meaning from the dream-work itself. Given
his increasingly tremulous grip on reality one can extend the latter part of Gull’s
life as an allegorical dream-like state of being. After all, it is the dream, as Freud
posits, which appears:
to engage in making symbolic representations of the body,

(whereby) we now know that those representations are the
product of certain unconscious phantasies (deriving, probably,
from sexual impulses) which find expression not only in dreams
but also in hysterical phobias and other symptoms.21
Moore and Campbell’s deliberate adherence to every incision in Marie’s body is

brought home through the intensity of detail within each panel. The unwilling
sense of voyeuristic confrontation that is thrust upon the reader by the power of
visual sequence is exacerbated by the void of anchorage that the lack of text
creates. Ironically, this panel-driven, partial representation becomes, in fact, too
much representation. But in order for Moore and Campbell to take the reader
hostage and force him to part the same doorways to perception that their
protagonist does this brutal technique becomes indispensable. Thus, the sequence
is here reconstructed as a narratological incision of chillingly intimate expression
which cleverly opens up the doorways into the tormented mind of its protagonist,
the alleged Jack the Ripper himself.
So what conclusions may be drawn from such comparative analysis? The

chapter has attempted to demonstrate that the graphic novel has the potential to set
up an effective screen from which to map applications of psychoanalytical and

__________________________________________________________________
semiotic discourse. It has attempted to do so by employing the protagonist himself
as the vehicle upon which to proceed with such theoretical exposition. It began by
applying a few medium-specific tools of the trade to the protagonist’s
subconscious turmoil in each novel and then extending that process into the
subsequent excitation that each character’s over-investment in the dream-work
brought about. Through such analytical path-finding it has attempted to forward the
premise that a medium which is ideally situated to literally visualise the
subconscious resonance of metonym, displacement and sequential causality may
present itself as a highly pragmatic tool towards the furtherance of narrative
discourse as a whole.
Notes
1
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (New York: Basic Books, 2010),
296.
2
Ibid., 110.
3
Ibid., 624.
4
Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art, (New York:
HarperCollins, 1993), 103.
5
Freud, Interpretation of Dreams, 419.
6
Frank Miller and Klaus Janson, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, (London:
Titan Books, 1986), 17-18.
7
Roland Barthes, Image Music Text, (London: Fontana Press, 1977), 38.
8
Ibid, 38-39.
9
Kaja Silverman, The Subject of Semiotics, (New York: Oxford University Press,
2008), 98.
10
Miller and Janson, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, (London: Titan Books,
1986), 17.
11
Freud, Interpretation of Dreams, xxiii.
12
Ibid, 83.
13
Ibid, 83.
14
Will Eisner, Comics and Sequential Art, (New York: W.W. Norton & Company,
Inc., 2008), 64-65.
15
16
Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell, From Hell, (London: Knockabout Limited,
2013), Chapter Five, 33.
17
Barthes, Image Music Text, 39.
18
Silverman, Subject of Semiotics, 120.
19
Moore and Campbell, From Hell, Chapter Ten, 8.
20
Ibid., Chapter Four, 24.
21

John Harnett 83
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Bibliography
Barthes, Roland. Image Music Text, London: Fontana Press, 1977.
Eisner, Will. Comics and Sequential Art, New York: W. W. Norton & Company,
Inc., 2008.
Freud, Sigmund. The Interpretation of Dreams, New York: Basic Books, 2010.
McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics, New York: Harper Collins Books, 1993.
Miller, F., and Janson, K., The Dark Knight Returns, London: Titan Books Ltd,
1986.
Moore, A., and Campbell, E., From Hell, London: Knockabout Limited, 2013.
Silverman, Kaja. The Subject of Semiotics, New York: Oxford University Press,
1983.
John Harnett is a postgraduate student at Mary Immaculate College, Limerick,

Ireland. His research focuses on correlating the medium of visual narrative with
traditional aspects of psychoanalytical discourse and critical theory.

(Re)Interpreting Dante’s Inferno in Gaiman’s
Season of Mists
Zainab Younus
Abstract
The postmodern era is built on the premise that while meaning is mutable, yet at
the same time (to paraphrase Donne) no text is an island. This propagates the belief
that an act of creation does not take place in isolation, especially for writers, who
are inevitably linked equally with the age and time to which they belong, as well as
to the tradition of past literatures. Riddled with references to other literary or
popular texts, Gaiman’s works create meaning based on the knowledge he
possesses as writer and creator. The chapter presents a comparative analysis,
through the lens of intertextuality, of Dante’s The Inferno with the Graphic Novel
series The Sandman Vol. 4 ‘Season of Mist’. The research questions that guide the
analysis are to compare the selected works in terms of how the classic is
transmuted into the current with the aim to highlight the prevalent themes of the
postmodern era and the shape given to them in the selected work. The theoretical
framework based on the hermeneutic circle and the theory of intertextuality has
been utilised to explore what this still new and emerging form of the graphic novel
contributes to narrative representation, and the understanding its readers can gain
about the contemporary world from works that are both verbal and visual.
Key Words: Gaiman, Sandman, Dante, Inferno, Intertextuality.
*****
1. Introduction
If narrative imitates life, and life is inspired from narrative, then the idea that
narrative can also imitate or be influenced by pre-existing narratives is not a
farfetched one. This acknowledges the fact that all stories take place within a
context, not in an isolated vacuum or meaning. At its core, many literary works are
by nature either explicitly or implicitly allusive. In literature, a writer would not
just use words as a vehicle of expression, but also draw upon the system of pre-
existing plotlines, generic features, character types, images, and narrative
structures. Thus, no text can exist in isolation. As Barthes states in his essay ‘the
text is a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them
original, blend and clash. The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the
innumerable centers of culture’1. For Kristeva, the influence of historical and
cultural inferences in this ‘mosaic of citations’ is another aspect of intertextuality.
Though myth makes up the heart of what The Sandman as a whole represents, it
is only one of many theoretical approaches that can be utilised in the analysis of
not just the medium of graphic novels as a whole, but Gaiman in particular. The

86 (Re)Interpreting Dante’s Inferno in Gaiman’s Season of Mists
__________________________________________________________________
framework that underlies this research is the hermeneutic paradigm, which is like a
‘circle’ moving from the ‘detailed to the general’2. It is a process that folds back
into its self, each of whose ‘parts’ could then be taken as representative of ‘a
historical story, and then the whole in the proper perspective of the historical
context’3.
2. Season of Mists vs. The Inferno

Even among the cornucopia of pleasures that The Sandman provides, Season of
Mists stands out. The volume completes the tale that was hinted at in the first and
third volumes. Season of Mists takes Dream on a journey into Hell as he after a
conversation with Death realises that he must travel to Hell and rescue his former
lover, despite Lucifer's vow of vengeance. Yet it is not a conflict in the traditional
sense. Dream is stupefied to find that Hell has been emptied and he winds up as the
Keeper of the Key to Hell - what is called ‘the finest plot of psychic real estate’ in
the multi-verse of the novel.
Clive Barker asserts that Gaiman ‘constructs stories like some demented cook
might make a wedding cake, building layer upon layer hiding all kinds of sweet
and sour in the mix’4. Gaiman incorporates everything from Greek myths to Norse,
Asian, and even his own invented world, which he bases on everything from
history to literary works, paintings, popular cultural references, and whatever else
strikes his fancy into his works. An example is the numerous names and identities
The Dream King has throughout the series. It is such diverse existences, spanning
not just time and space but also cultures that serve to reinforce the name Gaiman
uses for this family – The Endless. This multi-dimensionality lends credence to
belief that if these beings are not truly immortal, then they are the closest thing we
shall see to it.
The central thematic concern of this volume is of change and freedom,
mortality and loss; and issues of a very human intimacy between these immortal,
god-like beings is what makes up the subtext of this volume. Gaiman relates that
he was once asked to summarise the story of Dream in 25 words or less and he
replied, ‘The King of Dreams learns that all things must change or die and makes
his choice’5. Each plot reinforces the ideology that every being has the right of
choice and we are solely responsible for our lives. As can be seen in the last
conversation Morpheus as Dream has with his sister, Death in The Wake:
Death: “The only reason you’ve got yourself into this mess is
because this is where you wanted to be. There’s personal
responsibility too, y’know? Not only the kind you’re always
talking about….Destruction simply left…and tool off into the
forever. You could have done that.”
Dream: “No, I could not.”

Zainab Younus 87
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Death: [pause] “No, you couldn’t, could you.”
Inferno is the first part of the Divine Comedy and deals with Dante’s vision of
Hell that is depicted through his character’s travels through its nine different levels.
Symbolically, Dante shows these levels of Hell so that the Christian soul can
understand sin and by consequently rejecting it, allow the soul to draw closer to
God. Philosophically, Dante’s concept of Hell reflects his view on sin and man’s
free will that he uses to pursue that sin. Often the punishment is in the form of
poetic justice and is a continuation and fulfilment of the destiny freely chosen by
the soul itself during their life. Like Gaiman’s Dream, Dante’s Pilgrim will also be
faced with a demonstration of choices and their consequences in his journey.
However while Dream is the one who has to make a choice, the Pilgrim appears to
be more of an observer.
Both Dante and Gaiman have created an expansive world in which their main
character carries on his journey. It is a common motif in most forms of literature,
the most common of which are journeys of discovery. The story of Dream’s
journey to Hell echoes the quest motif that Dante has also employed in Inferno.
The idea is carried forward in Season of Mists when we learn that the second time
Dream travels to Hell is because like Dante, he has to correct a fault, a mistake he
had made. It is the process of growth, change, and evolution that is at the heart of
this volume.
Dante’s work has a wider scope, for Inferno is as much an allegorical depiction
of the sins of his own age and the city in which he lived – focusing on the sins of
the government and the church. This is achieved by having the central character,
Dante the pilgrim; speak to a multitude of characters drawn from all eras of history
and all parts of society as representation of various government and church
officials and functionaries. Through such narratives, Dante achieves an intertextual
link to the historical texts that predate his time and a symbolic link to his own
world order. Whereas with Morpheus, the Dream King, his journey is also to and
from Hell, and though he does not traverse the different levels in hopes of
understanding the nature of sin in general, he does so in reparation of a sin
committed by him thousands of years ago.
The theme of sin and punishment is a link in the chain that connects Season of
Mists and Inferno with each other. In the first, it is through the idea of forbidden
love, which breaks the rule that no mortal may love The Endless. The implication
given is that regardless of the magnitude of the sin, the punishment is something
that we impose on our own selves, rather than something that is being done to us.
Death says to one of the characters ‘You make your own hell’6. This circles back to
Satan’s lines in Milton’s Paradise Lost where he says ‘A mind can make a hell out
of a heaven, and a heaven of hell’, which in turn can circle back to the Fallen
Angels and sinners we see in Inferno, especially those who find themselves in

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limbo due to their inability to make a choice, like in Canto III. Interestingly, in
each scenario the theme of choice, even in damnation remains constant.
As Gaiman has opened up virtually unlimited access for himself through his
choice of style and character, such openness to plurality of meaning provides room
for a reader to create his own frame of reference through his own system of
intertexts based on what the text may implicitly or explicitly draw upon. As the
author of The Sandman, Gaiman handles a plurality of cultural, dialogic voices and
practices, addressing and educating a sophisticated readership capable of sharing
the literary practices and allusions underlying the clusters of associations and
representations that the text consists of.
The internal intertexts also allow the story to fold back on itself and reinforce
the main idea of intertextuality, allusion and the concept of the hermeneutic circle.
These also play a part in knitting the entire story of The Sandman into a tighter
whole, attesting to Gaiman’s skill as a storyteller, and reinforcing the epical scale
of the series; as well as evoke memories of Dante’s Inferno, for such a strictly
followed structural pattern utilising the number 33 is also found in it.
What is interesting about the two central characters’ journeys is that Dream
travels through an empty Hell to learn what he needs to – whereas in Dante’s
world, Hell is filled with creatures being tortured and punished for what they have
done in life. This can be explained by the fact that Dream is one of The Endless,
created before gods had existed in this world. It is fitting then that his
exemplification comes from a source that is equal to his stature. Therefore, for
Dante it is the souls of humans that become the representation of sin, while in
Sandman it is the gods and creatures of mythology that display the pettiness and
sins against whom we compare the Dream King.
As Hell is not what we may have expected it to be, the characterisation of
Lucifer similarly is a play on the classical representations, albeit with a sense of
resistance to established norms. The Lucifer Morningstar we meet is shown as a
handsome, physically angelic being with white wings and fair hair, very unlike the
monstrous form buried at the center of the Earth as shown in Inferno or the burnt,
destroyed winged figure lying in a lake of fire in Milton’s Paradise Lost. This is a
Lucifer who challenges the assumption that he is the root of all evil. As he protests,
‘The Devil made me do it. I have never made one of them do anything.’ Never, nor
is he a collector of souls for he asks, ‘How can anyone own a soul?’ Rather,
Lucifer is depicted as being disillusioned and world-weary, with a desire to hand
over the keys (literally and metaphorically). He has a dichotomous nature, which
makes him capable of unholy enjoyment at the predicament he is leaving Dream
in; while at the same time, he has the kindness to compliment Mazikeen, the
Daughter of Lilith who loves him.
Some of the stereotypical traits representative of Lucifer are, however, still
present. Namely, the bitterness at the realisation the Great Rebellion had failed and
is perhaps beyond resurrection – while at the same time there is a resistance to it

Zainab Younus 89
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when the same being compliments the Creator’s sunsets. The continual play upon
signifiers is fully utilised in The Sandman and sometimes their use may be subtly
pointed out to the reader. One of the most conclusive examples of this sort is
Lucifer, who, in Brief Lives, comments upon John Milton’s characterisation of him
in Paradise Lost when speaking to Cain:
Lucifer: “'Better to rule in Hell, than serve in Heaven.’ Eh, little

brother killer?” Cain: “Suh-certainly, Lord Lucifer. Whatever
you say, Lord Lucifer.”
Lucifer: “We didn’t say it. Milton said it. And he was blind.”7
What we have here is a variant of Lucifer referencing another variant of himself,

which itself was influenced by Dante's Divina Comedia, while of course all
versions were based on the Bible. This Lucifer speaks to Cain, who is Gaiman’s
interpretation of the variant of Cain from the comics’ series House of Mystery,
which again was based on the Bible. As the horizon of possible interpretations
expands widely, other variants of the characters as seen by other authors may come
to mind, which while not meant by the author, may be perceived by the reader,
who, as Barthes says, then re-writes the text.
This overlapping of images and motifs and patterns creates an
interconnectedness of all past texts that we as readers, or as authors, may only be
peripherally aware of. Connections like these between a postmodern and a classical
writer serve to affirm the continuing influence all literary works have on each
other, not just on the writers of its own era. This also serves as a method in which
the so-called ‘old’ texts are given a new life and become available to new
audiences and offer new aspects for analysis.
Lucifer’s choice to abandon Hell, locking up its gates and handing the keys to
Dream makes him the now reluctant owner of a prime piece of psychic real estate.
It is now up to Dream to decide who of the many supplicants will get the key. This
not only grants Lucifer freedom from the responsibility of Hell; it also fulfills his
desire for revenge. Being long acquainted with Dream, it is not inconceivable that
Lucifer is aware of how stringently Dream fulfils his responsibilities, no matter
how troublesome he finds them. For Dream, the choice was to either let Hell
remain closed and turn the past, present, and future denizens of Hell loose on
Earth; or to assume the mantle of responsibility until a new ruler is decided.
Gods, demigods, and immortals from across the realms of existence flood The
Dreaming to make their case as to why they should be the new ruler of Hell. This
particular section of Dream’s story in Season of Mists, where he meets with each of
the congregation individually, echoes strongly with the Canto construction of
Inferno. In each canto, Dante attempted to introduce the different sins and their
punishments through the mouth of a multitude of different speakers – ranging from
ancient kings to political and religious leaders to simple thieves and petty

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adulterers. Thus, Inferno serves as a warning to sinners, through the mounting
understanding of The Pilgrim. Similarly, the gods and representatives of a variety
of factions attempt to gain ownership of Hell through all means possible. Odin,
King of the Norse gods offers to return a lost part of Dream’s soul and power.
Jemmy, the Princess of Chaos, threatens to unleash all who are part of Chaos’s
domain. The Kilderkin Lord of Order uses both bribery and logic to argue his case.
The Gods of Nippon (Japan) display simple greed by wanting to increase their
worship base and domain. Bastet of the Egyptian gods offers Dream information
about the seventh member of The Endless family, for her followers can see what
others cannot – after all cats make good spies. Last of all was Azazel, Prince of
Hell, who attempts simple blackmail to gain Hell for he possesses Nada’s soul.
Despite their best efforts, failure is imminent for the Dream King cannot still
decide who should be given ownership. All their strategies prove futile, for the
representatives from the Silver City, Duma and Remiel, tell that the Creator wants
the key back – that there must be a Hell for it is ‘Heaven’s reflection. It is
Heaven’s shadow. They define each other. Reward and Punishment; hope and
despair.’ Therefore, Dream surrenders the key. Also embedded in this sequence of
events is the idea of Divine Intervention at times of hopelessness and imminent
failure, which also occurs in Canto VIII of Inferno when Virgil and Dante are
granted entry of the City of Dis at the intervention of an Angel.
The two main female characters of both the texts, Nada and Beatrice
respectively, are also linked together by more than just their place in the plot of the
story. While both are the prompt for why the journey/quest takes place in the first
instance, they also embody the same themes as far as Season of Mists and Inferno
are concerned. The idea of Love, faith, and betrayal by their partners makes up the
core of their personal universe. Imprisonment, freedom, and escape—these are
recurring themes of the whole series since the first issue.
Another aspect to note in Season of Mists is the many types and the
compositions of the gates that Lucifer locks up in preparation of closing up hell
and turning over the key to Morpheus, that is Dream. Though the gates of Hell are
not explicitly described in Inferno, the inscription on the top manages to create the
same atmosphere that the visual images do. Similarly, the three beasts that block
Dante’s path at the start of his journey, and to which Virgil (whom the poet
considered the best of all writers/poets/historians) ultimately leads him to can also
be a reflection of the prologue of Season of Mists where The Three Fates or The
Gray Ladies come to visit Destiny in his garden and warn of a mistake that was
made and a sin that must be redeemed by one of The Endless, namely, Dream.
3. Conclusion
The idea of incorporating a personal twist to established texts is an element that
Gaiman also supports. On the first page of The Sandman Companion, we find these
words as expressed by Gaiman in an interview “We have the right, and the

Zainab Younus 91
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obligation, to tell stories in our own ways, because they are OUR stories”8. It is the
unique element that Gaiman brings to all his writings that despite the similarities
between Season of Mists and Inferno, both at the same time remain distinct works
in and of themselves. One such example is of the use of religious tropes in Dante
which make up the narrative frame, whereas in Gaiman this is done through the use
of mythological figures. Yet despite this, the allegorical function of these tropes –
how ridding one’s self of sin can lead to enlightenment – remains a valid
proposition in both. The spiritual thus is linked to the secular world and all of this
is shown through the creative impulse of the writer. This analogy not only creates
and substantiates the intertextual links between Season of Mists and Inferno but
also allows for the possibility that a work of classical literature can be given a more
contemporary outlook. In fact, it serves as a way to open the way for new possible
interpretations to the text. It is this multitude of interlinked ‘voices’ that provided
an intertextual framework for the analysis.
Notes
1
Roland Barthes, Image-Music-Text (London: Fontana, 1977), 146.
2
Bridget Somekh and Cathy Lewin, Research Methods in the Social Sciences
(New Dehli: Vistaar, Sage Publications Ltd, 2005), 116.
3
Jerry Willis, Foundations of Qualitative Research – Interpretive and Critical
Approaches (USA: Sage Publications, 2007), 303-4.
4
Clive Barker, Introduction to The Sandman Vol. 2: The Doll’s House, (New
York: Vertigo-DC Comics, 1990), n. p.
5
Neil Gaiman, Introduction to Endless Nights (Canada: DC Comics, 2003), n. p.
6
Chapter 4 in Neil Gaiman The Sandman Vol. 3: Dream Country (New York:
Vertigo-DC Comics, 1995).
7
Chapter 1 in Neil Gaiman The Sandman Vol. 7: Brief Lives (New York: Vertigo-
DC Comics, 1994), 19.
8
Hy Bender, The Sandman Companion (USA: Vertigo Books, 1999), 194.
Bibliography
Barker, Clive. “Introduction”. The Sandman: The Doll’s House. Neil Gaiman. New
York: Vertigo-DC Comics, 1990.
Barthes, Roland. "The Death of the Author." Howard, Richard (trans.), 1986.
UbuWeb. Accessed June 9, 2010.
http://www.ubu.com/aspen/aspen5and6/threeEssays.html#barthes.

__________________________________________________________________
Barthes, Roland. Image-Music-Text. Heath, Stephens (trans.). London: Fontana,

1977. Accessed July 20, 2012.
http://smile.solent.ac.uk/digidocs/live/Furby/Text/Barthes.pdf
http://ieas.unideb.hu/admin/file_3978.pdf.
Bender, Hy. The Sandman Companion. USA: Vertigo Books, 1999.
Dante. The Divine Comedy Vol. I: Inferno, Penguin Classics. Musa, Mark (trans.).
Pennsylvania, USA: Indiana University Press, 1971.
Gaiman, Neil. “Introduction”. Endless Nights. Canada: DC Comics, 2003.
Gaiman, Neil. The Sandman: Brief Lives (Vol. 7). New York: Vertigo-DC Comics,
1994.
Gaiman, Neil. The Sandman: Dream Country (Vol. 3). New York: Vertigo-DC
Comics, 1995.
Gaiman, Neil. The Sandman: Season Of Mists (Vol. 4). New York: Vertigo-DC
Comics, 1992.
Moi, Toril. (Ed). The Kristeva Reader. Oxford: Blackwell, 1986.
Riffaterre, Michael. “Intertextuality vs. Hypertextuality.” New Literary History.

25.4 (25th Anniversary Issue Part 2, 1994): 779 - 788. 05 February 2011.
http://www.jstor.org/stable/469373.
Somekh, Bridget; and Lewin, Cathy. Research Methods in the Social Sciences.
New Dehli: Vistaar, Sage Publications Ltd, 2005.
Willis, Jerry W. Foundations of Qualitative Research – Interpretive and Critical

Approaches. USA: Sage Publications, 2007.
Zainab Younus is a lecturer in the Department of English at Fatima Jinnah

Women University. She holds an M.Phil in English Literature from the National
University of Modern Languages, Islamabad. Her research interests include
Shakespearean Studies, Postmodern Literature, Graphic Novels, Speculative
Fiction and Mythology.

Comics on Screen: Pages and Places in the Cloud
Jayms Clifford Nichols
Abstract
Comics is a form of sequential art that has evolved alongside the printed page. The
progression follows the black-and-white strips of newspapers to the colourful serial
comics on high quality paper; and on to longer, stand-alone graphic novels
produced as hardback books. As printing increased in production values and
dissemination so too did comics. In recent times a similar development can be
observed in screen comics. Home computer and internet screens have advanced
from large, low quality desktop monitors to high definition, portable display
devices. As a parallel development, screen comics have progressed from short
black-and-white web comic strips to full colour digital comics. If print comics
developed with the page and digital comics developed with the screen, the question
arises as to whether screen comics truly have ‘pages’ at all. And if they do, should
they? A useful approach is to examine reading theories associated with interactive
media and comics as postulated by key academics (McCloud, Cohn, Groensteen,
Manovich) and to compare how comics are presented in both print and digital
formats. The chapter highlights the lack of page exclusive elements in screen
comics such as the ability to riffle through pages or physically flip from one page
to the next. Interactive screen exclusive navigation and reading methods that
include guided views and infinite canvases (McCloud) are also analysed. The
difference between comics on the printed page and those in the digital ‘place’ or
cloud is expounded upon.
Key Words: Comics, reading, pages, portable display devices, digital comics,
screen comics, guided view, infinite canvas, reading raster, flippy-throughiness.
*****
1. The Complexity of Multiple Literacies

Comics is a very complicated form that requires us to participate in, and have
knowledge of, a number of different reading skills. We must be able to read not
only text and image but also a number of other types of information presented to us
in different ways such as comics specific elements like word balloons, panel
borders and different types of frames. Most importantly we must be able to swap
back and forth between the different cognitive skills associated with these forms
constantly throughout our reading process.
An artefact which asks us to use this combination of different types of reading
skills is known as requiring multiple literacies. Multiple literacies are defined by
Purcell-Gates as ‘the many and varied ways that people read and write in their
lives’1 and in comics they are used continuously when reading the form. The use of

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these multiple literacies makes comics reading an advanced and involving process
that requires a combination of reading skills. Many comics theorists recognise this
to be the case. As Lavin sums up in reference to Will Eisner and Scott McCloud:
‘both [Eisner and McCloud] suggest that the perception of sequential art requires
more complex cognitive skills than the reading of text alone’.2
I will not elaborate on the multiple literacies at this point but they are worth
mentioning to illustrate the vast number of reading processes we go through when
we read a comic.
What I will focus on here is the format specific reading processes which are a
part of this larger selection of multiple literacies in comics. I will concentrate on
print comics in codex form and compare them with the forms taken by digital
comics displayed on screens; drawing important conclusions about the differences
and similarities between print and digital comics reading.
2. Reading Rasters and Meta-rastic Indices

Comics require us to perform a complicated reading process in order to
understand them as well as a number of different reading tasks as we do so. Taking
a step away from that for the moment let us examine not what we read but our
actual sequence of reading.
When we read in western culture we tend to read from left to right, top to
bottom as shown below (Figure 1). This reading process is what is called the
culturally defined reading raster; a set of reading rules that are learnt as the
standard method of determining the sequence of the reading in a particular cultural
environment.
Figure 1
However, comics do not always stick to these culturally defined rasters and
often disrupt the reading sequence.
For example, in this sequence when we reach the next row we are required to
read down the left two panels before moving on to the right and reading the right

Jayms Clifford Nichols 95
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hand panel; thus breaking the normal left to right, top to bottom reading raster. The
eye movement here is shown by the red arrows in Figure 2 (below).
Figure 2
The elements of the comic that instruct us to read the sequence in this way can
be referred to as the meta-rastic indices and may be overt or covert in nature.
Sometimes these meta-rastic indices are arrows which point out the path of the
reading (overt). Other times they might be the content of the panels themselves, or
a bridging of the gutter with a word balloon, or a number of other visual indicators.
These meta-rastic indices are very important in leading us through the sequence
of the panels and more details about them are included in my chapter from a
previous edition of this journal.3 This chapter details what we do when we reach
the end of one of these page sequences.
3. Fitting the Form and the Codex Book

The form that comics take has always been defined by the media of the age and
as such the comic book has evolved alongside the media and its production
techniques. The first time comics appeared as a form and whether such things as
cave painting can be considered comics is a debated point but they can easily be
recognised in scrolls that pre-date the birth of the codex book and its multi-leafed
form. As the codex book became the dominant form of media comics began to

96 Comics on Screen
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migrate to that state and have developed in this form from basic illustrations to the
short strip of newspapers to the comic books and graphic novels we know today.
With the birth and wide adoption of the internet and high quality display
devices such as tablets we have seen a shift of media in recent years from a
domination of print information in books to a proliferation of information and
media becoming available on screens.
Comics are no exception to this shift and are becoming more and more
commonly distributed via digital media as the technology develops. As these
developments take place a series of new considerations, options, constraints and
possibilities are offered by the new medium. To outline what is different when
comics are presented to us on the screen we must first look closely at the form of a
codex comic book.
In terms of form, codex is the word used to refer to a number of leafs of paper
bound together along one side, usually the left in our culture. These leafs are the
pages and pages are what give the codex its unique form and its own set of specific
reading processes distinct from other forms such as the scroll which has a singular
sheet of rolled canvas.
When we reach the end of the sequence displayed on a page we are required to
turn to the next to continue our consumption of the narrative. Doing this is a part of
our understanding of the reading process of the codex form and a part of our
culturally defined reading raster.
The physical action of turning the page; an act which requires the reader to
acknowledge that they have reached the end of the gross sequence on the page and
to turn to the next one is an action that can be referred to as redundant or
extranoematic. This term does not mean that it is an unimportant action but instead
that it requires little thought and therefore does not interrupt us from our
consumption of the story being told.
As a society we are all familiar with the concept of the book. We know that we
read from left to right with the binding on the left, turning the pages as we go. The
action of turning the page is so unintrusive and commonplace to us we rarely
consider its meaning when talking about comics; yet comic books in their codex
form are very often written to this turning of the page. By this I mean that the
comic uses the page turn as a narrative device for a number of purposes to enhance
or control narrative elements.
The page itself can be used as a type of framing device for the panels within it.
Referred to as a ‘hyperframe’ by Thierry Groensteen in his book The System of
Comics,4 this page or hyperframe is related to the other panels and hyperframes
(pages) surrounding it throughout the book; and with it comes its own set of
reading processes. Creators can use the page turn as a way of ‘holding back’
information from the gross sequence of the current hyperframe to build suspense,
hide telling information, or remove events from physical proximity for the
purposes of narrative effect. It can also add impact or surprise to splash pages or

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panels in the following hyperframe and even be used to force the reader to pause,
effecting what Paul Atkinson refers to as the ‘visual rhythms that inform the
reading movement’.5 The visual rhythm is an important part of reading comics and
refers to the rate at which we move from panel to panel and the time we spend
paused in contemplation of the content.
From the reader’s perspective the page turn is more closely related to the
artefact itself and offers a number of negotiational benefits with one of the most
important parts of the paged form of the codex being that you can flick through it
to find places within the gross sequence with ease. The ability to flick through
gives the form a flippy-throughiness that is produced by a combination of the
codex’s physicality and our own reading memory. So if, for example, we want to
find a previous panel or sequence to the one we are reading we can use our
memory of where about in the gross sequence that panel occurred coupled with our
knowledge of the physicality of the book to flip through and find it.
This is an action that the digital space of the screen and the lack of physicality
of the object do not allow for. Some have tried to mimic it but none have found a
way that has the same haptic feel.
4. Mimicking Flippy-throughiness
Digital comics platforms have tried to implement a number of different ways to
mimic the flippy-throughiness of a codex book’s pages. Some, like the very
popular Comixology have added extra options such as a ‘Browse pages’ view to
show all the pages (hyperframes) side by side on one screen or in a scrollable list.
However this has been changed many times since its original conception
progressing from a scroll of thumbnails across the screen to a list view with rows
and columns and has taken a number of other forms both within this app
(application) and others. The ability to browse pages in this way at any time whilst
reading is an attempt to simulate the flippy-throughiness lost by the lack of
physical pages but still feels removed from the reading experience and with it
requiring the use of menus takes us out of the reading flow in a way that is
detrimental and fundamentally different to the flippy-throughiness offered by the
codex comic.
It is not only in comics that we notice this loss of flippy-throughiness when
changing the physicality of the text. Reading a traditional text based book on the
Amazon Kindle demonstrates a number of functions of the form very well.
The kindle offers a number of attempts to simulate elements inherent in the
form of the codex books, some of which work quite well whilst others don’t.
The visual display of your progress through the book works to give you a
constant, unintrusive sense of how much you have read, how much you have left to
read and how quickly you are getting through the text in the same way that the
number of pages on either side of the one you are reading do in a physical codex
book. It also offers a number of index options and the ability to mark pages but this

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is still not as easy as using your reading memory to skim back to a section that you
have read previously as the lack of physical pages means that whilst moving from
one page to the next is easy to do, and quickly becomes a redundant action,
flipping back several pages to find or check over a detail or section of text is a very
cumbersome act of navigating back one page at a time.
That is not to say that comics are harder to read in the digital form or that they
offer less to the reader but instead that they cannot do everything that they can do
in the print form. It is important to note that neither is inherently better than the
other but rather they must be considered different forms or types of comics.
However, comics in the digital environment of the touch screen can mimic their
print counterparts in some ways and in doing so show us which elements of the
printed form work well on screens.
A consideration that can be retained when transferring print comics into the
digital environment is the layout of a page. Tablet screens have a high enough
resolution and appropriate dimensions to accurately represent the pages of a comic
book, albeit one at a time and not side by side, and allows for the layout of single
page spreads to be represented as normal and with very little alteration.
5. The Naviscroll and Other Things That Screens Can Do

As we have established, digital comics don’t have physical pages that you can
turn or flick through. That means that an alternative needs to be used. The most
commonly used options for mimicking a page turn on a digital touch screen display
are either tapping or swiping the surface of the screen and these actions can be
referred to as the naviscroll.6 The naviscroll is similar to the page turn in that, once
learned, it requires little cognitive thought and does not break us from the flow of
the reading sequence.
The naviscroll is a very important part of our reading process when consuming
comics on screen. Be it a swipe which ‘feels’ like turning a page or a tap to
continue, it is the redundant action that allows us to experience the comic without
noticing the device and this naviscroll action appears throughout digital comics;
even those not actively trying to mimic the page turn.
It is important to note that the reason digital environments don’t have pages is
because their content does not take up physical space outside of the two
dimensions of what is displayed on the screen. The content of the comic exists in a
sort of abstract space in a different form to what we see on screen. The content
exists only as the rules by which it is made up as outlined by Lev Manovich in his
discussion of data storage and algorithms and is a very notable difference from the
physical makeup of a print comic where all the content shares a relational space to
all the other content at all times.7
With the exception of the part we are viewing on the screen at the time, the
comic exists in this abstract space as information rather than comic. As such we
use the screen as a tool to translate this information into a form we understand

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(Manovich’s Algorithm). We might then consider the screen itself, as McCloud
suggests in Reinventing Comics, as a window through which we view the content
of our comic.8 Much like looking through a real window as a portal to the outside
we can look at the screen as a portal to digital comics.
The printed page has finite space on which to lay out panels in sequence
whereas the screen allows for a much more flexible and expansive array of layout
options. McCloud refers to one way of doing this as the infinite canvas and talks
about the idea that the entire comic can exist as one single spread;9 if you like, a
holistic map of the narrative or single hyperframe. We then start to think of the
screen much more like a window that we look through to see the comic and less as
a page more akin to that of the printed book. Using the screen as a window through
which we read this infinite canvas offers a very different experience of reading to
that of pages.
Digital screens and the nature of cloud storage also allows for a number of
interactive and multimedia possibilities in digital comics including sound, motion
and ludic elements which can affect the form.
The multimedia nature of the screen offers a wealth of features that can be
added to the panels of a comic on screen and these have been used to varying
degrees of success. A majority of which are experimental web comics available via
the internet with some using animation within panels for short looped actions and
others using sound and music to set the mood or further enhance onomatopoeia.
Others use game elements and branching story paths to enhance the narrative
experience. There is plenty that could be discussed about these different
multimedia options and how they affect the comics form in the digital space of the
screen but I would like to focus on one particular type of digital comic that has
emerged recently.
6. Changeable Content and Guided View Comics

The nature of the screen allows for changeable content that offers new options
to the comic form previously unavailable to the fixed and physical form of print.
Changeable content refers to objects or images displayed on the screen which are
changed, updated or animated in some way when progressing through the
narrative.
For example narrative or speech balloons can appear when the naviscroll is
performed allowing for a conversation to happen between characters in a way
previously left to large, cumbersome blocks of text or multiple repeated images
with varying text elements. A number of other changeable content options can also
be used such as a character appearing in the scene, the change in cause and effect
as an action is being performed or frames and panels may appear in juxtaposition
to show the next part of the sequence. Changeable content is something that is
being used more commonly in what is generally referred to as guided view comics

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and has been used by mainstream, larger comics companies such as Marvel and
DC for some digital-only comics such as Guardians of the Galaxy and Batman ‘66.
This form of comic is a way of using the unfixed nature of the screen to show
comics in a different way. It requires us to perform some altered reading tasks such
as recognising what has changed within the presented panel, sequence or
hyperframe but still delivers an experience which is fundamentally comics and
allows us as readers to remain in control of the pace at which we absorb the
narrative.
These guided view comics and their changeable content demonstrate just some
of the possibilities offered to us by the screen that are unavailable in the paper
pages of the codex book. As we continue to consume more of our media in digital
form screen comics become further divergent from the paper pages of their codex
parents to develop into a form of comics not reliant on the turn of the page or the
physicality of space but instead adapted to the changeability of the digital display
of the screen.
Notes
1
Purcell-Gates, V. ‘Multiple literacies’, Literacy in America: An encyclopedia of
history, theory and practice. (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC CLIO, 2002), 376.
2
Lavin, Michael R. ‘Comic books and graphic novels for libraries: What to buy’,
Serials Review, Volume 24, Issue 2 (Elsevier Inc. 1998), 32.
3
Nichols, Jayms Clifford. ‘Comics on Screen: Reading, Comics and Screens’,
Cultural Excavation and Formal Expression in the Graphic Novel. (Oxford, UK:
Inter-Disciplinary Press), 303-312.
4
Groensteen, Thierry. The System of Comics. Translated by Bart Beaty, and Nick
Nguyen. (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2009).
5
Atkinson, Paul. ‘Why pause?: The fine line between reading and contemplation’,
Studies in comics volume 3 Issue 1. (Bristol, UK: Intellect Ltd. 2012),
6
Nichols. Comics on Screen: Reading, Comics and Screens, 308-310.
7
Manovich, Lev. The Language of New Media. (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001)
8
Scott McCloud, Reinventing Comics: How Imagination and Technology are
Revolutinazing an Art Form (New York: HarperPerennial, 2000), 222.
9
McCloud, Reinventing Comics, 222.
Bibliography
Atkinson, Paul. ‘Why pause?: The fine line between reading and contemplation’,
Studies in comics volume 3 Issue 1. Bristol, UK: Intellect Ltd. 2012.

__________________________________________________________________
Cohn, Neil. ‘The Limits of Time and Transitions: Challenges to Theories of

Sequential Image Comprehension’. In Studies in Comics Volume 1 Issue 1, edited
by Julia Round, and Chris Murray, 127–147. Bristol: Intellect Limited, 2010.
Eisner, Will. Comics and Sequential Art. Tamarac: Poorhouse, 2003.
Groensteen, Thierry. The Systems of Comics. Translated by Bart Beaty, and Nick
Nguyen. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2009.
Lavin, Michael R. ‘Comic books and graphic novels for libraries: What to buy’,
Serials Review, Volume 24, Issue 2. 31-45. Elsevier Inc. 1998.
Manovich, Lev. The Language of New Media. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001.
McCloud, Scott. Reinventing Comics: How Imagination and Technology are

Revolutinazing an Art Form. New York: HarperPerennial, 2000.
Nichols, Jayms Clifford. ‘Comics on Screen: Reading, Comics and Screens’,

Cultural Excavation and Formal Expression in the Graphic Novel, 303-
312.Oxford, UK: Inter-Disciplinary Press. 2013.
Purcell-Gates, V. ‘Multiple literacies’, Literacy in America: An encyclopedia of

history, theory and practice, 376. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC CLIO, 2002.
Jayms Clifford Nichols is a PhD candidate and lecturer at the University of

Hertfordshire in England; a student of the arts with a focus on comics and digital
media theory and practice.
The two figures in the chapter appear courtesy of the author.

Alternative Graphic Fiction and the Web: Models of Creation
and Models of Financial Viability
Finn Harvor
Abstract
Graphic fiction is a story format particularly suited to the Internet: it is visual yet at
the same time has a narrative that ‘holds’ the reader (unlike the fascinating [for
those involved] yet disconnected nature of social networking ‘narratives’). While
online novels and short stories tend to struggle for attention, graphic fiction often
attracts relatively large audiences. Yet the online approach is not without its pitfalls
– a ‘culture of free’ may accumulate hits, but does not necessarily bring in income.
Similarly, there are issues around copyright, added to the way graphic fiction tends
to be dismissed as serious art by those with a stake in the production of literary art.
The chapter considers these complexities through interviews conducted with
producers of graphic fiction, and surveys the current state of internet-mediated art.
A key focus is ‘underground’ or alternative graphic fiction culture, a category
which lacks the capital to build multi-media platforms that corporate culture is able
to, and yet is artistically adventurous, and often, itself a form of high art seeking an
audience rather than regular profits.
Key Words: Internet, audience, copyright issues, income, distribution, manwha,

manga.
*****
Within the Web of Print

The idea of the ‘e-book’ arose years ago when personal computers were
beginning to win widespread acceptance. Initially, e-books took the form of a
storage data medium, such as a floppy disk or CD-ROM, that could create the same
text as found in a book. The idea never really caught on, but, with the advent of the
Internet, enthusiasm about e-books, e-publishing and e-distribution seemingly
found its ideal vehicle: the Internet appeared to be a perfect ‘tech fix’ for what had
hobbled earlier attempts at e-book production. However, while e-books and e-
readers gained in popularity, the central nature of the print book has remained in
trade fiction publishing.1
The situation is less clear in the world of comic/graphic fiction publishing. In
South Korea, where I live, print publishing of comics (‘manwha’) has been
devastated by the altered environment wrought by technological change. Manwha,
like its better-known Japanese counterpart manga, has tended to be a cornerstone of
the publishing industry overall: it is a successful cultural product with a loyal
audience. But its sales were eroded by the Internet – not so much by readers
moving to other mediums (though that has been a factor) but rather from illegal

104 Alternative Graphic Fiction and the Web
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scanning and copying. In South Korea, the movement of manwha from print to
online was abrupt and, effectively, was not ‘managed’ by the industry. ‘Manwha
chaek’ (Korean comic books) still exist as a print medium. However, when David
Welsh observed in 2007 that ‘comics account for 25% all book sales in South
Korea’ (by comparison, comics account for approximately 40% of sales in Japan),
he was not able to foresee how quickly smartphones would penetrate the market,
and what a powerful technology they would be.2 The advent of the smartphone
marked a rapid shift to reading manwha online; this is a phenomenon that can be
observed on a daily basis on the crowded mass transit of Seoul. At the same time,
print publishing generally has been suffering in South Korea. As reported on
March 4, 2013 by Kim Tong-hyung, according to Statistics Korea in 2012, the
industry’s sales fell a jaw-dropping 20% – that is, over the period of one year, and
without an obvious economic culprit such as the stock market crash of 2008.3
The decline in print manwha can be witnessed in an anecdotal fashion: in the
massive book stores in downtown Seoul, print manhwa exist but only take up a
small proportion of display table space; furthermore, the titles on display tend to be
ones that have already gained a significant audience via the net. One example of
this is Covertness, an online manwha by the artist Hun that has been adapted to
film under the title Secretly, Greatly, and, incidentally, is still doing good business
at the box office as of writing this chapter. Covertness, following its online success
but preceding its film production, was also available in print. All of this is not only
the outline of one title’s success; it is also a possible outline of a new
business/production model.
In Japan, the situation is rather different. Print manga began with a larger
audience than manwha (Japan’s population is approximately two and a half times
that of South Korea), and manga’s share of the print book market in total is larger
(recall that 40% figure). During a recent visit to the Manga Museum in Kyoto, my
wife and I witnessed first-hand the cultural centrality that manga has in Japanese
pop culture.
By way of comparison, graphic fiction in the West has a dual nature: in some
respects, it has a profile similar to that of the big hits in South Korea and Japan: a
wildly popular mass market title that is converted into a movie franchise – and
accompanying ‘merchandise’ such as games and costumes – which in turn feeds at
least to some degree the sales of the print versions. As Mervi Miettinen noted in
her presentation, ‘From the Marginal to the Mainstream: Analyzing the
Relationship between Superhero Comic and Superhero Cinema,’ the enormous
popularity of movie versions of comic storylines has been good for traditional
comics; in fact, it has led to the counter-intuitive result of a decline in their sales.4
However, graphic novels – of, for example, the Frank Miller sort – remain strong.
The current model of ‘superhero narrative dissemination’ tends to rely very much
on origins in print: the most successful graphic fiction-based movies in Western
culture are titles familiar to anyone who grew up reading the superhero comic

Finn Harvor 105
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books. When I was a kid in the 1960s and ‘70s, one found these in corner stores
everywhere: Batman, Spiderman, Iron Man, The Avengers. This already-existent
audience underlines Hollywood’s aversion to risk alongside the tendency of
publishing conglomerates to muscle aside competition, and has led to a situation in
which the ‘movie-isation’ of already famous superhero characters leads to a
cultural phenomenon that is awesome in its widespread appeal but not particularly
inspiring, in terms of graphic fiction that aspires to equal literature, in terms of its
experimentation.
Parallel to this has been a movement toward critical acceptance of graphic
fiction as the term is understood by those who once consumed what, during the
1960s, 70s and 80s was called ‘underground cartooning’: the numerically much
smaller success of self-published comics such as Weirdo, Love and Rockets, and
Hate in the United States or Yummy Fur, Mind Theatre, and Reid Fleming, World’s
Toughest Milkman in Canada paved the way for presses specialising in self-
consciously non-commercial work such as Fantagraphics and Drawn and
Quarterly. Major publishers have also proved (occasionally) friendly to work such
as this: witness the critical and popular success of Art Speigelman’s Maus,
published by Pantheon, a storied imprint with impeccable literary credentials.
Other recent examples include Persepolis, and the work of Chris Ware, Joe Sacco,
and Chester Brown.
In the midst of all this change – some of it creating previously unforeseen
possibilities, some of it decimating traditional ways of doing things – is the
transformative technology of the Internet: however, while there are a variety of
reasons why the Internet is a medium with greater inherent potential for a narrative
form like graphic fiction which is comprised of words and pictures than it is for,
say, literary fiction, it carries with it particular risks and challenges.
The most obvious risk is that of piracy. Recall how the South Korean industry
was devastated by illegal scanning. Similar problems afflicted the Japanese
industry. Jason Thomson in the online magazine i09 comments ‘And yet, manga is
still popular: it’s just all being pirated online.’ However, by fighting back, the
legitimate industry has carved out an online space for itself that is not pirated.
Thomson: ‘A Google search for ‘manga’ returns seven ‘scanlation’ aggregators and
zero manga publishers in the top ten, while searches for ‘comics,’ ‘books’ and
‘graphic novels’ turn up stores and publisher sites, and even a search for ‘anime’
turns up mostly legitimate sites, apparently thanks to FUNimation’s aggressive use
of DMCA Cease & Desist notices’.5
Apart from piracy and the benefit and loss calculus anyone involved in online
culture must attempt, there is the vexing question of how one can successfully
‘monetise’ online culture. It is possible to achieve such a result; this sentiment is
echoed in a recent remark by a Canadian artist I interviewed in 2011, Scott
Chantler, and re-interviewed in 2013: ‘I know a few people who have made online
publishing really work as a business model. They’re still the exception rather than

__________________________________________________________________
the rule, but online publishing is still in its infancy’.6 Moreover, as Daniel Merlin
Goodbrey noted in conversational remarks, e-publishing can be viable, and is an
actively attractive model to some graphic fiction.7
Again, the South Korean example illustrates both potentials and pitfalls. Two
major websites – Naver and Duam – both have comics forums where artists can
post their series. These are wildly popular with smartphone owners, who regularly
surf the latest uploads of popular series such as Inner Voice, Noblesse and Secretly,
Greatly. But while titles such as the above generate large audiences, they do not
generate large incomes. This is partly due to the nature of the Internet with its
‘culture of free’. It is also symptomatic of a pop cultural form which has always
had a rather unsavoury tradition of exploitation of the very artists who produce the
work.
Once a webtoon becomes sufficiently popular, it can be released as a print
series. For example, Naver, really an Internet ‘hub’ that did not have a print
publishing history, is the company that now sells the copies of Inner Voice that one
can purchase at booksellers such as Kyobo and Youngpoong. Yet these sales are not
necessarily high, even though the popularity of the webtoon upon which the print
book is based remains; in effect, readers retain the habit that brought them to the
comic in the first place: they read it on their smartphones, tablets and home
computers – anywhere they can get an Internet connection. Naver and Duam also
pay royalties based on the hits the online comics receive. But a comic has to be
phenomenally successful for this to translate into any kind of income worth taking
seriously. (South Korean artists, including musicians and prose fiction writers,
whose work is distributed via the Internet occasionally voice complaints about this
system: a few years ago, a musician committed suicide over what he saw as an
excessively paltry payment system.) The recent introduction of a smartphone app
that allows cartoonists to sell directly to viewers helps to improve artists’ incomes
– but only if they are already quite popular.
In the West, webtoons (webcomics) are accepted as avenues by which an artist
‘grows’ his/her audience, but does not make money. The Canadian-Korean
cartoonist Michael Cho, who I interviewed in 2011 and contacted again in 2013,
comments, ‘I like the immediacy of webcomics, and see a great future with them.
While I appreciate traditional publishing models, the new creator-centric model of
webcomics and comics for mobile platforms like iPads provides for some very
interesting and rich options for cartoonists. It also provides an opportunity to grow
a new audience, especially one that comes to comics not for the medium but for the
subject matter’.8 Interestingly, where the issue of negative aspects of online
publishing is concerned, Cho acknowledges this exists but observes that negative
aspects also have been part of print: ‘I see a few pitfalls, but no more than
traditional comics publishing, hence my appreciation’.9 Some graphic fiction artists
such as Kate Beaton and Matt Forsythe have built fan bases by posting their work
for free, and then parlaying their new-found fame into careers in illustration while

Finn Harvor 107
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also publishing their work with specialty print publishers like Drawn and
Quarterly. For young artists with energy to spare, this model is naturally appealing.
For older artists, such as Toronto’s Mike Constable, a cartoonist and illustrator who
had established a career for himself long before the ascendancy of online comics,
the Internet provides a means of promoting his work: in his case, cartoon-based
videos that he posts on YouTube.
For artists such as Matt Kindt who publish book versions of their work and who
are interested in earning an income from their book royalties, what is intriguing is
the possibility of the readership of fiction moving from text-only narratives to
image-and-text ones: ‘I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer that question [about
graphic fiction gaining critical praise] - but my best guess would be readership.
There needs to be [a] shift in readers of monthly genre books that go to the store
every week to [also include] more traditional readers that pick up graphic novels as
they would any other book, instead of just the few that do make it to mainstream
attention.’10 Clearly, in Kindt's view, the audience for graphic novels can only grow
when the readers of text-only novels accept graphic novels as equals of the latter.
Kindt’s current series, Mind MGMT, published by Top Shelf, recently won a
ranking on the NY Times bestseller lists – a fact that Kindt himself is quick to
bring attention to. He does not so much seem interested in the Internet as a vehicle
of publishing as he is in it as a vehicle of promotion; he is an indefatigable poster
on Facebook, and his posts sometimes describe the number of volumes of a
particular issue of Mind MGMT that he (that is, Top Shelf) still has in stock. He
mentions this in order to sell the remaining issues. Kindt is an entrepreneur in the
full sense of the word: he is profiting from each book sale the way a shop owner
profits from each sale of a box of detergent. This description may sound pejorative;
it is not meant that way. Rather, it is to point out that when one considers books as
material objects – that is, as commodities – it is only intellectually honest for
someone who is serious (that is, a professional artist-writer) to be acutely attentive
to how well this ‘product’ is doing. For Kindt, the model that makes most sense
remains print, with the web serving as a marketing avenue.
It is imperative, though, that one see any medium of publication – whether print
or online – in all its positive and negative aspects. The Michael Cho quote about
print also having pitfalls is interesting in another regard: in Japan, where the
popular success of manga is widespread and self-evident, the success of the
industry that is witnessed by the sheer prevalence of the books does not necessarily
translate into great success for their creators.
Manga is one of those cultural forms that, in the West, tends to be famous for
being famous: although its productions reach Western audiences, only a fraction of
what the Japanese industry produces is easily available in Europe and the
Americas. As a result, the truly awesome scale of the industry tends not to be
appreciated. Manga is not just limited to the publishing industry, but spans multiple
industries such as television, film, music, games, and toys. This ‘media mix’ has

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grown in scope and speed since the 1980s, and currently the market scale of the all-
encompassing manga industry is estimated at being worth around three trillion yen
(30 billion USD).11 Manga in the form that we understand the term has its origins
in magazines that published stories as serials. When individual stories proved
popular, they were re-published as tankōbon – the sorts of books that Westerners
automatically associate with manga. And because of the economics of print
publishing, the serialized magazines were a particularly poor model by which
artist-writers could make a living. As in other trades, such as construction, the flow
of production – and its obligatory payments – meant that at each stage of printing
the magazines, distributing and selling them, it was the middlemen who were paid
first.
The Manga Museum in Kyoto illustrates this economy by an exhibit in one of
its large halls. The profit from each sale of a particular magazine is depicted as a
full glass of wine: ‘Readers fill up the glass of wine by paying the sales prices of
the magazines. But this doesn’t all go to the authors!’ As the magazine moves
through its various stages of production, distribution and sale, a sip is taken from
the glass. By the time the glass reaches the artist (who often works with a team of
assistants), the amount of wine left in the glass is miniscule.12
Tankōbon offer a substantially better business model to artists because they
receive 10% of royalties, and do not have to subdivide this amount with their team
of assistants (which was paid via the magazine revenues).
And long before giant comic book publishers like Marvel and DC got involved
in movie production (though note that Marvel and DC were involved in TV
production from the 1970s), manga was at the forefront of integrating media. This
led to an interrelated multi-media vehicle that was immense in its scope and its
revenues.13
However, unlike the West, where expansion into other media can translate into
sizable movie deals for artists who were canny enough to sign contracts with their
original comic book companies that retained residuals and options, mass media
forms such as TV and movies do not always trickle down royalties to manga
artists.14
This tension between a wildly popular cultural form and counter-intuitively
small profit margins for its creators (apart from tankōbon) is now driving an
interest in digital publishing. From the viewpoint of manga’s commercial viability
overseas, specifically in the United States, digital technology offers an effective
means of promotion and distribution (primarily of printed books).
But whether purely digital media (e-publishing) can actually generate
profitability for artists is an open question: it is worth keeping in mind that the best
model to reach this goal so far has been that of e-books sold via online stores such
as Amazon as well as traditional book publishing. The print book remains the
prime commodity that can generate real revenues for its authors. The Internet
remains a means of popularising artists’ work. Nevertheless, this process of

Finn Harvor 109
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popularisation is of increasing importance: artists such as Kate Beaton and Matt
Forsythe simply posted their work for free and are now financially successful.
Quebec artist Zviane (Sylvie-Anne Menard) has used a similar model for her series
Ping-Pong (2014). Michael Cho’s observation that an advantage of the web is that
it is ‘author-centred’ indicates one of the Internet’s strengths as its liberating
quality. What it does not do, however, is provide a reliable income. That practical
problem for any artist requires, it would seem, more traditional forms of
publication.
Notes
1
Jonathan Burnham, HarperCollins, personal interview by phone, 12 December
2008, 12 January 2009 and Deanna McFadden of HarperCollins Canada, Personal
interview by email, 24 January 2013.
2
David Welsh, ‘Forget Manga: Here’s Manhwa’, Businessweek, April 23, 2007,
Viewed on 23 October 2014,
http://www.businessweek.com/stories/2007-04-23/forget-manga-dot-heres-
manhwabusinessweek-business-news-stock-market-and-financial-advice.
3
Kim Tong-Hyung, ‘For the Local Book Market, It’s Apocalypse Now’, Korea
Times, March 4, 2013, Viewed on 23 October 2014,
http://www.koreatimes.co.kr/www/news/culture/2013/03/142_131485.html.
4
Mervi Miettinen, ‘From the Marginal to the Mainstream: Analysing the
Relationship between Superhero Comics and Superhero Cinema,’
Paper presented at the 2nd Global Conference on The Graphic Novel, Oxford,
United Kingdom, 22-24 September 2013.
5
Jason Thomson, ‘Why Manga Publishing Is Dying (and How It could Get
Better)’, io9, January 23, 2011.
6
Scott Chantler, personal interview by email, 25 June 2013.
7
Daniel Merlin Goodbrey, Sessional remarks offered to this author at the 2nd
Global Conference on The Graphic Novel, Oxfor, United Kingdom, 22-24
September 2013.
8
Michael Cho, Personal interview by email, 22 June 2013.
9
Ibid.
10
Matt Kindt, Personal interview by email, 10 August 2011.
11
Kyoto Manga Museum, personal visit, 16 June 2013.
12
Ibid.
13
Ibid.
14
Ibid.

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Bibliography
Alverson, Brigid. ‘Manga 2013: A Smaller, More Sustainable Market.’ Publisher’s
Weekly, April 5, 2013, Viewed on 23 October 2014,
http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-
news/comics/article/56693-manga-2013-a-smaller-more-sustainable-market.html.
Donadio, Rachel. ‘Truth is Stronger than Fiction.’ New York Times, August 7, 2005,
Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/07/books/review/07DONA2.html?_r=1&pagewa
nted=1.
Kim Tong-Hyung. ‘For the Local Book Market, It’s Apocalypse Now.’ Korea
Times, March 4, 2013. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.koreatimes.co.kr/www/news/culture/2013/03/142_131485.html
Lewis-Kraus, Gideon. ‘The Last Book Party.’ Harper’s, March 2009. Viewed on 23
October 2014. http://www.harpers.org/archive/2009/03/0082428
Miettinen, Mervi. ‘From the Marginal to the Mainstream: Analysing the

Relationship between Superhero Comic and Superhero Cinema.’ Paper Presented
at the 2nd Global Conference on The Graphic Novel. Oxford, United Kingdom, 22-
24 September 2013.
Nash, Richard. ‘Don’t Call it a Comeback: The Past and Future According to
Richard Nash,’ Publisher’s Weekly, July 27, 2009. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/396523-Don_t_Call_It_a_Comeback_
The_Past_and_Future_According_to_Richard_Nash.php.
———. ‘Nostalgia on the Bookshelf.’ Review of Ted Striphas, The Late Age of
Print, The Critical Flame, 2009. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.criticalflame.org/nonfiction/0909_nash.htm.
Robinson, Colin. ‘Diary (Publishing’s Demise),’ The London Review of Books.

February 26, 2009. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n04/colin-robinson/diary.
Rosen, Christine. ‘People of the Screen,’ The New Atlantis, Fall 2008, Viewed on
23 October 2014.
http://www.thenewatlantis.com/publications/people-of-the-screen.

Finn Harvor 111
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Sifton, Elisabeth. ‘The Long Goodbye? The Book Business and its Woes,’ The
Nation, May 20, 2009. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.thenation.com/doc/20090608/sifton.
Thomson, Jason. ‘Why Manga Publishing Is Dying (and How It could Get Better).’
io9, January 23, 2011. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://io9.com/5874951/why-manga-publishing-is-dying-and-how-it-could-get-
better.
Trachtenberg, Jeffrey A. ‘Authors Feel Pinch in Age of E-Books’, The Wall Street
Journal, September 26, 2010. Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703369704575461542987870022
.html.
Welsh, David. ‘Forget Manga. Here’s Manhwa.’ Businessweek, April 23, 2007.
Viewed on 23 October 2014.
http://www.businessweek.com/stories/2007-04-23/forget-manga-dot-heres-
manhwabusinessweek-business-news-stock-market-and-financial-advice.
Finn Harvor is an artist, writer and academic who works at Hankuk University of
Foreign Studies, South Korea. He has participated in conferences in Osaka, Kuala
Lumpur, Helsinki, and Oxford, and written on graphic fiction, Yoon Heung-gil,
Richard Kim, Thomas De Quincey and William Blake. Creatively, he has written
and staged two plays, had solo shows of his art, and published in several journals,
including Canadian Notes and Queries, This Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, and
Prism International.

Something Borrowed: Interfigural Characterisation in Anglo-
American Fantasy Comics
Essi Varis
Abstract
It is no secret that the formal structure of comics resembles a pastiche: images,
words and gaps of different styles and abstraction levels mix to tell a story that is
more than their sum. Is it any wonder, then, that modern, myth-driven graphic
novels tend to borrow their content elements – such as characters – from several
heterogeneous sources as well? Wolfgang G. Müller’s little-known but widely
applicable theory of interfigurality (1991) shows how literary characters gain depth
and resonance by sharing elements with characters in other works. The chapter
revises his theory and shows how it could also be used in the analysis of comic
book characters. Fantasy comics from Vertigo series like Fables and The Sandman
to works like Hellboy or The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen draw their
readerly and scholarly appeal from their eclectic, literary character galleries.
Especially Mike Carey and Peter Gross’ The Unwritten (2009–) realises every type
of interfigurality Müller has identified in experimental literature, and even adds
alternatives of its own. Close reading of this ongoing series underlines that
interfigurality is a flexible, transmedial phenomenon: characters of words and
images can parallel and reuse elements from purely textual characters in
imaginative ways. This flexibility, however, renders Müller’s name-bound
character concept insufficient. Since comparing characters to one another –
especially intermedially – would not be possible without complex cognitive
processes, Müller’s structuralistic view implies and should be supplemented with a
cognitive basis. Thus, combined with the cognitive character theories developed by
Baruch Hochman (1985) and Aleid Fokkema (1991), Müller’s notion of
interfigurality becomes a viable analysing tool for narratives of all kinds. Since
comics is a medium of gaps, fragments and ‘the invisible,’ its heroes often read
like puzzles, and some crucial pieces can occasionally be found through
interfigural speculations.
Key Words: Interfigurality, intertextuality, transmediality, comic book character,

character theory, cognitive theory, Vertigo comics.
*****
1. Intertextuality of the Graphic Novel

In the past few decades, comic books, especially Western graphic novels have
become bustling meeting places for creatures that originate in all kinds of stories,
realities and media. This intertextual movement seems to have started and found its
culmination with DC Comics’ Vertigo imprint, which was formed soon after the

114 Something Borrowed
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unexpected, unprecedented popularity of Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman (1989–
1996). Just like Art Spiegelman’s Maus (1991) has inspired the still trending wave
of graphically inventive, confessional autobiographical comics, so has The
Sandman, often dubbed ‘a story about stories,’ seemingly launched a procession of
fantasy works with highly intertextual, eclectic character galleries.
Ever since The Sandman sowed the seed of borrowing characters from far and
wide, Vertigo writers and artists have continued to build new comic book
mythologies out of the old literal ones with such series as The Books of Magic
(1990–), Fables (2002–) and – most recently – The Unwritten (2009–). However,
this surge in intertextual and literal comics can hardly be considered a private
agenda of a single publisher, since many of Vertigo’s titles are artist-owned and
recycled heroes have starred in other publishers’ popular titles as well. Mike
Mignola’s Hellboy (Dark Horse, 1994–) and Alan Moore’s League of
Extraordinary Gentlemen (WildStorm, 1999–) would be the obvious examples.
Since the genre has gained such vast popularity so quickly, one has to wonder: can
its sudden emergence be explained by Vertigo’s example alone, or is there
something about comics as a medium that makes them especially fertile for such
intertextual gatherings?
While, according to the Kristevan tradition, all texts could be claimed to be
sewn up of several little loans and re-usages, the formal construction of a comic
book is especially inviting to all kinds of styles and elements. This is because
comics are essentially pastiche-like combinations of very diverse fragments. Since
everything is divided into separate issues, panels and text boxes or bubbles,
nothing really compels each element to be entirely uniform. In addition, every one
of these fragments is often hand-made from scratch, typically by several different
artists and writers; in which case keeping every element uniform actually becomes
quite impossible. What results are extremely polyphonic jig-saw puzzles like The
Sandman, where one wobbly speech bubble delivers the incoherent thoughts of a
drunkard while another contains the formal utterances of a dream god; where one
page brings to mind a sophisticated fairytale illustration while another resembles a
painting by Piet Mondrian.
In these discontinuous, collaborative and eclectic spaces for storytelling, it
seems perfectly natural that even such large and complex story elements as
characters are more often than not recycled from other narratives. Further, the
multimodality of comics allows recreating characters from any other medium.
Because most fictional characters, regardless of their exact medial origins, have
more or less unique names and prominent traits, they are often easy to recognise
regardless of the exact medial renditions. On the other hand, when a book or a film
character enters into a comic book, they also gain new dimensions. Literary
characters are given perceptible physical forms, whereas character-focalised visual
perspectives and text snippets can open new, revealing windows into the heads of
cinematic – or even historical – figures.

Essi Varis 115
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Another equally plausible factor propelling these intertextual phenomena could
be the long-standing tradition of comic book universes. The centralised copyrights
of large comic book companies have for long allowed the interaction of characters
that were originally created by different artists for different titles. Marvel and DC
universes encourage, even oblige the characters and artists they involve to
transtextual collaboration. Even if crossover titles like The Avengers (1963–) or
The Justice League of America (1960–) were originally created for and because of
commercial reasons, the phenomenon has definitely impacted comics as a medium
by demanding more flexibility and a very unique brand of continuity from its
storyworlds and characters. On the other hand, these projects have proved that
comic book characters are capable of such a high level of transtextuality they can
bounce from a title, storyline, artist or version to another almost boundlessly.1 At
the same time, this means that comic book readers, at least those faithful to
superhero comics, have been habituated into following their favourite characters
through very complex and fragmentary narrative constructions – a skill that has no
doubt proved useful as Hollywood’s newly found interest in superheroes and the
fan cultures thriving in the internet have complicated the characters’ existence even
further.
It is only logical, then, that graphic novels, keen on luring mature readers and
gaining recognition as ‘proper’ art, would rather share their universe with
canonised literature. By applying the transtextual workings typical of comic books
to the storyworlds of Victorian literature or fairytales, Vertigo comics have built
new universes where new comic book creations and old characters from esteemed
literary works co-exist. Since figures from Grimm’s fairytales and the Bible or
characters like Frankenstein’s monster are so protean and widely recognised as to
be considered cultural symbols, their very presence might grant their host-comics
deeper resonance. At the same time, these archetypal characters are (once again)
recreated and sustained through incorporating new, perhaps more contemporary
meanings and visual features. Of course, such crossbreeding of round, ‘high art’
characters and ‘low’ comic book narratives also amplifies the pastiche-like quality
discussed above.
2. Intertextuality of the Character

The hypothesis that intertextual characterisation is especially typical of comics
is supported by the fact that the phenomenon has barely been noticed in literary
research. On the other hand, character research has been so astonishingly scarce
even in literary studies it is no wonder that some of its subfields are still under-
theorised. Any peculiarities of characters are usually treated as parts or instances of
larger themes or structures, and this seems to be the case with intertextuality as
well: although there is little mention of intertextuality in literary character theories,
terms like intertextual characterisation or transtextual characters are readily
recognised as derivatives of intertextual theory.

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German literary scholar W.G. Müller has, nevertheless, coined a more specific
term, which has, regrettably, not become a widespread part of the research
vocabulary: interfigurality refers to the intertextual particles of characters or,
reversely, to all manners of intertextual links manifesting through characters. The
coinage seems a beneficial tool due to its transparency – its meaning is easy to
decipher – and due to its flexible, hypernymic semantics. That is, it includes both
the problematic ideas of intertextual characterisation and transtextual characters.
The problem with the latter term is that it implies complete sameness and
continuity, which has been declared impossible by several scholars, including
Müller.2 The former, on the other hand, seems to suggest construction of an
entirely new and original character through the means of allusion. Müller’s theory
of interfigurality circumvents both implications by attempting to identify different
degrees of sameness between the (more) original and the (more) derivative
characters – or in Genettian terms, between the hypo- and the hypercharacters.3
The most extreme case of interfigurality is, of course, re-used figures,
characters that are meant to be perceived as reincarnations of specific characters in
some earlier narratives. This type of interfigurality is, in fact, almost synonymous
with the more widely used notion of transtextual characters. Yet, Müller names
Theodore Ziolkowski’s figures on loan his sole inspiration, adding that the rhetoric
of recasting would, however, be more appropriate than the rhetoric of borrowing.4
After all, the characters are not temporarily transferred from a context to another
only to be returned to their starting points later. More importantly, Müller, who
conceptualises characters rather structuralistically, as ‘coherent bundle[s] of
qualities’ bound together by ‘identifying onomastic label[s]’, maintains that the
‘re-used figure’ can never be exactly the same as the ‘original figure’; insofar as
characters are considered organic parts of narratives, the perception of a character
changes as the text matter generating it changes.5
This, of course, makes the exact boundaries of re-usage quite elusive.
Obviously, the sameness of the author and the continuity of the ‘onomastic labels’
are helpful signals, but unlike another theorist, Brian Richardson, Müller does not
limit the area of re-used figures solely to the autographic or legally valid
namesakes.6 Instead, he talks about absorbing ‘the essential character’ or the ‘idea’
of a character ‘into the formal and ideological structure’ of a new work.7
Supposedly this means that there should not be major controversies between the
traits of the two versions of the character, but its roles and symbolic meanings can
change.
Since Müller resorts to such functional analysis, it seems reasonable to assume
that when the character’s meaning depends on it being recognised as something
familiar and antecedent, it should be considered a re-used figure. Vertigo comics
are filled with apposite examples: Fables would lose most of its sense, resonance
and fantastic quality were the characters not recognised as actual fairytale figures
but, for example, as dream images, vehicles for political satire or mental patients

Essi Varis 117
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pretending to be princes and princesses. In The Unwritten, many of the major
themes hinge on the doubly made nature of Frankenstein’s monster – it is thus
important that Mike Carey and Peter Gross’ version of the monster is not only
identified as the same monster Victor Frankenstein created, but as the same
character Mary Shelley wrote. Similarly, Neil Gaiman is so determined to convince
the reader that Orpheus of The Sandman is the same unlucky bard as Orpheus of
Greek mythology that he retells the entire myth in comic book form – and only
makes additions that do not overtly contradict the original story (see The
Sandman’s special issue, ‘The Song of Orpheus’, 1991).
Müller also lists three other types of interfigural phenomena that do not
necessarily indicate the sameness of two characters but, rather, a link or an analogy
between them: shared names, combinations and reader figures.
Since Müller bases his definition of character on the already cited ‘onomastic
labels,’ it is no wonder that he puts much emphasis on character names. Whether
unchanged or slightly distorted, the names provide clues for further interfigural
links: they are important signposts in, for example, Fables or The Sandman, where
re-used figures are many and some only appear quite briefly.8 The Unwritten, on
the other hand, challenges the reader with its name transformations: Harry Potter is
not recast as ‘Tommy Taylor’ by accident but the occupational surnames are used
to indicate an underlying theme of creation and being created.9
Character combinations are simply cases of interfigurality, where familiar faces
(or names) from different works are brought together and made to interact.10
Clearly, series like The Sandman, Fables or The League of Extraordinary
Gentlemen – and, indeed, the very concept of comic book universes – are based on
such combinations and draw much of their appeal and content from the new
compounds that result.
Complicating the concept of the reading protagonist is the main attraction of
The UnwrittenThis interfigural phenomenon is classically exemplified by Don
Quixote, a character who identifies so strongly with the characters he reads about it
actually changes his demeanour.11 In The Unwritten, however, it is no longer clear
who emulates whom: Tom the protagonist has to assume several interfigural roles
as he navigates through his father’s literary legacy – including the Harry Potter-like
figure who is supposedly modelled on himself, not vice versa.
Even more interestingly, The Unwritten plays with and identifies its heroes
through generic character conventions – not just specific, identifiable
hypercharacters, on which Müller concentrates. For example, the vampire
characters of The Unwritten do not seem to be based on a specific vampire
mythology but borrow freely from different traditions. As one of the characters
turns into a vampire, another character tests his new abilities noting: “Mostly, I just
wanted to make sure you were a Wilson Taylor vampire, rather than, say, Stoker,
Matheson or King.”12 Wilson Taylor is a fictional author featured in the series, and
his vampire mythology, of course, is derivative of the said real-life authors.

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3. Intertextuality of the Reader
The fact that every type of interfigurality discussed by Müller can easily be
exemplified by cursory references to Vertigo comics indicates two things: that
interfigurality is, indeed, quite an extensive phenomenon in this genre of graphic
novels, and that Müller’s theory is a good, transmedially applicable starting point
for the study of this phenomenon. As the same examples prove, characters are
immigrating more and more often from literature to comics. Also, comics are now
being adapted more and more into movies. Thus, transmediality is no trivial selling
point for today’s character theories.
What makes Müller’s literature-based theory and, in fact, the characters
themselves so flexible, however, can hardly be something as feeble as the
‘onomastic labels’. Even though literary, comic book and film characters are all
likely to have names and can, naturally, share them as well, Müller’s formal
conception of character is ultimately unsustainable. Two empiric instances of a
same name or a same ‘character trait’ can well exist in two different characters of
two different texts but this means nothing as such. There are probably hundreds of
fictional characters called Emma and even more characters that are promiscuous,
but this does not mean that they all are interfigural homages to Flaubert’s well-
known heroine, for instance. What is more, empirically detectable, formal signs
like names or visual trademarks are easily blurred by the different semiotic
languages used in different media. Finally, if the detection of re-used figures really
has to be based on such subjective notions as ‘the essence’ of the characters, it
should be obvious that Müller is wrongly eliminating one important factor from his
theory: the reader.
Practically speaking, interfigurality means comparing different characters and
different stories. Making such connections is not possible without memory,
perception and other cognitive processes that can only be attributed to the reader
(and the writer, who also has to read in order to build intertextual links). Thus, it
has to be argued that the entire concept of interfigurality only becomes possible if
it is rooted in the cognitive conception of character proposed and developed by
such literary scholars as Baruch Hochman and Aleid Fokkema. According to these
theories, the character is not just a ‘bundle of qualities’ scraped together by a mere
name but a malleable mental construction based not only on the semiotic data at
hand but also on the reader’s knowledge and beliefs about their previous
experiences – including their experiences of other texts and narratives.13
Without acknowledging it or using the terminology, Scott McCloud’s comic
book theory, centred around the gaps and the ‘invisible’ of graphic narratives, also
subscribes to a similar cognitive conception. He is very clear in his view that
comics are special because of the many information gaps they entail and because
those gaps can be turned into productive and unique associations in the readers’
heads.14 Allusions inherent in the characters and elsewhere in the narrative are
simply another kind of readerly canvas, one that McCloud fails to recognise. This

Essi Varis 119
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might be due to the fact that interfigural elements are not gaps in the sense that
they would be semiotically blank, devoid of any information and open to any
interpretation. Yet, without the reader’s cognitions, memories and/or active
research they do lack at least a part of their meaning: the reader has to be the one to
connect the dots, to respond to the interfigural cues with his or her memories. In
this sense, the reader and the characters are partially ‘made of’ the same intertexts
– a relation no less intimate than the physical, psychological and social
assumptions about the character that the readers base on their knowledge of real
human beings, including themselves.15
It is worth noting, however, that the filling of interfigural gaps requires more
culture-specific knowledge than the filling of blank gaps. Thus, it is no wonder that
Western graphic novels are especially fond of recasting the kinds of figures that are
most widely recognised and most steeped in symbolism in Western cultures.
Shakespeare as the unhappy genius in The Sandman, Frankenstein’s monster as the
ultimate symbol of identity crisis in The Unwritten or Vertigo comics’ different
renditions of Lucifer are all great examples. In this sense, the interfigural signs
could also be understood and theorised in the same way as the other culture-
specific, half-opaque signs of comic vocabulary, such as emotive symbols.
All in all, it should be concluded that interfigural elements and theory can mesh
quite seamlessly with comic book elements and theory. In addition, both can
benefit from each other: many of today’s graphic novels require understanding of
intertextuality, and due to their visuality and inherent fragmentariness, comics like
The Unwritten can, perhaps, experiment with intertextuality in ways that literature
cannot. The various comic book re-usages of classic literary characters also prove
that character theories can no longer dwell in literature alone but a more multi- and
transmedial perspective is required. The best starting point seems to be the entity
that actually collects the data across the different texts and media and stitches them
together into coherent, albeit slightly Frankensteinian characters – the reader.
Notes
1
Essi Varis, A Frame of You: Construction of Characters in Graphic Novels
(Jyväskylä: Jyväskylän yliopisto, 2013), 43–44.
2
Heinrich Plett, ed., Intertextuality (Berlin: Gruyter, 1991), 107.
3
Riikka Mahlamäki-Kaistinen, Mätänevän velhon taidejulistus: Intertekstuaalisen
ja -figuraalisen aineiston asema Apollinairen L'Enchanteur pourrissant teoksen
tematiikassa ja symboliikassa (Jyväskylä: Jyväskylän yliopisto, 2008), 40.
4
Ibid., 102. Theodore Ziolkowski, Varieties of Literary Thematics (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1983), 123–151.
5
Plett, ed., Intertextuality, 103.

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6
Jens Eder, Fotis Jannidis and Ralf Schneider, ed., Revisionen: Characters in
Fictional Works: Understanding Imaginary Beings in Literature, Film, and Other
Media (New York: De Gruyter, 2010), 530–539.
7
Plett, ed., Intertextuality, 107–109.
8
Ibid., 104–107.
9
Essi Varis, A Frame of You: Construction of Characters in Graphic Novels
(Jyväskylä: Jyväskylän yliopisto, 2013), 167–168.
10
Ibid., 114–115.
11
Ibid., 116–117.
12
Mike Carey, Peter Gross, Vince Locke and Al Davidson, The Unwritten 4:
Leviathan (New York: Vertigo, 2011), #21, [3].
13
Baruch Hochman, Character in Literature (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1985), 31-33, 59–70. Aleid Fokkema, Postmodern Characters: A Study of
Characterization in British and American Postmodern Fiction (Amsterdam:
Rodopi, 1991), 181–182.
14
Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York: Harper
Perennial, 1994), 60–69.
15
Fokkema, Postmodern Characters, 74–76.
Bibliography
Carey, Mike; Gross, Peter; Locke, Vince and Davidson, Al. The Unwritten 4:
Leviathan. New York: Vertigo, 2011.
Fokkema, Aleid. Postmodern Characters: A Study of Characterization in British

and American Postmodern Fiction. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1991.
Hochman, Baruch. Character in Literature. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985.

Riikka Mahlamäki-Kaistinen. Mätänevän velhon taidejulistus: Intertekstuaalisen
ja -figuraalisen aineiston asema Apollinairen L'Enchanteur pourrissant teoksen
tematiikassa ja symboliikassa. Jyväskylä: Jyväskylän yliopisto, 2008.
McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: Harper
Perennial, 1994.
Müller, W. G. ‘Interfigurality.’ In Intertextuality, edited by Heinrich Plett, 101–

121. Berlin: Gruyter, 1991.

Essi Varis 121
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Richardson, Brian. ‘Transtextual Characters.’ In Revisionen: Characters in

Fictional Works: Understanding Imaginary Beings in Literature, Film, and Other
Media, edited by Jens Eder, Fotis Jannidis and Ralf Schneider, 527–541. New
York: De Gruyter, 2010.
Varis, Essi. A Frame of You: Construction of Characters in Graphic Novels.

Licentiate’s dissertation. Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä, 2013. URL:
http://urn.fi/URN:NBN:fi:jyu-201306071922.
Ziolkowski, Theodore. Varieties of Literary Thematics. Princeton: Princeton

Essi Varis works as a scholarship-funded comic book researcher and graduate

student in literature at the University of Jyväskylä’s Department of Art and Culture
Studies in Finland. In her licentiate’s dissertation A Frame of You: Construction of
Characters in Graphic Novels (2013) Varis applied literary character theories to
comic books. In her doctoral article dissertation she continues to ask how
characters are used in graphic storytelling and why the world wants and needs
comic book characters.

DNA (Deco Nouveau Afrique): Futurising African Frames

Abstract
Selected African elements were absorbed into the Art Deco Movement and deeply
impacted on the artistic milieu across the globe. Influences appear in design forms
as zigzags, masks, sunbursts and geometric shapes. Taking a cue from the
eclectivity of the Art Deco Movement, a new genre Deco Nouveau Afrique (DNA)
rises to ignite the energy of Africa into techno-organic humanistic arts. In South
Africa the Durban-based Green Heart City Movement originated the DNA
aesthetic to foreground a ‘heart in eco-art’ narrative that heightens consciousness
around wind, wave, sun and futuristic fuel cell technological experiences. DNA
blends African Indigenous Knowledge Systems into creative activity offering the
world a positive direction in human achievement. A key aim is to brand Durban as
the ‘Green Heart City’ positioned at the forefront of the Green Economy. Central
to the DNA aesthetic is ‘Africa Rising’ and the promise of the Great Continent
awakening to a bright and bustling future. Set against the crisp canvas of Africa, an
unfolding model flagged as Encyclo-Fiction is in process. The structure underpins
a graphic novel, Down BunnyKat Lane, based on folktales of magical BunnyKat
‘socialheroes’ framed as cultural icons of Green Heart City Durban. The concept
‘Framing City’ is introduced to explain linkages between the real-life concrete City
of Durban and the comic book version ‘Green Heart City’. The ‘futuring’ refers to
the real-life City building catch-up infrastructure mirroring innovations such as the
smart train to the Airport and bridge across the Harbour that are already depicted in
the storylines and images of the graphic novel. The graphic narrative structures are
non-linear and exude a flexibility that entice the story traveller to dip into the
astonishment of maps and cultural artefacts at any point in the words and images
that are fully flavoured by the effervescent DNA aesthetic.
Key Words: Deco Nouveau Afrique, Art Deco, African Indigenous Knowledge
Systems, Encyclo-Fiction, city branding, techno-organic arts, catch-up
infrastructure, Framing City, green-consciousness, crossover icons.
*****
1. Africa Rising: Deco Nouveau Afrique

The DNA progression ‘Deco Nouveau Afrique’ originated in Green Heart City
Durban gives cadence to revived energies on artistic frontiers. DNA as the next
aesthetic celebrates an innovative genre bursting out of Africa.
In historical references Africa is occasionally termed the ‘Dark Continent’1 that
increasingly relies on handouts from ‘advanced’ Western countries. The
dependency scenario is noticeably shifting into a time-space where Africa is

124 DNA (Deco Nouveau Afrique)
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pivoting from begging bowl (receiver) to breadbasket (provider). The scenario of
African gifting realises the emergence of a platform (DNA) that blends art,
industry and telecommunications and stirs the elements into a fresh calabash of the
human spirit.
Deco Nouveau reinvigorates cooperation and cohesion of the arts, ecology and
humanity with impetus from the groundswell of the Art Deco Movement of the
1920s. Art Deco sought to create relationships between art, decoration and
industrial design. A major component of the Art Deco Movement was inspired by
elements from Africa including abstractness, masks, African figures, circles,
triangles and generic Egyptian images and motifs of sunbursts, lotus flowers,
hieroglyphics and pyramids drawn from the tomb of the boy pharaoh
Tutankhamun.2
Central aspects of Art Deco spiralled out of Africa into the Paris Exhibition
showcase of 1925. Now is the time for Durban – a world-ranked art deco city3 – to
ignite the eclectic energy of Africa through the DNA aesthetic.
Africa is emerging as a space to nourish the imagination of the world through
surfing the new wave of techno-organic arts.4 Ancient meets hi-tech, with green-
consciousness at the forefront of literature, architecture, furniture, clothing, craft
and music design.
The world is shifting to new platforms which will require a blending of
capitalism and Ubuntu.5 Alongside competition and coercion there is a drift
towards greater cooperation and cohesion.
The earth’s expanding population requires a multi-faceted paradigm that
focuses on ‘energising the masses’ through design. A defence is necessary in
support of mass individualism6 through rallying the forces of Deco Nouveau.
Central to DNA is the invigorating quality of dreams, fantasy play, shapes and
spaces for the heart to be seen and heard in shape and performance.
Africa is taking its place in the world as a pivotal player, serving the world with
a fresh integrity green with possibility.
2. African Cityscape
In South Africa, cities are transitioning from colonial replicas of former foreign
strongholds into settings that more fully represent an African milieu.
Apart from obvious changes such as street names, the chapter seeks to reveal
other factors that are required to evolve the City of Durban into a habitat that
resonates with locals and appeals to tourists, business visitors and government
delegations.
Through practitioner-led interventions, a variety of innovations are tested by
the Green Heart City Movement that include cultural icons representing the dreams
and ambitions of local inhabitants and treating the streets as living beings.
A central feature of a Great City is that it produces legendary leaders in the
fields of literature and music. A contributing element of Durban becoming a

Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim 125
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Writing Capital is the hi-tech culturally relevant library to be erected on the
Centrum Site, Middle Durban. The term ‘Middle Durban’ has been originated to
describe the vast open space in the City Centre that will be home to an ultramodern
library and integrated transport system. The organisers of the first KultureWalk and
city-wide book fair known as SanKofa Book & Design Fair Durban anticipate that
the new library project would house an African Writers’ Museum to expand
literary landscapes that encourage graphic narratives and local writers.
Activations by the Green Heart City Movement, that include green heart
regalia, city poetics, future design, cultural ecology, branding and Down BunnyKat
Lane comics, reveal the appealing and economically viable innovations that could
be incorporated into the planning of a future African City. Transnational
indigenous knowledge is identified as the cohesion glue that binds Africa together.
Image 1: Feathery Afrique, a style element of DNA (Deco Nouveau Afrique).

BunnyKats on the Run.
© 2013 Nhlakanipho Ndimande. Used with permission.
3. Green Heart City Movement

The citizen-based Green Heart City Movement encourages arts and poetry
experiences around themes of ecology, sustainable living, fashion and cycling. One
of the aims of the Green Heart City Movement is to popularise the wearing of
green felt hearts as a follow-up to the City of Durban’s hosting of the COP17
United Nations Climate Change Conference in 2011.

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The Green Heart concept originated with the fabric called felt and has been
adapted to include green hearts made from beads and wire. The project envisages
that green hearts evolve into a legacy symbol for COP meetings.
Image 2: Green heart pin-ons in the making.

© 2011 Sanabelle Ebrahim. Used with permission.
The green heart symbols are contributing to Durban becoming affectionately

known as Green Heart City, a title that aims to position Durban at the forefront of
the Green Economy and provide a backdrop scenario for Down BunnyKat Lane.
The reference to Durban as Green Heart City echoes the promotional branding of
New York as the Big Apple and Paris as the City of Love.
The strategy establishes an international Green Heart Movement originating
from Durban and spreading throughout the world. The Green Heart project is
undergoing internationalisation through formalities such as registration with the
World Poetry Movement.
Green Heart items include beaded heart pin-ons; green felt heartcakes; an
iconic soft puppet known as a BunnyKat that will be depicted in a Seaside
Character Sculpture along Durban’s beachfront promenade; and prototype Green
Heart Skyscraper Icons with renewable elements to be positioned at opposite ends
of the seafront at the entrance to the Harbour and along the Blue Lagoon. The
surrounds of the BunnyKat Sculpture will include a comic art store (networked
with legendary comic shops worldwide), an eventage platform for drawing classes,
workshops and space for a residency supporting graphic novels, comics and

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cartooning. Cosplay, board games, charm bracelets and merchandise featuring
characters from Down BunnyKat Lane, namely the BunnyKat; FLOATtheGREAT,
Cousin Bird to the Sankofa; Peacock Prowdi and SNout the POoch, will attract
visitors to the comic art arena. The proposed World BunnyKat Day will include a
cavalcade of comic art characters along Durban’s Golden Mile. The interventions
are underpinned by nature awareness programmes showcasing a troubadour group,
the Deaf Pavement Poets, that performs at various open air spaces around Durban
and include the comic art characters in their poems
Image 3: BunnyKat Seaside Character Sculpture.

The green-hearted ‘socialheroes’ are symbolically-weighted cultural signifiers

of Green Heart City. The Folk Craft puppets wear South African flags and have
green hearts on their jerseys. They are handmade by indigenous crafters in the
Valley of 1000 Hills on the outskirts of Durban who are linked to the neighbouring
Woza Moya community store in Hillcrest. BunnyKat costuming is often green-
themed while others scamper about in brightly-coloured attire. The BunnyKats
exude a crossover iconic flair and have a diversified appeal that enables them to
leap across boundaries of geography, ethnicity and age. They are fashioned using
upcycled materials displaying modern and motifs patterned with African symbols

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depicting zigzags, circles and triangles. The culturally-based materials are
influenced by traditional attire known as ‘shweshwe’ with occasional beaded
trimmings for the more ceremonial puppets.
Image 4: Deaf Pavement Poet Ismael Mansoor renders a nature-themed poem

using sign language at a Francofête held in Sutton Park, Durban to commemorate
Human Rights Day 2012.
© 2012 Mikhail Peppas. Used with permission.
The awareness processes for the Green Heart projects and Down BunnyKat
Lane comics include the iconic puppets photographed with miniature classics to
encourage children to read and draw in the spirit of the BunnyKat motto ‘Read
Write Draw… X-plore’. The comic strip acts as a preview to multimedia
productions incorporating themes of city identity and eco-arts.
The comic art puppets have been pictured at quaint Durban spaces and public
places from bookshops to parks and galleries. They are at their happiest and most
radiant sunbathing on a heart sand sculpture on the beach; at heartful play in
Bulwer Park; or performing in a Deaf Culture Theatrical Picnic at the harbourside
Catalina Theatre. The puppets enthuse an atmosphere of ‘fantasy play’7 and love
shouting out ‘No strings attached’.

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Image 5: BunnyKat spotted reading a miniature classic at a bookstore in Durban.

4. Superheroes, ‘Socialheroes’ and City Skyscrapes

According to Neal Adams, a renowned illustrator of Batman comics, the
Gotham City featured in the Batman series is modelled on the spirit (Zeitgeist),
times and silhouettes of Chicago with its back alleys and perceived criminality.8
Superman comics were set in a fast-paced Metropolis modelled after Toronto by
Joe Shuster, the original artist of the Superman character.9 But since then ‘it
[Metropolis] has become a fictional analogue of New York City.’10 Both Gotham
City and Metropolis can be experienced in multiple layerings as holograms or tilted
mirrors of the referent cities.
In a similar vein, the milieu for locations of Down BunnyKat Lane is
materialised in the bright shiny streets and promising Golden Mile of seaside
Durban. Positioning Durban as Green Heart City creates a funground for visitors
and provides an enchanting setting for graphic novels. In contrast to Batman and
Superman comics, the action in Down BunnyKat Lane takes place in the realistic
brick-and-mortar City of Durban. There is no deliberate secondary identity such as
‘Metropolis’ for comic book Durban as inhabited by the BunnyKats and their
scampering companion, the Caped Crusader SNout the POoch. BunnyKats are not
superheroes; rather their power is ‘making a difference’ in simple heartfelt ways.

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Sightseers and influentials from across the world increasingly associate the
BunnyKat as an iconic character that originates from Durban in the province of
KwaZulu-Natal. As the BunnyKats spring into local and international
consciousness, the activities and scamperings of the ‘socialhero’ puppets enhance
the image of Durban as a modern city at the forefront of the Green Economy
finding its place in a rapidly-interconnecting world.
The Green Heart City depicted in the graphic novels will incorporate
landscapes and urban features that already exist in the actual City of Durban and
also include infrastructure and architecture that is still in the planning stages. The
landscaped imagery is infused with aspects in the realm of visual and social
anticipation. Examples are the soon-to-be-built Durban Central City Library and
the proposed smart speed train linking the City Centre to the King Shaka
International Airport. Storylines and illustrations will depict the yet-to-be-designed
book-themed bridge spanning the entrance to the Durban Harbour. The bridge in
particular is a favoured scampering ground of BunnyKats on the Run with SNout
the POoch. Current storylines show the BunnyKats full of excitement while
travelling to the Airport on the hi-tech smart train although in reality the train is
still on the drawing boards. The version of Green Heart City depicted in comic art
storylines serves as a visionary blueprint for imaginations of Durban 10 years into
the future as a preferred destination for world travellers.
Super realism, fantastical fiction and alternate viewpoints juxtapose an
interchange with multi-faceted surfaces to reveal the shimmering splendours of
richly-textured urbanic scenarios ideal for imaginative comic book tales. As the
futurised iconic facilities envisaged in the graphic novels are realised through
town-planning, infrastructure development and social innovation, so do successive
comic sequences introduce additional urbanscapes that become yearned for by the
graphic novel audience and general citizens of Durban and push forward the
boundaries of what makes a City great.
Parallels can be drawn for instance between the Mickey Mouse cartoon
character and the BunnyKat character in that both straddle what can be referred to
as the ‘Framed’ and the ‘Unframed’ Worlds with seamless ease. The distinguishing
terminology of the ‘Framing City’11 has the City depicted in the comic books
referred to as the ‘Framed City’ whereas the real-life brick-and-mortar City is
referred to as the ‘Unframed City’. The ‘Framed City’ is the illustrated City that
appears in the frames of comic books, animated films and video games. The
‘Framed’ refers to the rectangular-shaped boundaries of the frames in comic books,
the cinema, computer screens and cellphones. The term ‘Framing City’ was coined
by Dr Mikhail Peppas and devised as a concept to explain the phenomenon of a
‘Framed City’ depicting future infrastructures and landscapes that do not yet exist
in a related ‘Unframed City’. The concept of the ‘Framing City’ underpins the
futuring powers of comic book storylines that project the image of a ‘Framed City’
ahead of the real-life ‘Unframed City’. The ‘Unframed City’ then plays catchup by

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physically constructing the ideas and infrastructure illustrated in the frames of the
comic strips.12 The futuristic ‘Framing City’ approach with science-fiction
undertones is considered a literary breakthrough by the originators of Down
BunnyKat Lane and appears not to have been used as a shifting time-line technique
in previous graphic novels.
The process of ‘futuring’ visualises the ‘Unframed’ World engaging
proactively with the ‘Framed’ World via interactive public and private channels
that allow for positive feedback loops leading to successful skyline and social
outcomes. Through engagement mechanisms, citizen-generated ideas and feedback
loops that cover storyline content and infrastructure development, the publisher of
graphic novels and comic strips cooperates with City Management in a process of
‘frame-casting’ regarding the feasibility and practicality of public suggestions
garnered from the comic book frames to construct a more exciting and
performance-oriented City.
Character development and marketing conventionally launches with a comic
strip followed by superhero figurines and branded products that include colouring
books, school satchels, T-shirts, bubble bath, watches and character costuming.
Characters such as Superman, Batman and Mickey Mouse originated as comic
books.
A process introduced as ‘reversed’ merchandising finds the characters
developed as a retail product, often a doll, prior to appearing in a comic book,
animation series, board game or video game. An example of the ‘reversed’ route is
the Hello Kitty marketing phenomenon. The character appeared in 1974 on a
money purse in Japan pictured between a bottle of milk and a goldfish bowl.13 She
made her first appearance 13 years later in an animated series, with a video game
only released in 1992.14
The Down BunnyKat Lane comic book series adopts a similar route to Hello
Kitty in that the BunnyKat character and folk craft puppet was developed and
popularised prior to the forthcoming comic strip, animation series, video game and
related products. The Green Heart project encountered the handmade puppets in
2012 at a crafters workshop held in the Durban City Hall. The puppets were
promptly named BunnyKats as they fitted the bill of an indigenous character
sought by Green Heart to create awareness for their eco-arts movement through
character merchandising linked to comic books and video games.
The place-identity opportunities created by comic books promote the sales of
character-and-locality-specific merchandise and raise the profile of a related City.
The expectation is that visitors to Durban will leave with a BunnyKat momento
and character merchandise associated with the comic books. The hard copy
versions will contain digital elements in that at the end of the series of frames there
will be interactive QR codes that take readers to electronic sites linked to the
graphic novels and their wider geographic context. The sites will offer retail
opportunities for comic book products, connected merchandising and promotional

__________________________________________________________________
material linked to Green Heart City Durban. Life is, after all, a mercurial bowl of
frames, spirals and liquid mirrors.
5. Down BunnyKat Lane

As part of the international experience surrounding the positioning of the
BunnyKat as a ‘socialhero’ in comic books and also as cultural signifier of Green
Heart City Durban linked to its home province of KwaZulu-Natal, the authors have
included the BunnyKat as an artefact in academic paper presentations at several
comic art conferences. During a visit to Ireland, a pack of BunnyKats befriended
traditional leprechauns at the Leprechaun Museum. The intertwining of BunnyKat
and Leprechaun folktales advanced the idea of linking Durban and Dublin as
Writing Cities. Green Heart has presented BunnyKats to various personalities in
Ireland, including the President of the Republic of Ireland, Mr Michael Higgins
and the Lord Mayor of Dublin, Mr Oisín Quinn.
Image 6: BunnyKat and Leprechaun relax in a top hat at the National Leprechaun
Museum in Dublin, Ireland. SanKofa Book & Design Fair Durban envisages
blending leprechaun tales with African folklore.
As with the leprechauns, the BunnyKats are immersed in folktale and myth.
Down BunnyKat Lane storylines introduce the legend that a crazed magician from

__________________________________________________________________
Hatstead, down Cosmic Close in Durbzville South Africa, muddled his tricks and
pulled out BunnyKats instead of rabbits from a top hat.
Other intriguing threads in the storylines indicate that following the
disappearance of the Mad Magician, Hatstead was renamed VividVilla; Cosmic
Close panhandle morphed into Down BunnyKat Lane. The mischievous
‘socialheroes’ devise theatre shows in an underground garden thinkpad at
VividVilla. Each BunnyKat has a unique talent from poetry and painting to
permaculture and sailing. They often scan the skies in search of the Sankofa bird
floating in the clean air above Africa, uniting the Great Continent.
The amiable ‘socialheroes’ have become quite the celebrities as poets, artists,
musicians and filmmakers pose with BunnyKats before tucking them into a
backpack for travel adventures. The next phase in the unfolding process is to find
BunnyKats appearing in the frames of comic strips, board games, scampering in
animated series and on the run in video games.
6. One Africa – Integrating the Drumbeats

Following the DNA aesthetic, the storylines in Down BunnyKat Lane come
alive with notions of Africa Rising and the promise of the Great Continent
awakening to a bright and bustling future.
Receding African pessimism paves the way towards a unified continent
invigorated with imagination and renewed purpose. Inclusive methods of unifying
nations through the fusion of people and environment can be achieved at the
crossroads of eco-arts, industry and design, and the human spirit.
Image 7: Logo for Down BunnyKat Lane comic book series and character
merchandise.

__________________________________________________________________
Notes
1
‘During the middle of the 19th century, Africa was referred to as the "Dark
Continent," because little was known about the mysterious land itself. The term
"Dark Continent" was most likely used for the first time by United States explorer
and journalist Henry Stanley.’ See Ask.com. ‘Q: Why was Africa referred to as the
"Dark Continent"?’, Viewed 9 March 2016, http://www.ask.com/geography/africa-
referred-dark-continent-39aa8499dafe9e5a.
2
Victoria and Albert Museum. ‘Art Deco: Global Inspiration’, Viewed 27
December 2014, http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/a/art-deco-global-
inspiration/.
3
Durban Art Deco Society. ‘The Buildings’, Viewed 27 December 2014,
http://www.durbandeco.org.za/.
4
‘Techno-organic arts’ is a term that refers to interconnected, holistic creativity
that blends technology and nature.
5
Ubuntu is a Nguni word which has no direct translation into English, but is used
to describe a particular African worldview in which people can find fulfilment
through interacting with other people. Thus it represents a spirit of kinship across
both race and creed which united mankind to a common purpose.
See Alistair Boddy-Evans. ‘Ubuntu’, Viewed 11 January 2013,
http://africanhistory.about.com/od/glossaryu/g/Ubuntu.htm.
6
Mass individualism refers to a trend where companies offer consumers options
for customising their mass-produced purchases in an attempt to help consumers
feel that they are being served as individuals.
See Amy Shaw. ‘Consumer Culture: “Mass-Produced Individuality”’ last modified
11 December 2005, Viewed 11 January 2013,
http://greenjeansbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2005/12/consumer-culture-mass-
produced.html.
7
‘Without this playing with fantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth.
The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.’ (Carl Jung) See
BrainyQuote. ‘Carl Jung Quotes’, Viewed 29 December 2014,
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/c/carljung157289.html.
8
Luis Gomez, ‘Batman’s Chicago connection’ last modified 22 July 2014, Viewed
13 December 2014, http://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/ct-batman-75th-
anniversary-chicago-20140723-column.html#page=1.
9
Superman Super Site. ‘Fictional City of Metropolis’, Viewed 13 December 2014,
http://www.supermansupersite.com/metropolis2.html.
10
Superman Super Site, ‘Fictional City of Metropolis’.
11
The ‘Framing City’ concept has the potential to be extended to ‘Framing World’.

__________________________________________________________________
12
The frame futuring concept has been developed by the authors to explain how
futurised ideas as illustrated in the latest edition of a comic book can be actualised
in the real referent City by town planners and urgings by an enthusiastic public.
13
MTV Artists. ‘About Hello Kitty’, Viewed 29 December 2014,
http://www.mtv.com/artists/hello-kitty/biography/.
14
MTV Artists. ‘About Hello Kitty’.
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2013, Accessed May 27, 2013. http://sanews.gov.za/africa/time-bold-decisions-
%E2%80%93-au-leaders.
Blackbeard, J. ‘Connecting Africa 2012: Overview of the 14th African

Renaissance Conference’. In Ibuya Connecting Africa, edited by L. Abercrombie,
12(2013): 14-15.
Bell, Daniel A. and de-Shalit, Avner. The Spirit of Cities: Why the Identity of a
City Matters in a Global Age. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2011.
Boddy-Evans, Alistair. ‘Ubuntu’. Accessed January 11, 2013.

http://africanhistory.about.com/od/glossaryu/g/Ubuntu.htm.
BrainyQuote. ‘Carl Jung Quotes’. Accessed December 29, 2014.

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Cohen, David Elliot, ed., What Matters: The world’s preeminent photojournalists
and thinkers depict essential issues of our time. New York: Sterling Publishing Co,
2008.

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Department of Foreign Affairs. ‘Speech at the Launch of the African Union, 9 July
2002’. Accessed May 26, 2013.
http://www.dfa.gov.za/docs/speeches/2002/mbek0709.htm.
Dinnie, Keith. City Branding: Theory and Cases. New York: Palgrave Macmillan,
2011.
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african-cities-500006.
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Plenum, 1992.
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Molocha, Danal. ‘Ten Best African Cultural Events’. Accessed May 26, 2013.
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events/%0A.

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Accessed May 27, 2013.
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FOR_PINNACLE_POINT_CAVES/04_June_2012.
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Mikhail Peppas is a Research Associate at the Durban University of Technology,

South Africa. He holds a PhD in Visual Anthropology (University of KwaZulu-
Natal).
Sanabelle Ebrahim is a Master’s candidate in Deaf Culture at The Centre for

Communication, Media and Society at the University of KwaZulu-Natal in
Durban, South Africa. The authors are eco-media practitioners exploring applied
theory at the forefronts of graphic narratives, streets as living texts, comic book
production and city identity, Deaf culture, and sustainable living activations.

From Dashing to Delicious: The Gastrorgasmic Aesthetics of
Contemporary BL Manga
Antonija Cavcic
Abstract
Food is a regular feature, if not the centrepiece, of visual

entertainment in Japan. 1
~ Cheri Ketchum
The prominence (and to an extent, fetishisation) of food in Japan is not a recent

phenomenon; Western media’s current infatuation with food and the concept of
‘food porn’ and/or the sexing-up of food media culture (as demonstrated in such
programmes as Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, The Naked Chef, or in
Nigella Lawson’s ongoing BBC series) is a cultural movement that I define as
‘global gastrorgasmic texts.’ While audio-visual media have a certain sensory
advantage, Japanese gourmet manga have embraced the fetishisation of food since
the 1980s with titles such as Oishinbo (The Gourmet), Cooking Papa, or Bambino!
The chapter concerns the incorporation of the fetishisation of food and the shift of
focus from the aesthetics of beauty in the bishōnen (beautiful boys) in boys love
manga to the gastrorgasmic aesthetics of food in boys love (BL) manga. By
drawing examples from mainstream BL manga (such as Yoshinaga’s iconic
Antique Bakery series, the more recent What Did You Eat Yesterday? and Not Love
But Delicious Foods Make Me So Happy) as well as several minor publications, I
will demonstrate how BL-producing manga artists have arguably incorporated and
embraced gastrorgasmic themes and motifs. I argue that BL narratives amplify the
pleasure derived from visually “consuming” beautiful boys as well as the
tantalising treats they prepare within the narratives. The crux of the chapter,
however, is what these gastrorgasmic texts might reflect about Japanese and global
culture in Japan’s current socio-economic climate.
Key Words: Boys love manga, food fetishism, aesthetics of pleasure, economics.
*****
1. Introduction
In the last ten to fifteen years, network television has seen an escalating number
of celebrity chefs and their seemingly saucy and self-indulgent programmes such
as the not-necessarily naked but naughty Jamie Oliver, the lawless queen of food
porn, Nigella Lawson, or the bold and risqué spokesman of food porn for gourmets
worldwide, Anthony Bourdain. Needless to say, there are a number of diverse
socio-economic and cultural factors that have influenced this phenomenon, but the

140 From Dashing to Delicious
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question remains: just what is it that can account for the sudden sexing-up or the
increased fetishisation of cooking programmes on broadcast media? Bourdain’s
personal observation is that such shows are ‘the new pornography: it’s seeing
people on TV, watching people make things on TV that they are not going to be
doing themselves anytime soon, just like porn.’ 2 Similarly, Cheri Ketchum also
notes that in the last twenty years, media discourses about food have proliferated
and she argues that the Food Network constructs a consumer fantasy world that
creates a sense of pleasurable intimacy for its viewers.3
But is this voyeurism, or non-gender specific gastro-gaze, per se, just limited to
the Food Network or the plethora of competitive food-centred reality shows on
broadcast media in the West, or is it a global phenomenon? Apart from mere
cultural observations, I, as well as a number of scholars and anthropologists, am of
the opinion that food pervades every aspect of life in Japan – more so than a lot of
Western cultures. Indeed, before there was a Naked Chef, there was an Iron Chef,
and before there was an Iron Chef, there were manga and anime titles and
characters that were associated in any way and every way to food. Cultural
anthropologist, Katarzyna Cwiertka best epitomises this in her observation that:
Food is a regular feature, if not the centrepiece, of visual

entertainment in Japan […and even] popular animated characters
bear food-related names, such as the celebrated Anpan-man (Mr.
Beanpaste Bun) and Sazae-san (Mrs. Top-shell).4
Thus, if considering texts that incite food-fetishism and involve a kind of

voyeuristic gastro-gaze as a cultural movement that I define as ‘global
gastrorgasmic texts,’ then manga, despite not having the same heightened sensory
advantages as audio-visual media, nonetheless qualify as such texts and have
since at least the 1980s with gourmet (gurume manga) titles such as Oishinbo (The
Gourmet), Cooking Papa or Mister Ajikko. While such serialised comics at that
time were, and even still are, generally targeted at men in the mainstream manga
industry, over time, the trend gradually infiltrated the homoerotic realm of boys
love manga and saw the emergence of Yoshinaga Fumi’s Antique Bakery (1999-
2002). Since then, the motif has also proliferated with lesser-known dōjin (self-
published/slash) titles available on major BL online distributor, www.dlsite.com
that boasts titles such as Candy Candy, The Ecstasy Spreading through Your
Mouth, or Sugary Days.
Mainstream titles include the likes of Yasuei’s How to Eat Delicious Pasta
(2013) and Yoshinaga’s more recent titles, the massively successful What Did You
Eat Yesterday? (2007-) and Not Love but Delicious Foods Make Me So Happy
(2005).

Antonija Cavcic 141
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Figure 1: Not Love But Delicious Foods Make Me So Happy?

© 2005, Yoshinaga, Ohta Books. Used with permission.
To further examine the origin, motifs and trends of this grossly gastrorgasmic
phenomenon, I will firstly consider how gourmet-themed boys love manga differ
from gourmet manga as a stand-alone genre. The following arguments will then
posit reasons as to why BL motifs shifted to fetishising food, whereby there is no
human hero since the hero is now the dish, and how food within narratives is
depicted so as to appear gastrorgasmic. To conclude, I will consider what these
manga as gastrorgasmic texts reflect about Japanese society and global
consumption trends as a whole. Due to the sheer volume of dōjin manga, as well as
lesser-known mainstream publications, only mainstream gourmet manga and
gourmet-infused BL manga such as the aforementioned Yoshinaga’s series will be
sites of reference and analysis. However, before delving into the analyses of the
erogenous realm of the dashing, delicious and even delectable, as a starter, the
aspects whereby gastrorgasmic boys love texts differ from gourmet manga will be
considered.
2. Contrasting Gourmet and Gourmet-Themed BL Manga

Although having mentioned that gourmet manga’s target readership was
initially male, that did not necessarily suggest that women or children did not
actively engage in the consumption of such texts. However, Japanese cultural
theorist, Lorie Brau notes that food and cooking came into greater prominence in
manga in the 1970s. It was in this particular context that male-oriented manga

__________________________________________________________________
narratives that recounted the ‘trials of apprentices or athletes in their quest for
mastery became a popular subject.’5 One of the first titles to depict the ordeals of a
specifically culinary quest was Hōchō-nin no Ajihei (Ajihei the Knifeman). The
entire series adopted this quest typology characteristic of shõnen manga and thus
arguably catered for the expectations of a predominantly male readership. Such
‘hero’s path’ typologies (emulating Joseph Campbell’s model) have been outlined
by Honda Masuko, who considers the characteristics of shõnen manga as narratives
in which the protagonist desires a goal, confronts an obstacle and experiences a
setback to achieving the goal, then overcomes that setback (and successive
setbacks) until finally reaching success. 6 This formula is relatively standard for
most of the sports comics or even gourmet comics like Bambino! that sees its
ostracised Japanese protagonist rising from a sloppy kitchen hand to a chef in an
exclusive Italian restaurant.
The same typology is also exemplified in the iconic Oishinbo and Cooking
Papa series. Both of these series were produced and set in the 1980s in the midst of
the Japanese economic bubble. Although businessmen had the money to eat out,
for a man to be a food-savvy by either being a decent cook or absolute foodie was
a desirable character attribute, so in a way, these monthly or weekly magazines
dishing up gourmet narratives served as a kind of didactic tool to enhance a man’s
cultural capital. Where Cooking Papa’s (namely, Araiwa Kazumi) goal is to do a
hard day’s work in the office and still have enough time for his hobby (cooking for
his family, making his lunch, and helping out others with his cooking skills)
Oishinbo’s hero Yamaoka’s goal as a culinary journalist is constantly to create the
“ultimate menu” and prove himself to his father, Kaibara, his rival in the series. If
we acknowledge the basic narrative structure of Oishinbo, Cooking Papa and
Bambino! as a standard in gourmet manga, we can thus surmise that for most
traditional gourmet manga, the narrative is goal-oriented and although the goals
may differ, I argue that the protagonists’ overriding aims are to please others or
themselves by concocting (and often consuming) the most mouth-wateringly
mesmerising meals they possibly can. In addition, as in other genres of shōnen
(boys) manga, the element of competition, conflict and resolution are all involved.
As Lorie Brau reminds us, ‘Competition not only plays a significant role in
dramatising the subject of food on Japanese television in Iron Chef or Which Dish?
It also appears frequently in gurume manga.’ 7 However, in terms of Laura
Mulvey’s concept of the gaze in regard to gourmet manga, I suggest that it is not
particularly drawn to any one of the female (or even male) characters. The gaze, I
suggest, becomes a gastro-gaze, whereby the dish is the object of desire or is
fetishised. This gastro-gaze also applies to gourmet-themed boys love manga as a
genre of shōjo (girls’) manga, though, shōjo manga originally, and still now, follow
quite a different narrative structure. However, before any consideration of the
thematic and stylistic differences between shōnen’ and shōjo manga, I suggest that

Antonija Cavcic 143
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Honda’s outlined narrative typology for shōnen manga can also be applied to shōjo
manga. However, the major difference is, as Honda suggests,
the value highlighted in each text is ‘love.’… In boys’ narratives,

the protagonists achieve victory. In girls’ narratives, however,
there is no clear distinction between winners and losers. Since in
boys’ genres the goal is external, it is obvious whether or not
success has been achieved. Love… is an abstract goal sought
internally. Therefore, its attainability is not automatically
associated with external developments. 8
Given this argument, it can be surmised that the fundamental elements of shōjo
manga are love, the overall atmosphere, and the sensations and feelings evoked by
the text (being there as opposed to the more goal-oriented getting there nature of
shōnen manga). That is, relishing in the here and now rather than planning the next
move and having one’s eye on the prize, so to speak. Boys love manga, as a genre
of manga largely associated with a female readership, nonetheless embrace
particular elements of shōjo manga. Love, for example, has also been considered
central to the plot by Dru Pagliassotti in her qualitative research on boys love
fandom. She contends that the romantic storyline within boys love manga is
important to its readers and that in her 2005 survey of such readers, ‘the largest
group of respondents reported that the single most important element of BL manga
was “slowly but consistently developing love between the couple.”’9 If love, as
scholars and fans have noted, indeed drives the plot in boys love manga as a genre
of girls’ comics, then overcoming all obstacles to reach that pivotal moment of true
love, or the romantic climax, per se, can be considered the internal goal of the
protagonists in boys love manga, regardless of whether it involves agency or
merely destiny. However, as gourmet themes have infiltrated the genre, I argue the
gastrorgasmic depictions of food, the fetishism of food, if you like, have shifted the
object of desire to food. This, I believe, is best epitomised by the emergence of
titles such as Not Love But Delicious Foods Make Me So Happy.
3. Accounting for Gourmet-Themed BL Phenomena: 美少年 + 美味 =美 ²

Having compared and contrasted traditional male-oriented gourmet manga and
gourmet-themed BL manga, it is significant to proceed by considering why BL
motifs have shifted to fetishising food and how the manga mise en scène, depicts
food in a gastrorgasmic light.
Several assumptions can be made as to why this phenomenon has flourished.
Consider, for instance, that since the dawn of BL in the 1970s the settings and
motifs have focused primarily on boarding schools, schools or contexts where a
clear hierarchy is defined.

__________________________________________________________________
Figure 2: DL site/girls. Source: http://www.dlsite.com/girls
According to the data in Figure 2, the largest number of titles fall under the
genres of boys love, manga involving minors, schoolyard settings, and couples
with age discrepancies. These trends have persisted for decades and seem to show
no signs of slowing. The bishōnen, the innocent archetype and object of desire,
remains a staple in BL trends. Having said that, the change in readership is where
the shift in motifs occurs. To elaborate, the fans of the 1970s who grew up with
bishōnen manga are now in their forties or over, while the young fans can start
from junior high school or even elementary school. Thus, in order to cater for both
groups and a wider range of audiences, creating more ‘adult’ manga with older
protagonists, a greater sense of realism, and offering something unique in the
narrative that is desirable, caters for the older fans as well as drawing younger fans
who might be interested in the new and unique point of fetishism. However, what
alternative attractive element to the bishōnen could be appropriated and allure a
greater target readership in Japan? If we recall that food is arguably centrepiece, of
visual entertainment in Japan, then the proof is in the pudding, for lack of a better
expression. If the possible reasons why gourmet-themed manga have become a
new trend relate to expanding the target market as well as appeasing old and new
fans, then the logical question to follow is how the motif has been appropriated to
make it the centrepiece of the narrative. To address this matter, as a general
indication, I examined the framing and focus of food within the panels, as well as

Antonija Cavcic 145
__________________________________________________________________
the number of panels containing food or mentioning food in Not Love But
Delicious Foods Make Me So Happy.
Needless to say, but I must stress that this is not a realistic indication but it
demonstrates the potential prominence of food in manga. Upon examining the
content, the statistics revealed that of the total 709 panels, 477 panels depicted food
or alluded to food, arguably making food the centrepiece of 67 per cent of the
panels. Given that the ABC’s (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) local content
quota is 55 per cent we can surmise that at least for this title, the cake takes the
cake. Once again, it must be stressed that examining a larger volume of manga
would be necessary to make such assumptions about the genre but for argument’s
sake, I suggest this information is adequate.
In addition to the ratio of food content, the focus and framing of food in the
panels demonstrate how food is fetishised and objectified. Take for instance, the
panel in which Yoshinaga takes her gay friend out for sushi (Figure 3.1). The high
angle framing of the sushi as it rests on the table objectifies the sushi, suggesting
its role in the narrative as the object of desire.
Figure 3.1: Not Love But Delicious Figure 3.2: Not Love But Delicious
Foods Make Me So Happy. © 2005, Foods Make Me So Happy. © 2005,
Yoshinaga. Ohta Books. Yoshinaga. Ohta Books.
Used with permission. Used with permission.

__________________________________________________________________
In addition, aside from the drooling and heavy breaths in Figure 3.1, as the
sushi is consumed in Figure 3.2, close shots are primarily employed to enhance the
gastrorgasmic effects. This is the money shot, if you like, of gastrorgasmic texts.
Similar depictions are found in Figure 3.3 as Yoshinaga and a friend go French.
The mouth is always slightly ajar to emphasise the subject’s salivation. Other
motifs and keiyu (motion lines) that are employed to fetishise food or convey a
gastrorgasmic effect to consider are the lightning bolts in Figure 3.4 to convey
extreme satisfaction and the commonly used arrows to emphasise the object of the
gaze such as the ice cream being fetishised in the bottom panel.
Foods Make Me So Happy. © 2005, Foods Make Me So Happy. © 2005,
In Figure 3.5, there is the iconic BL flower motif to express feelings of love or
passion. Note how the tilted head too reinforces the pleasure of consumption.
Whilst some may not be convinced of the fetishisation of food in the former
figures, this last excerpt (Figure 3.6) illustrates, if not epitomises, the prominence
of food fetishism in BL manga. Why then should there be a need to look beyond
the framing of the panels during the dunking, dipping and shoving of tender

Antonija Cavcic 147
__________________________________________________________________
Vietnamese rolls into the subjects’ mouths? Can there honestly be a counter-
argument that there is nothing remotely gastrorgasmic about these panels?
Foods Make Me So Happy.© 2005, Foods Make Me So Happy.© 2005,
4. Discussion
Acknowledging that further research is necessary to validate the claims I have
made, the chapter has attempted to distinguish gourmet-themed BL manga from
traditional gourmet manga, as well as attempting to postulate why the gourmet
boom has infiltrated boys love manga. Furthermore, I have outlined some of the
methods that artists have employed to glorify and fetishise food. However, to
conclude on a more profound, or beefier level, if you like, it is significant to reflect
on what these manga reflect about Japanese society and global consumption trends.
Firstly, I acknowledge that a number of contentious assumptions have been made
throughout this article, and yet I will conclude with yet another based on personal
observations. That is, I argue that in contexts of either an economic crisis or an
economic boom, food becomes fetishised. To elaborate, in the former context,
when struggling with budgets, people tend to fantasise about or vicariously enjoy

__________________________________________________________________
the luxury of being served or consuming fine food made by another, or at least
learning how to reproduce such recipes at home. In the latter context, people have
the capital to afford fine food but want that extra edge, that something more that no
one else can have. That ‘because you’re worth it’ ideology prevails and food, of all
things commonplace, is certainly not excluded. Having said that, it could be further
argued then that Japan’s economic bubble in 1980s partly influenced the boom in
gourmet manga; and the successive global recession in the early twenty-first
century saw the massive influx of gastrorgasmic texts as well as gourmet-themed
BL texts. Given this argument, what does this then reflect about Japan and global
trends in food media? Perhaps the significance of it all lies in Frederick Kaufman’s
suggestion that,
food porn, like sex porn, like voyeurism, are all measures of
alienation, not community. As such, they belong to realms of
irreality. Irreality, of course, is attractive to anyone who may be
dissatisfied with the daily exigencies of his or her life.10
Notes
1
Cheri Ketchum, ‘The Essence of Cooking Shows: How the Food Network
Constructs Consumer Fantasies’, Journal of Communication Inquiry 29 (2005):
217.
2
Signe Rousseau, Preface to Food Media: Celebrity Chefs and the Politics of
Everyday Interference (London: Berg, 2012), x.
3
Ketchum, ‘The Essence of Cooking Shows’, 217.
4
Katarzyna Cwiertka, ‘Culinary Culture and the Making of a National Cuisine’, A
Companion to the Anthropology of Japan, ed. Jennifer Robertson (Malden:
Blackwell, 2005), 416.
5
Lorie Brau, ‘Oishinbo's Adventures in Eating: Food, Communication, and
Culture in Japanese Comic’, Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture 4,
No. 4 (Fall 2004): 36.
6
Masuko Honda, ‘The Genealogy of Hirahira: Liminality and the Girl’ Girl
Reading Girl in Japan, ed. Aoyama Tomoko and Barbara Hartley (London:
Routledge, 2010), 25
7
Brau, ‘Oishinbo's Adventures in Eating’, 39.
8
Honda, ‘The Genealogy of Hirahira’, 27.
9
Dru Pagliasotti, ‘Better Than Romance? Japanese BL Manga and the Subgenre of
Male/Male Romantic Fiction’, Boys' Love Manga: Essays on the Sexual Ambiguity
and Cross-Cultural Fandom of the Genre, eds. Antonia Levi, Mark McHarry, and
Dru Pagliassotti (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Sons, 2008), 59.

Antonija Cavcic 149
__________________________________________________________________
10
Anne E. McBride, ‘Food Porn’, Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and
Culture 10, No 1 (2010): 45.
Bibliography
Bajira. Sugary Days. Japan: Sel-Fac, 2012.
Brau, Lorie. ‘Oishinbo’s Adventures in Eating: Food, Communication, and Culture

in Japanese Comics’, Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture 4, No. 4
(Fall 2004): 34-45.
Bourdain, Anthony. Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations. Television. Directed by

Todd Liebler.United States: Travel Channel, 2005.
Cwiertka, Katarzyna. ‘Culinary Culture and the Making of a National Cuisine’. In

A Companion to the Anthropology of Japan, edited by Jennifer Robertson, 415-
429. Malden: Blackwell, 2005.
Gyū, Jirō. Hōchō-nin no Ajihei. Tokyo: Shueisha, 1973-1977.
Honda, Masuko. ‘The Genealogy of Hirahira: Liminality and the Girl’. Girl
Reading Girl in Japan, edited by Aoyama, Tomoko, and Barbara Hartley, 19-38.
London: Routledge, 2010.
Kan. The Ecstasy Spreading through Your Mouth. Japan: 724kan, 2010.
Kariya, Tetsu. Oishimbo. Tokyo: Shogakukan, 1983.
Ketchum, Cheri. ‘The Essence of Cooking Shows: How the Food Network
Constructs Consumer Fantasies’, Journal of Communication Inquiry 29 (2005):
217-234.
Kimiyoshi. Candy Candy. Japan: Zombie Productions, 2010.
Koyama, Kundō. Iron Chef. Television. Directed by Akio Ichijima, Keiichi

Tanaka, Takeshi Umakoshi. Japan: Fuji Television, 1993.
McBride, Anne E. ‘Food Porn.’ Gastronomica: The Journal of Food and Culture
10, No. 1 (2010): 38-45.

__________________________________________________________________
Oliver, Jamie. The Naked Chef. Television. Directed by Patricia Llewellyn.

England: BBC2, 1999.
Pagliassotti, Dru. ‘Better Than Romance? Japanese BL Manga and the Subgenre of
Male/Male Romantic Fiction’. Boys' Love Manga: Essays on the Sexual Ambiguity
and Cross-Cultural Fandom of the Genre, edited by Antonia Levi, Mark McHarry,
and Dru Pagliassotti, 59-84. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co, 2008.
Rousseau, Signe. Food Media: Celebrity Chefs and the Politics of Everyday
Interference. London: Berg, 2012.
Sekiya, Tetsuji. Bambino! Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2005-2009.
Terasawa, Daisuke. Mister Ajikko. Tokyo: Kodansha, 1986-1989.
Ueyama, Tochi. Cooking Papa. Tokyo: Kodansha, 1985.
Which Dish? Television. Japan: Yomiuri Telecasting Corporation, 1997.
Yasuei. How to Eat Delicious Pasta. Tokyo: Comic Box, 2013.
Yoshinaga, Fumi. Antique Bakery. Tokyo: Shinshokan, 1999-2002.
———. Not Love But Delicious Foods Make Me So Happy? Tokyo: Ohta Books,
2005.
———. What Did You Eat Yesterday? Tokyo: Kodansha, 2009.
Antonija Cavcic is a postgraduate researcher at Murdoch University, Perth,

Australia. Her research areas include Japanese manga, fandom and participatory
culture.

Part II
Tooned In: Identity and Representation

Negotiating Ordinariness and Otherness: Superman, Clark Kent
and the Superhero Masquerade
Barbara Brownie and Danny Graydon
Abstract
Superhero narratives are distinguished by the hero’s negotiation of the relationship
between two constructed identities, one ordinary, one extraordinary. The
superhero, whose costume emphasizes otherness, shelters in the guise of a civilian,
in a performance of ordinariness. Prompted by Jacob Riis’ invitation in ‘How The
Other Half Lives’ (1890), journalists of that era engaged in performance of
ordinariness in search of trans-status empathy. These journalists cloaked
themselves in a ‘signified cloth granting liberation and opportunity.’ The clothes
reduced their status, masking their profession or prestige, and they found
themselves empowered. The disguises allowed them normalcy and anonymity,
thereby enabling relationships and activities previously out of reach. Dressing
down in civilian wardrobe, the superhero engages in similar trans-status disguise.
By concealing otherness, he is liberated from the responsibilities of the superhero
lifestyle and the extreme attention it garners. Superman’s civilian masquerade
provides the freedom to engage with normal human society. We can consider his
Clark Kent persona in terms of the trans-status observations emerging from social
experiments that utilise disguise to enter a closed social group. Kal-El of Krypton
is a ‘covert operative’ who originates from outside the subject of his study, and
disguises himself in order to infiltrate the group. He learns their costumes and
customs via his rural Kansas upbringing, and then in adulthood and the urban
sprawl of Metropolis, positions himself as ‘one of them.’ Superman’s relationship
with his civilian alter-ego differs from that of other superheroes, who acquire their
superpowers later in life. Spider-Man, for example, can be equated to a
‘retrospective participant observer’: he is able to model his civilian disguise on his
own past experiences of ordinariness. This chapter will compare trans-status
disguise in superhero comics to the activities of undercover journalists and social
scientists, exploring the concealment of otherness through the performance of
ordinariness.
Key Words: Superman, Clark Kent, secret identity, ordinariness, otherness, Jacob
Riis, outsider, disguise, alter-ego, undercover.
*****
1. Introduction
Duality, and the struggle to negotiate the relationship between two different
identities, helps to define the superhero genre. To balance the spectacle of the
super identity, the superhero shelters in the guise of a civilian. The substitution of

154 Negotiating Ordinariness and Otherness
__________________________________________________________________
one of these identities for the other is a deliberate act of construction. The
Kryptonian alien, Kal-El, has constructed two alternative identities for his life on
Earth: the superhuman, Superman, and the journalist, Clark Kent. Each of these
identities is a performance: one of otherness, and one of ordinariness. Numerous
comics show the construction of the Superman identity: the design of the superman
persona, and the donning of the costume for the first time. Likewise, we see the
deliberate design of Clark Kent, and the constant maintenance of this performance
of ordinariness. Parallels can be drawn to experiments by nineteenth century
journalists, who dressed down in order to experience life among those less
fortunate than themselves, and sociologists who act as covert operatives,
infiltrating a social group to observe their culture and behaviours.
2. Constructed Identities
All superheroes have a complex relationship with identity. The superhero and
the civilian alter-ego are two contrasting parts of a whole. Numerous texts have
assumed one of these identities to be primary and genuine, and the other a disguise.
Carl Jung saw Superman as ‘the main personality’ and Clark Kent as ‘Superman’s
Shadow’.1 Superman can be considered the more genuine identity because it is the
more alien. Since he was born Kal-El of the planet Krypton, the paranormal
aspects of the Superman persona have been with him from birth, whereas he
adopted his human identity later, after his adoption by Jonathan and Martha Kent.
However, few cultures believe that identity is fixed at birth.2 Identity is
constructed over time. Clark Kent and Superman are both constructed identities,
and both disguises. The character existed before both of his alter-egos came into
being. For this character, the emergence of his two central identities occurs in
adolescence or early adulthood. Until that point, there is only Clark Kent. He has
had an apparently complete identity throughout his childhood, incorporating
elements that we later attribute either to Kent or Superman. The boy, Clark Kent,
performs feats of superhuman strength that would, later in life, be constrained to
the Superman persona.
The details of Superman’s masquerade were only lightly sketched in the
opening decades of DC’s Superhero publications. In is only in more recent
narratives (particularly the post-1986 continuity) that writers have explored more
fulsomely this aspect of the character. In these recent texts, the construction and
maintenance of Kal-El’s alternative personas is a collaborative act. In various
origin stories, Martha and Jonathan Kent play key roles in the design of both
personas, and later, other characters, including Lois, protect those identities by
lying on his behalf.3
In Superman: Earth One, we see the deliberate construction of both personas,
in collaboration with his adoptive parents.4 Martha Kent proposes to her son that he
must construct an ordinary persona that will not attract attention or suspicion. This
persona, she suggests, will be a ‘mask’ that conceals his extraordinary origins and

Barbara Brownie and Danny Graydon 155
__________________________________________________________________
abilities. He is later shown donning this ‘mask’ as he invents Clark Kent. In
another recent version of Superman’s origin, Superman: Birthright, Martha guides
the construction of Clark’s identity by cloaking him in a jacket and pushing glasses
onto his nose.5
Superman: Secret Origin proposes that some elements of Clark’s masquerade
are designed to physically contain his superpowers.6 The Kent disguise restrains his
powers, trapping him in a civilian persona. In this origin story, Clark’s heat vision
manifests when he is a teenager and he initially finds it impossible to control. Here,
Marta Kent provides Clark with a pair of glasses made from Kryptonian crystals
that travelled to Earth with Kal-El’s ship. The crystal is able to absorb the heat
vision, and thereby keep Clark’s secret origins in check. Kal and his alien abilities
are imprisoned within the props that will one day become central to Clark Kent’s
identity.
Rags Morales, the opening artist for the 2010 reboot of Action Comics (known
as the ‘New 52’) describes drawing Clark Kent’s wardrobes to conceal the
superhuman otherness of his body: giving him baggy clothes to hide his muscles.7
Implicit in Morales’ comments is the observation that Clark Kent is a performance;
the entire identity is a construction.
In declaring that Clark Kent is the ‘mask’ (the alter-ego), it does not necessarily
follow that the Superman identity is any less of a mask, or any more
natural/genuine. All of these comics also show the construction of the Superman
identity: they all show the donning of the costume for the first time, and Martha
Kent’s involvement in its design. Even though this character was born an alien, we
cannot consider him to be innately ‘Superman’.
At the moment when his two personas are constructed, Kal-El’s identity is split
into two. Clark Kent is refined and reduced to a mask of ordinariness, and
Superman is created to contain the alien aspects of his identity. From this point
onwards, the character exists in a perpetual state of incompleteness. The example
of Superman shows that neither the Superman nor Clark Kent are a complete or
genuine character. Both identities are constructions. Both are incomplete.
If neither Superman nor Clark are genuine or complete, it is difficult to define
the character who unites these personas. Travis Langley’s psychoanalysis of
Batman proposes that superheroes are ‘three-part’ characters, consisting of the
civilian ‘façade’, the superhuman, and the ‘real man [or alien] behind both’.8 Kal-
El is tripartite. He is Superman, Clark, and the hybrid that is responsible for both
alter-egos.
Arguably, this third character could be Kal-El. In Alan Moore’s For The Man
Who Has Everything, Superman’s closest superhero confidantes refer to him as
‘Kal’, with the understanding that he is both and Superman and Clark, and yet
neither.9 ‘Kal’, the character’s Krytonian birth name, is used in acknowledgement
of this third, hybrid identity: his only complete and true identity.

__________________________________________________________________
3. Trans-Status Disguise and the Performance of Ordinariness
Superman: Earth One (Vol. II) tells of how the young Clark Kent, an
intellectually brilliant student, capable of outshining all his classmates,
purposefully maintained a ‘C’ grade for all his subjects. Lois Lane observes that
Kent’s academic performance was not only average, but consistently so. There was
no subject at which he excelled, nor one at which he struggled. He maintained a
precisely average level of interest and of academic achievement.10 Young Clark
had repressed his extraordinary abilities, and constructed a persona that was
modelled on the norm. He continues his performance of ordinariness into
adulthood.
This kind of construction of ordinariness is core to experiments in ‘trans-status
disguise’,11 a practice that flourished in the late nineteenth century social
experiments, and is still vital in more recent journalistic practices such as those
employed by Polly Toynbee.12 In 1890, Jacob Riis published How The Other Half
Lives, a taxonomy of class structure which included notes on ‘bodily signifiers’ of
class, most notably, costume. In his text, Riis invited readers to covertly ‘be with
and among [the] people [of lower socioeconomic status] until you understand their
ways’ with the aim of encouraging greater trans-status empathy.13 There then
began a trend for articles in British and American periodicals that featured the
observations of ‘middle-class [reporters] who briefly lived ‘working-class’ lives’.
The accounts of these writers reveal dress as core in the construction of a trans-
status disguise. In 1903, Jack London expressed surprise at how remarkably
attitudes towards him changed when he donned a frayed jacket. The jacket, he
noted, became a ‘badge and advertisement of [his perceived] class’. By ‘vesting
[him]self in class-specific apparel’ he invited observers to make assumptions about
his socioeconomic status, and in so doing created opportunities to ‘move freely’
among social groups that had formerly viewed him as an outsider.14
These journalists and sociologists cloaked themselves in a ‘signified cloth
granting liberation and opportunity’.15 The clothes reduced their status, masking
anything remarkable about their profession or prestige, and they found themselves
empowered. The disguises gave them a peculiar power of normalcy and
anonymity, which allowed them to partake in relationships and activity that were
previously out of their reach. As Kent, Kal experiences this same liberation. In his
civilian clothes he is able to walk down the street, sleep in an ordinary bed, shop
for groceries, and form relationships. Perhaps most importantly, he is able to drop
his guard. The civilian clothing provides relief from the constant pressure to save
the day, and to live up to his own remarkable reputation.
Kent’s glasses are the cornerstone of his disguise. They are a kind of ‘costume
shorthand’16 that provide the pivotal event in the transition from one alter-ego to
the other, regardless of what else he is wearing, the glasses are enough to mark
Kent apart from Superman. Glasses are markers of a physical flaw, apparently
reducing Kal-El to a lesser-being and connecting him to humanity. In Kingdom

__________________________________________________________________
Come, Kal-El is the dominant persona, with Superman and Clark Kent having been
wilfully abandoned in mourning for Lois Lane. The glasses are the object that
recalls him to the human world. Having thought his humanity lost, he pushes the
glasses onto his face, and suddenly he is Clark again.17
It is notable that Kal-El’s civilian persona is also a journalist. Like few other
professions, this grants him access to the human race, and provides him with
opportunities to observe human behaviour in great detail and in all walks of life. It
allows his to observe ordinariness, and learn from it.
4. Clark Kent the ‘Covert Operative’

Superman does not naturally fall into this mould of ordinariness. Kal-El must
make a conscious effort to conceal his otherness. In Camelot Falls we see Clark
Kent as a passenger on a commercial airliner.18 In his balloon dialogue he
converses with the cabin attendant as Clark, meanwhile, narrative boxes reveal his
inner monologue as Superman. His conversation with the attendant is mundane.
They discuss the seatbelt sign, and the effect that the turbulence may be having on
Clark’s stomach. Meanwhile, his inner thoughts reveal plans to exit the craft via
the landing gear doors, allowing the transformation into Superman to attend to an
alien threat below. Kal has learnt from observation that this is an appropriate way
for humans to behave. He is not genuinely troubled by the turbulence, but he has
observed this behaviour in the humans around him, and mimicked it. The entire
Clark Kent persona has been constructed in the same way – through observation of
the human race.
For Kal-El, the clothes of his civilian persona are not merely ‘ordinary’; they
are a very specific interpretation of ‘ordinary’. This is ‘ordinary’ from the
perspective of the superhero; ‘ordinary’ viewed through the eyes of the
extraordinary. Clark Kent is Kal’s ‘opinion of the rest of us’ and his everyday
workwear is [his] interpretation of how the normal, human population dress. Clark
Kent is ‘a painted caricature’ of what Kal sees as an average human male.19 Kent’s
civilian clothing therefore offer insight into how he views humanity - at least in its
most typical, American form – dull and stiff.
This ‘covert operative’ approach to the alter-ego sets Superman apart from
other superheroes. While Superman learns from observation, Batman and Spider
Man learn from recollection. Superheroes who have acquired their powers later in
life have a previous self as a model for their civilian persona. Spider Man did not
have to invent his civilian wardrobe the way he did his Spider Man costume; he
only has to maintain it. Likewise, Bruce Wayne had wardrobes full of expensive
suits before he built his Batman costumes. But even in these cases, as soon as they
don the superhero suit, the civilian wardrobe becomes part of a disguise, and the
hero must be conscious of the persona that it communicates. They must try to dress
and behave as they did before they acquired their superhero identity. They must
preserve the image of their former selves.

__________________________________________________________________
Comparisons can be made to the methods used by undercover researchers.
There are ‘strict codes of cultural boundaries which are vigorously enforced’
necessitate the invention of false identities.20 Secret identities are constructed in
order to ‘gain research access to otherwise closed research settings’. This may
occur when the subject of a study is ‘closed or inaccessible’ to outsiders, just as
normal human society is likely unwilling to accept a super-powered semi-human as
one of their own. Humanity is a closed society; we do not treat non-humans (or
those with non-human powers) as equals, and so it would be difficult for a
superhero to lead any semblance of a normal life, or to integrate into society, were
he not disguised as ordinary.
Likewise, a journalist who intends to write an article on the Mafia, a spy who
intends to investigate a terrorist cell, or an anthropologist who intends to analyse
aspects of sub-culture, must present themselves with an identity that is ‘indigenous
to that setting’. Covert participant observation, when it is employed in journalistic,
anthropological or other social studies, falls into several categories. Martin Blumer
identifies two of the roles these covert researchers play as ‘covert outsider’ and
‘retrospective participant observer’.21 The ‘covert outsider’ is one who originates
from outside the subject of his study, and disguises himself in order to infiltrate the
group. He learns their costumes and customs, and then positions himself as ‘one of
them’. His real identity remains secret. Superman falls into this category. As Kal-
El, he is ‘the last son of Krypton’, an outsider to human society. He uses his
childhood experiences to construct a believable pastiche of an ordinary human, and
adopts that identity in passing himself off as the human Clark Kent. Other
superheroes, who have acquired their powers later in life (Batman, Spider Man,
etc.), are ‘retrospective participant observers’, having participated in ordinary
human society before they became super-powered. Throughout this learning
process, they were genuine participants in civilian society. They are able to reflect
on their past experiences, and use them to create a model on which they construct
their civilian disguise.
5. Conclusion
The Clark Kent masquerade appears so ordinary that it does not overtly present
itself as a costume or disguise. It is that ordinariness that places him beyond
suspicion. In The Secret Revealed, Lex Luthor deploys his vast technological
resources to discover Superman’s true identity.22 When the lead investigator
presents Luthor with the computer’s simple conclusion, that ‘Clark Kent Is
Superman’, Luthor refuses to believe it. Kent is seemingly so removed from the
hyper-masculine Superman that any similarities are overlooked. The behaviour of
Kal-El, in constructing his alternative personas, is not exclusive to comic book
fiction. There are parallels with the actions of real-life journalists, anthropologists
and sociologists, who perform new identities to infiltrate closed social groups.

__________________________________________________________________
Notes
1
Karl Jung, Man and his Symbols (New York: Doubleday, 1964), as cited in
Langley, Travis, Batman and Psychology, (Hoboken, New Jersey: John Wiley &
Sons, 2012), 171.
2
See, for example, Chris Barker, Cultural Studies Theory and Practice, 2nd ed.
(Oxford: The Alden Press, 2003), 231.
3
See, for example, Kurt Busiek, Superman: Camelot Falls, (New York: DC
Comics, 2007).
4
J. Michael Straczynski and Shane Davis, Superman: Earth One, Vol. 2 (New
York: DC Comics, 2012).
5
Mark Waid, Superman: Birthright (New York, DC Comics, 2004), 84.
6
Geoff Johns, Superman: Secret Origin (New York: DC Comics, 2010).
7
Rags Morales, as cited in Grant Morison and Raggs Morales, Action Comics:
Superman and the Men of Steel, Vol. 1, The New 52 (New York: DC Comics,
2012).
8
Travis Langley, Batman and Psychology (New Jersey: John Wiley & Sons), 160.
9
Alan Moore, Across the Universe: The DC Universe Stories of Alan Moore, (New
York: DC Comics, 2003).
10
Straczynski and Davis, Superman, 4.
11
Peter Hyland, ‘The Performance of Disguise’, Early Theatre 5, No. 1 (2002): 77-
83.
12
See Polly Toynbee, Hard Work: Life in Low-Pay Britain (London: Bloomsbury,
2003), a record of the experiences of journalist, Toynbee, who spends a period
living and working on minimum wage in order to expose the difficulties
encountered by those of lower socioeconomic status than herself and her readers.
13
Eric Schocket, ‘Undercover Explorations of the “Other Half,” or the Writer as
Class Transvestite,’ Representations 64 (1998): 109-133, 112, 118.
14
Jack London, People of the Abyss, 1903, cited in Eric Schocket, ‘Explorations of
the “Other Half,” 119.
15
Sorcha Ni Fhlainn, ‘Our Monstrous (S)kin: Blurring the Boundaries between
Monsters and Humanity’, Our Monstrous (S)kin, ed. Sorcha Ni Fhlainn (Oxford:
Inter-Disciplinary Press), 2009, 9.
16
Peter Hyland, ‘The Performance of Disguise’, Early Theatre, Vol. 5, No. 1
(2002), 77-83, 81.
17
Mark Waid, Kingdom Come, (New York: DC Comics, 1997), 200-201.
18
Kurt Busiek, Superman: Camelot Falls, (New York: DC comics, 2007).
19
Jules Feiffer, as cited in De Haven, Tom, Our Hero: Superman on Earth,
(London: Yale University Press, 2010), 38.

__________________________________________________________________
20
Sorcha Ni Fhlainn, ‘Our Monstrous (S)kin: Blurring the Boundaries Between
Monsters and Humanity’, in Our Monstrous (S)kin, ed. Fhlainn, Sorcha Ni,
Oxford: Interdisciplinary Press, 2009, 4.
21
Martin Blumer, ‘When is Disguise Justified? Alternatives to Covert Participant
Observation’, Qualitative Sociology, Vol. 5, No. 4, 251-264.
22
John Byrne, Superman: The Secret Revealed, New York: DC Comics, 1986, 21-
22.
Bibliography
Barker, Chris. Cultural Studies Theory and Practice. 2nd ed. Oxford: The Alden
Press, 2003.
Blumer, Martin. ‘When is disguise justified? Alternatives to covert participant

observation.’ Qualitative Sociology, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1982), 251-264
Busiek, Kurt. Superman: Camelot Falls. New York: DC Comics, 2007.
Collins, Lucy. ‘Fashion as Confession: Revelation and Concealment in Personal

Identity.’ Paper presented at Fashion: Exploring Critical Issues, Mansfield
College, Oxford, 23-25 September, 2011.
Hyland, Peter, ‘The Performance of Disguise’, Early Theatre, Vol. 5, No. 1 (2002),
Johns, Geoff. Superman: Secret Origin. New York: DC Comics, 2010.
Karaminas, Vicki, ‘Übermen: Masculinity, Costume, and Meaning in Comic Book

Superheroes.’ In The Men’s Fashion Reader, edited by Vicki Karaminas, 179-186.
Oxford: Berg, 2009.
Langley, Travis. Batman and Psychology. Hoboken, New Jersey: John Wiley &
Sons, 2012.
Moore, Alan. Across the Universe: The DC Universe Stories of Alan Moore. New
York: DC Comics, 2003.
Morison, Grant, and Morales, Raggs. Action Comics: Superman and the Men of
Steel, The New 52: Vol. 1. New York: DC Comics, 2012.

__________________________________________________________________
Morris, Tom. ‘What’s Behind the Mask? The Secret of Secret Identities.’ In
Superheroes and Philosophy, edited by Tom Morris and Matt Morris, 25-267.
Illinois: Carus, 2005.
Reynolds, Richard. Super Heroes: A Modern Mythology. London: Batsford, 1992.
Schocket, Eric. ‘Undercover Explorations of the “Other Half,” or the Writer as

Class Transvestite.’ Representations, No. 64 (1998), 109-133.
Fhlainn, Sorcha Ni, ‘Our Monstrous (S)kin: Blurring the Boundaries Between
Monsters and Humanity’, in Our Monstrous (S)kin, ed. Fhlainn, Sorcha Ni,
Oxford: Interdisciplinary Press, 2009.
Straczynski, J. Michael, and Davis, Shane. Superman: Earth One, Vol. 2, New
York: DC Comics, 2012.
Toynbee, Polly. Hard Work: Life in Low-pay Britain. London: Bloomsbury, 2003.
Waid, Mark. Kingdom Come. New York: DC Comics, 1997.
Waid, Mark. Superman: Birthright. New York, DC Comics, 2004.
Barbara Brownie leads online postgraduate study in the School of Creative Arts
at the University of Hertfordshire. She also writes for The Guardian on Costume
and Culture. Her current research interests include film costume, trans-status
disguise, and clothes as objects.
Danny Graydon is a UK-based critic, author and academic specialising in Film

and Comics. A long-time contributor to EMPIRE Magazine, he lectures at
University of Hertfordshire and Kingston University, London and is the author of
five books relating to cinema.

Traveling Through Time and Space: Influences of Travel on
Identity in Carnet De Voyage and Persepolis
Eliza Albert-Baird
Abstract
In the new, burgeoning field of graphic novel autobiographies, more commonly
known as autographics, themes of travelling across space as place, space on the
page, and through time have made their way into the mainstream of the genre.
Craig Thompson’s Carnet De Voyage, a travelogue recounting Thompson’s
promotional tour for his book, Blankets, illustrates changes in the narrating and
narrated ‘I’ while traveling to countries like Morocco and France due to
Thompson’s reflection, contemplation, and evaluation on his national, regional,
and personal identities in the eyes of others throughout the whole of the text. In
Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, Satrapi tells of the struggles of her home country,
Iran, as she grows up and is educated throughout various parts of the Europe:
Satrapi retains and edifies some parts of the identity she constructed in Iran while
tempering and adapting herself under Europe’s western influence. While Carnet de
Voyage and Persepolis both travel throughout place, space, and time, they each
offer a unique view into how this travel changes the narrated ‘I’ through lived
experience and the narrating ‘I’ through reflection and the writing process. While
the author is affected, so is the reader: the reader treks alongside the author while
being made conscious of their own cultural and personal identities through the act
of reading and deciphering the text and images laid out before them. By analyzing
these texts together, by expanding and adapting Gillian Whitlock’s approach to
autographics, it becomes possible to see how travel not only affects and changes,
but also how these travel autographics change the reader as they attempt to
navigate across these cultural boundaries of identity and literacy with the author.
Key Words: Autographics, identity, travelogue, Craig Thompson, Marjane

Satrapi, Carnet De Voyage, Persepolis
*****
In the new, burgeoning field of graphic autobiographies, more commonly

known as autographics, themes of travelling across space as place, space on the
page, and through time have made their way into the mainstream of the genre.
Craig Thompson’s Carnet De Voyage illustrates changes in the narrating and
narrated ‘I’1 while traveling to countries like Morocco and France due to
Thompson’s reflection, contemplation, and evaluation on his national, regional,
and personal identities in the eyes of others throughout the whole of the text. In
Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, Satrapi tells of the struggles of her home country,
Iran, as she grows up and is educated throughout various parts of Europe: Satrapi

164 Traveling Through Time and Space
__________________________________________________________________
retains and edifies some parts of the identity she constructed in Iran while
tempering and adapting herself under Europe’s western influence. While Carnet de
Voyage and Persepolis both travel throughout place, space, and time, they each
offer a unique view into how this travel changes the narrated ‘I’ through lived
experience and the narrating ‘I’2 through reflection and the writing process. While
the author is affected, so is the reader: the reader treks alongside the author while
being made conscious of their own cultural and personal identities through the act
of reading and deciphering the text and images laid out before them. By analyzing
these texts together, by expanding and adapting Gillian Whitlock’s approach to
autographics, it becomes possible to see how travel not only affects and changes
identity, but also how these travel autographics change the reader as they attempt
to navigate across these cultural boundaries of identity and literacy with the
author.3
When examining travel through time and place within autographics, it is
important to first consider how this occurs on the page due to the highly visual
nature of autographics. In the first section of Whitlock’s text she discusses frames
or panels in comics as ‘boxes of grief’ that ‘are the first principle of the unique
aesthetics of the comics as sequential art.’4 Where Whitlock ‘indicate[s] the
extraordinary reach of comics as they engage in traumatic memory work across
languages, cultures, and generations,’ autographics readily lend themselves to a
study of how travel affects both protagonist and reader: Autographics are a
‘medium where the audience is willing and conscious collaborator and closure is
the agent of change, time, and motion’.56 While Thompson and Satrapi illustrate
the worlds of their life writing in the way they want the reader to experience it, by
illustrating places and events through their own evolving perspectives, the
audience gives life to the foreign landscapes featured in the panels by using
imagination to unify images and words into ideas.
In Thompson’s Carnet De Voyage, panels are often drawn in an
unconventional way that truly illustrates the fluidity of travel through space and
time. In Carnet De Voyage, the reader may have trouble distinguishing at first if
panels are separate from each other or meant to be absorbed as a whole: Thompson
does not always outline his frames, but often refrains from bordering them. When
these open panels sprawl out across pages in reference to the physical travel that
Thompson encounters, the readers also undergo the effect of traveling throughout a
vast world with invisible boundaries as their eyes follows the ink across the page,
while interpreting new landscapes alongside Thompson: ‘Panel shapes vary
considerably….and while differences of shape don’t affect the specific ‘meanings’
of those panels vis-à-vis time, they can affect the reading experience’.7 It is often
up to the reader to make this closure themselves between the images, text, and
what they mean together, or ‘tak[ing] two separate images and transform[ing] them
into a single idea.’8 In Thompson’s Carnet De Voyage sprawling landscapes and
cityscapes without borders or text suggest feelings of isolation or being lost in

Eliza Albert-Baird 165
__________________________________________________________________
different ways, and this style of illustration implies a ‘timeless,’ yet ‘unresolved’
nature that haunts following panels.9 As Thompson travels throughout the
autographic, the unbordered frames illustrate monumental buildings, vast deserts,
immense forests and myriads of people, though Thompson marginalizes himself in
these frames, if he is present in them at all. Because it is the reader’s responsibility
to provide closure to these frames, they must journey through Thompson’s text as
an individual reader who has likely never been to Fez or the Swiss Alps and who is
without aid in interpreting what is laid out before them. As the reader feels their
way through Carnet De Voyage, reading becomes a method of travel, mimicking
Thompson’s own isolation and preconceptions of foreign worlds he is visiting for
the first time.
Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis takes on traveling through the panels of her work
in a much different way. While Satrapi’s style is more conventional, featuring
more individual, bordered panels, it brings into question the idea of ‘motion’
within comics. Because images and text are static and bordered on the page within
Satrapi’s text, her style of illustration suggests a sense of ‘fixedness’ that
supplements the narrative: ‘[E]very flat image has to deal with its fundamental
two-dimensional aspect…the picture can try to deny the flatness by suggesting an
illusionary depth or….can accentuate this flatness.’10 While Satrapi is stuck within
the confines of two opposing cultural ideologies, her illustrations indicate this same
sense of inescapable fixedness that she desperately attempts to renegotiate
throughout the narrative. The text and images within Satrapi’s panels take on a
‘duo-specific’ relationship; however, Satrapi takes this a step further, integrating
motion into her text in an innovative way.11 To convey the passage of time in some
of Satrapi’s panels there are two portions of text, the top portion that works in the
present tense and the bottom section that usually represents the narrating ‘I’ to
comment back and provide insight for the reader. By pairing various tenses of text
with images describing her struggles, Satrapi indicates to her reader that her life
does continue on to cultivate a sense of knowing and realization. It is these
moments of insight that aid the reader in remembering the person speaking to
them, the narrating ‘I,’ embodies motion: ‘[T]he narrating ‘I’ is an effect composed
of multiple voices, a heteroglossia attached to multiple and mobile subject
positions, because the narrating ‘I’ is neither unified nor stable.’12 While Satrapi
discovers herself stuck within the defined ideologies and perspectives of varying
worlds, her identity illustrates the cultural fluidity that she seeks and eventually
embodies.
Travel is not the only aspect of Carnet De Voyage that begs the reader to
analyse the discipline and form of autographics. In the second section of
Whitlock’s article, ‘Autobiographical Avatars,’ Whitlock makes connections
between Marjane Satrapi’s self-reflexive view of her identity throughout
Persepolis and its socio-political background in order to illustrate how trauma
functions within the text. By grappling with this concept of identity and the

__________________________________________________________________
elements of culture that influence it, it is relevant to make such connections within
Thompson’s and Satrapi’s texts concerning travel. While Thompson and Satrapi
move with the reader throughout new places and ideals, this narrative of self-
reflexivity is always in play: the authors are constantly analysing themselves in the
face of the events and places unfolding around them.
In Carnet De Voyage, Thompson struggles between two different visions of
identity in reference to foreign culture. When Thompson is in France, he questions
his Mid-Western American identity amid the ‘glamor’ of Paris: in one scene
Thompson attempts to stand tall during a photo shoot in Paris to promote his book
Blankets, but he finds it difficult to negotiate between the ‘simple Wisconsin
country bumpkin’ of his past and the sophisticated, opulent identity that Paris has
as a historical city.13 When it is Thompson’s own regional and cultural identity that
creates this feeling of isolation in Paris, Thompson uses the comic techniques of
universality and amplification through simplification. The themes of universality
and amplification through simplification allow Thompson to draw himself with
less detail than a photograph of himself might show, giving him a more universal
look as the narrated ‘I’ that has its picture taken and even more so as the historical
‘I’14 that emerges in his mind, manifesting on the page as a cartoon version of
himself in overalls, sitting on a tractor. Because Thompson chooses to draw the
historical ‘I,’ in an even more simplified way, more attention is drawn to the
contrast between the two images, suggesting the interior struggle Thompson has
with his identity.15 When Thompson begins to miss and strengthen the connection
with his Western identity in Marrakesh and Fez, Thompson uses darkness to
illustrate how the absence of Western elements drive him to contemplate suicide.
This building darkness not only shows the progression from day to night, but also
how the feeling of isolation from one’s culture can effect the narrated ‘I.’ While
Thompson’s identity has been in question for most of the graphic novel, here the
author attempts to cling to what remains of his Western identity without the ability
to use physical identifiers from his own culture for stability.
Travel presents a self-reflexive analysis of the self within Marjane Satrapi’s
Persepolis in other ways. While Marjane develops her perspective of ‘self’ during
her childhood, Satrapi always illustrates herself in opposition to, and often
enveloped in, the social and political forces at work all around her. Satrapi’s four
years in Vienna do not progress without their share of hardship and displacement,
however, and the author recounts her struggle between herself as an Iranian and her
desire to be accepted by those in Austria’s westernized culture. Feelings of guilt
arise within Satrapi as she recollects the narrated ‘I’ in contrast to the idea of being
her parents’ ‘dream child;’ ‘[I]f they knew that their daughter….had seen men in
their underwear while they were being bombed every day, the wouldn’t call me
their dream child.’16 As Satrapi flails between the ideas of assimilating into the
West while burying feelings of disappointment and guilt for Iran deep inside, she
attempts to seek solace in Markus. Satrapi’s relationship with Markus, however,

__________________________________________________________________
becomes a product of her increasing isolation and widens the gap between Satrapi
and both cultures. After her return to Iran, Satrapi finds herself an exile in her own
culture due to the influences of western culture on her lifestyle: after being
accosted by her friends because of her sexual experiences, Satrapi realized that
‘[t]hey were overrun by hormones and frustration, which explained their
aggressiveness toward me. To them, [she] had become a decadent western
woman.’17 During her relationship with Reza, Satrapi is confronted about their
sexual relations, but Satrapi sees through her anger to understand the force behind
the opposing argument. As Satrapi pursues a marriage with Reza to escape social
pressure, assuming she might find freedom in marriage, Satrapi discovers on their
wedding night that she had unknowingly conformed to society and married a man
she did not truly love: ‘I had suddenly become a ‘married woman.’ I had
conformed to society, while I had always wanted to remain in the margins.’18 As
Satrapi works through this epiphany, negotiating between the complexities of a
hybrid identity, Satrapi leaves Iran again for France. At the end of her autograph,
Satrapi finds herself leaving Iran as a free woman, seeking out life in the world as a
woman unshackled from the constraints of ideology.
As travel affects the protagonists’ identities in Carnet De Voyage and
Persepolis by forcing Thompson and Satrapi to consider and evaluate their cultural
and social identities in the face of foreign cultures, the text poses the same
challenge to their readership. As Gillian Whitlock discusses in the third part of her
article, ‘The Other Ones,’ the autographic’s readership is also changed by
undergoing the same types of trauma sustained by the author through the act of
reading. The idea of changing the reader through autographics is problematic, if
only because each reader is as unique as the self that composed the autographic
they are consuming. Readers come from different places in the world, holding
different perspectives and life experiences to inform their vision of the self, and it
seems impossible that an autographic should be able to change these various
readers in similar ways:
But reading audiences are not…homogeneous communities.

They are heterogeneous collectives for whom certain discourses
of identity make sense at various moments. Although they come
to their readings of an autobiographical text with expectations
about the kinds of narrative that conform relatively comfortably
to criteria of intelligibility, they come from different experiential
histories and geo-political spaces.19
While autographics certainly grab the reader with various types of thematic
content, in the same way as autobiography, autographics also change the reader in
a unique way through the particular, strategic placement of content on the page and
the ways in which the author illustrates their sequential art: ‘Their hybridity

__________________________________________________________________
encodes and routes meaning in multiple directions….prompt[ing] new itineraries of
‘framing,’ ‘listening,’ and ‘feeling’ through the visuality of the written and the
discursivity of the depicted….’20 For Satrapi’s readers, Whitlock suggests that
techniques like universality and amplification through simplification are avenues
that allow the reader to relate themselves to life writing in comics21.
While this is true of Whitlock’s analysis of Persepolis, it is also true of Craig
Thompson’s Carnet De Voyage as Thompson’s text uses these same techniques to
draw upon emphatic association. In many instances throughout Carnet De Voyage,
Thompson provides highly simplified drawings of himself, while personifying
others with much more detail, to draw the reader into his own experience:
Thompson attempts to make himself look strange, comical, disheartened, and
desolate at different points in the novel to convey his own feelings while inspiring
a connection with the reader that ties their collective experience together. In the
scene where Thompson poses for a photo shoot in Paris, the simplified drawings of
himself allow the reader to place himself on the page instead of Thompson and
inside Thompson’s mind due to the highly simplified version of rendition of the
almost comical historical ‘I’ amid the intricately drawn background: ‘This
combination [of images] allows readers to mask themselves in a character and
safely enter a sensually stimulating world…One set of lines to see. Another set of
lines to be.’22 Here the reader is able to relate to the narrated ‘I’ posing for pictures,
but is more highly aware of the social implications posed by Thompson’s portrayal
of the historical ‘I.’ Thompson’s reader, then, takes on the mask of isolated
narrated ‘I,’ but is even more highly invested in the caricature of the historical ‘I.’
By pulling the reader in with the highly simplified image of the historical ‘I,’
Thompson asks the reader to grapple with his own personal, cultural, and national
identity in the same scenario.
While Thompson’s work changes the reader through strategic illustrative
techniques, Marjane Satrapi monopolizes space on the page in order to aid her
reader in coping with isolation in foreign lands. Throughout Persepolis, Satrapi
constantly works in diegetic space23 and extradiegetic space; however, ‘fictive’
spaces exist in the case of Thompson and Satrapi as ‘recollected’ space because the
world of the comics is not fiction but recalled from experience.24 While many
comics use ‘stereotypical icons’ or cultural indicators within the diegetic space to
create easy recognition within readers, Satrapi often refrains from using such
indicators in her text.25 By limiting the diegetic space and focusing solely on
Satrapi, she is able to carry the theme of the affects of isolation via travel
throughout her entire life narrative: ‘[S]pace can express a certain mood or be a
symbol for an underlying concept or a scene or even a complete story.’26 Satrapi’s
reader is aware of her fragmented, highly regimented style of composition, and
unifies these fragments into a universal image where they can live through and
relate to Satrapi’s experiences.

__________________________________________________________________
While Satrapi works within the diegetic space to concentrate her readers,
enabling Satrapi also works within the extradiegetic space, where the reader is
situated, to further draw in her readers. The extradiegetic space is not always a
space that characters within graphic novels assume; however, because Satrapi’s
‘self’ in her autographic is so self-referential, she embodies this space with the
reader throughout the majority of her text.27 At times, Satrapi talks directly to the
reader, her eyes focused forward on the page, providing text to supplement the
individual, historical moment that the panel illustrates all while supplying insight
from the narrating ‘I’: ‘the extradiegetic space can be integrated by means of a
character seemingly looking the reader straight in the eyes and addressing the
reader in his speech balloon….’28 While the reader is confronted with these spaces
he must also interact within them, becoming an active participant through
interpretation of the text. As the reader begins to make meaning of what Satrapi
has provided for him, he must also reconcile his personal experiences with
Satrapi’s life narrative, which addresses him directly.
By using Gillian Whitlock’s article ‘Autographics: The Seeing ‘I’ of Comics,’
as a theoretical lens for Thompson’s and Satrapi’s work, it is evident that
autographics should not be limited to dealing specifically with the effects of trauma
but can be expanded to analyze how travel affects authors and changes the readers
of these texts. Both Craig Thompson’s Carnet de Voyage and Marjane Satrapi’s
Persepolis illustrate the varying effects that travel forces upon the narrated and
narrating ‘I,’ displaying that occupying foreign spaces both in the world and on the
page can cause drastic changes within the life of a person while also exemplifying
their individual representation of the self. These autographics move within and
beyond the space on the page to incorporate its readers, asking them to actively
participate within these travel narrative while using them as a method to temper
and evaluate their own global experiences.
Notes
1
Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, Reading Autobiography: A Guide for
Interpreting Life Narratives (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010)
73.
2
Ibid.
3
Gillian Whitlock, ‘Autographics: The Seeing ‘I’ of Comics’, Modern Fiction
Studies (West Lafayette: John Hopkins UP, 2006), 966.
4
Ibid., 986.
5
Whitlock, ‘Autographics,’ 969
6
Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York: Harper
Collins, 1993) 65.
7
McCloud, Understanding Comics, 99.
8

__________________________________________________________________
9
Ibid., 102.
10
Pascal Lefevre, ‘The Construction of Space in Comics’ in A Comic Studies
Reader, ed. Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester (Jackson: Mississippi UP, 2009) 158.
11
12
Smith and Watson, Reading Autobiography, 74.
13
Craig Thompson, Carnet De Voyage (Marietta: Top Shelf Productions, 2009) 22.
14
15
Thompson, Carnet De Voyage, 72.
16
Marjane Satrapi, The Complete Persepolis (New York: Pantheon, 2007) 193.
17
Ibid., 270.
18
Ibid., 317.
19
20
Sidonie Smith, ‘Human Rights and Comics’ in Graphic Subjects: Critical Essays
on Autobiography and Graphic Novels, Ed. Michael A. Chaney (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 2011) 67.
21
Whitlock, ‘Autographics,’ 976.
22
23
Lefevre, ‘The Construction of Space in Comics’ 157.
24
Lefevre, ‘The Construction of Space in Comics,’ 157, 161.
25
Ibid., 157.
26
Ibid.
27
Ibid., 161.
28
Ibid.
Bibliography
Beaty, Bart. ‘Autobiography as Authenticity’. In A Comic Studies Reader, edited

by Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester, 226-236. Jackson: Mississippi University Press,
2009.
Lefevre, Pascal. ‘The Construction of Space in Comics’. In A Comic Studies

Reader, edited by Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester,157-163. Jackson: Mississippi
McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: Harper
Collins, 1993.
Satrapi, Marjane. The Complete Persepolis. New York: Pantheon, 2007.

__________________________________________________________________
Smith, Sidonie. ‘Human Rights and Comics’. In Graphic Subjects: Critical Essays
on Autobiography and Graphic Novels, edited by Michael A. Chaney, 61-72.
Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011.
Smith, Sidonie and Julia Watson. Reading Autobiography: A Guide for

Interpreting Life Narratives. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010.
Thompson, Craig. Carnet De Voyage. Marietta: Top Shelf Productions, 2009.
Gillian Whitlock, ‘Autographics: The Seeing ‘I’ of Comics’ in Modern Fiction

Studies, 969-979. West Lafayette: John Hopkins University Press, 2006.
Eliza Albert-Baird is a PhD candidate in Literature and Criticism at Indiana

University of Pennsylvania. Her specific areas of focus are graphic novel and video
games in relation to identity performativity. Her research focuses primarily on how
the reader/player expresses and experiences aspects of ‘self’ in these visually
compelling spaces.

Identity and Idiolect: Codeswitching as Identity Marker in
Chris Claremont’s Uncanny X-Men and New Mutants
Annie Burman
Abstract
Chris Claremont’s time as author of Uncanny X-Men after the relaunch of the
comic in 1975 saw the introduction of several new characters, leading to the
diversification of the title team. The previously all-American, Christian, white
male-dominated team became more heterogenous in terms of ethnicity, nationality,
religion and gender. Claremont’s X-Men spin-off New Mutants from 1983 also
featured several minority characters. This new diversity brought with it the
occurrence of codeswitching, the act of switching between two languages within
one conversation. Many of the characters who are not native speakers of English,
for example Nightcrawler, Colossus, Karma and Sunspot, regularly codeswitch
into their native language. These characters develop their own idiolect, which
makes their speech instantly recognisable to the reader, while at the same time
serving as a reminder of their origins and their back-story. However, not all non-
native speakers of English in the comics codeswitch. Languages which readers
would be less likely to recognise do not feature, and characters whose linguistic
identity is complex, due to, for example, multilingualism or displacement from the
country to which their native language is generally associated, do not codeswitch.
The fact that the codeswitching in these comics bear little resemblance to real-life
codeswitching by non-native speakers, since it consists mostly of reoccurring
phrases such as exclamations and appellatives, implies that the codeswitching is
not an attempt at realism. This chapter will explore the use of codeswitching in
Chris Claremont’s run of Uncanny X-Men and New Mutants as a means of
conveying linguistic and national identity. I will consider not only when
codeswitching occurs, but also when it does not, and possible reasons for this,
ranging from implications about the character’s identity to the practical problems
of bringing possibly unfamiliar phrases into the dialogue.
Key Words Bilingualism, codeswitching, identity, language usage, Marvel

Comics.
*****
In recent years, there has been a rising interest in the language of comics. An
anthology on the topic, edited by Frank Bramlett, appeared in 2012, and includes
articles exploring everything from linguistic codes to plurilingualism. In the case of
Marvel, the scholarship has mostly discussed the use of dialects, which plays an
important role in the portrayal of many characters.1 In this chapter, I will explore

174 Identity and Idiolect
__________________________________________________________________
another linguistic phenomenon, codeswitching, and how this is used in Chris
Claremont’s run of Uncanny X-Men and New Mutants to indicate identity.2
The terminology of codeswitching is often disputed and the same term may be
used in different ways by different scholars. For the purpose of this chapter, I will
use a version of Shana Poplack’s definition, where codeswitching is any instance
of two languages occurring within one speech act.3 The three main types of
codeswitching outlined by Poplack are intrasentential (when the switch occurs
within a clause or sentence), intersentential (when the switch occurs at a clause or
sentence boundary), and tagswitching (the insertion of a tag in a different
language).4 As tags are not subject to the clause’s syntax, tagswitching is the
simplest kind of codeswitch. Intrasentential switches carry with it ‘the greatest
syntactic risk’, as the languages come in such close proximity to one another, with
no boundaries to keep them apart.5 In early studies of bilingualism and
codeswitching around the 1960s, it was assumed that ‘something similar to flicking
an electric switch went on when bilinguals switched languages.’6 Increasingly,
scholars have left this thinking behind, but see the languages of bilinguals as much
more fluent, sometimes even forming a mixed discourse.7 Although some
utterances containing more than one language may have a base language, this is not
always the case.
The advent of codeswitching in the X-Men comics coincide with the
introduction of a new team in Giant-Sized X-Men #1, written by Len Wein.
Whereas the original team had been homogenous, consisting only of American,
white teenagers, all of whom but one were male, this new team, developed
significantly by Chris Claremont, who took over the scripting in Uncanny X-Men
(here abbreviated UX for convenience) #94 and remained head writer until 1991,
was considerably more diverse. Many different nationalities, ethnicities and
religions were represented. The title team of the spin-off New Mutants (here
abbreviated NM), launched in 1983, was similarly diverse. Characters express their
national, ethnic and religious identities in a number of ways, such as through
costumes (both civilian and ‘uniform’) and speech patterns. Several characters who
are not native English-speakers regularly code-switch. For the study in this chapter,
I will use the issues of Claremont’s first ten years of UX (#94-183), and the first
four years of NM (#1-54), which have been republished by Marvel in recent years.8
9
The statistics given in this chapter are based on half of this material, in the case of
UX the first ten of every twenty issues, in the case of NM the first five of every
ten. This will allow analysis of the early appearances of the characters, and chart
changes as the story progresses.

Annie Burman 175
__________________________________________________________________
Table 1: Codeswitching in UX #94-103, 114-123, 134-143, 154-163 and 174-183,

and NM #1-5, 11-15, 21-25, 31-35, 41-45 and 50-54, ordered according to
character, comic and type of word/clause.
Character Colossus Nightcrawler Karma Sunspot

(Language) (Russian) (German) (French) (Portuguese)
Comic
UX NM UX NM NM
Adjective 1 - 1 1 -
Affirmatives/ 3 - 5 6 -
negatives
Appellative/name 26 1 49 25 14
Entire clause - - 4 12 -
Exclamation 3 2 28 6 3
Greeting 1 - 6 2 1
Interrogative 1 - 3 3 1
Noun phrase 2 - 4 3 2
Thanks - - 3 3 2
Total 40 103 61 23
In UX, the regular codeswitchers are Colossus (Piotr Rasputin, who

codeswitches into Russian) and Nightcrawler (Kurt Wagner, who codeswitches
into German). In NM, Karma (Xi’an Coy Manh, from Vietnam, who codeswitches
into French) and Sunspot (Roberto DaCosta, from Brazil, who codeswitches into
Portuguese) codeswitch regularly. Some minor characters codeswitch too, in
particular Mariko Yashida, Wolverine’s fiancée. However, in the table above, I
have included only the four main characters who codeswitch regularly.
Codeswitching in UX and NM is depicted as the brief flicks of a linguistic
switch imagined by early bilingualism scholarship. Although entire clauses occur
occasionally, most switches are brief, either in the form of tags or intrasentential
noun phrases. Verbs almost never occur outside entire clauses. Codeswitching
often occurs in light-hearted contexts, such as when addressing other team-mates,
e.g. Nightcrawler’s ‘meine Freunde’, Karma’s ‘mes amis’ and Sunspot’s ‘mi
amigos’ (‘my friends’).10 It also occurs often in taunts during fight scenes, e.g. in
UX #95, when Nightcrawler addresses his froglike opponent as ‘Herr Frosch’
(‘Mister Frog’) throughout the fight. On occasion, codeswitching will be used in
different contexts, especially in the form of exclamations or sentences expressing
surprise or distress (e.g. ‘mein Gott!’, i.e. ‘my God!’, ‘ma mére [sic]! Ma [sic] pére
[sic]! C’est impossible!’, i.e. ‘my mother! my father! It’s impossible!’).11
Sometimes codeswitching even occurs in thoughts, but this is more likely to be an
attempt to keep a distinguishable idiolect (the specific speech habits of an
__________________________________________________________________
individual) even in thought balloons, rather than an indication that these characters
think in accented English.12
The interlocutor is, unlike in real-life codeswitching, seemingly unimportant.13
Characters who codeswitch do so regardless of the interlocutor (even in thoughts),
this person’s proficiency in the language and their relationship to the speaker.
Accommodation lies instead with other characters, who occasionally mirror
codeswitches. Colossus is addressed as ‘tovarisch’ (‘comrade’) in UX #163 (by
Carol Danvers) and in NM #23 (by a multilingual bartender). In UX #104,
Nightcrawler greets two perplexed Scottish men in German, one of whom urges the
other, ‘dinna answer yon deutsche beastie’, an utterance combining dialect and
codeswitch.
Codeswitches often tend to occur together, within the same panel or page. In
NM #43, Karma and Magma both codeswitch (into French and Latin respectively)
when greeting Sunspot. In UX #160, Nightcrawler and Colossus answer the same
question with ‘nein’ and ‘nyet’ (‘no’). In UX #121, Nightcrawler meets the
Canadian superhero Aurora, whom he addresses as ‘fräulein’ while she addresses
him as ‘m’sieu’.
Appellatives and forms of address are by far the most common form of
codeswitching, occurring 115 times in total. As tagswitches, they are exceedingly
easy to incorporate, as they do not disturb the structure of the sentence. Most often,
the appellative is a title (e.g. ‘fräulein’) or a noun phrase (e.g. ‘mes braves’, ‘my
good friends’), but on occasion, names are translated.14 During a fight in UX #142,
Nightcrawler addresses the mutant Avalanche as ‘Herr Lawine’, not only giving
him a German title but also translating his mutant name literally. In NM #43,
Karma greets Sunspot, ‘Bonjour, Robert.’ Sunspot’s first name is Roberto, so
‘Robert’ must be the French equivalent, not the English. The X-Man Kitty Pryde’s
name seems particularly prone to translation - Nightcrawler calls her ‘Katzchen’
(‘little cat’), and Colossus calls her Katya.15
Characters who codeswitch all have recurring set phrases. The phrase most
commonly used by Colossus is ‘tovarisch’ (seventeen times). Nightcrawler’s most
common phrases are ‘mein Gott!’ (eleven times), ‘ach!’ (nine times) and various
appellatives, in particular constructions with the title Herr (seventeen times), e.g.
‘Herr Professor’, referring to Charles Xavier. Karma’s most common phrase is also
an appellative, ‘m’sieu’ (twelve times), used primarily for Xavier and Magneto
(who acts as headmaster of the mutant school from NM #35). Sunspot, who
codeswitches least of these characters, has only a few recurring phrases, all
appellatives, ‘menina’ (‘girl’), ‘senhor’ (‘mister’) and ‘amigos’ (‘friends’), all three
times each. In UX, it takes some time before these idiolectic quirks are established.
Early on, the non-English phrases are more varied. Colossus’ use of ‘tovarisch’
(‘comrade’) is not as common, and Nightcrawler uses terms he later does not, e.g.
‘Der Jahrmarkt’.16 In NM, the idiolects are shown as being fairly consistent

Annie Burman 177
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throughout. Presumably by 1983, when NM was launched, Claremont had found a
way of representing codeswitching with which he was comfortable.
Codeswitches are always rendered in the Latin alphabet. Although other scripts
would make the codeswitches more graphically obvious, it makes parts of the
character’s speech more or less inaccessible to most readers. The exception to this
rule is three of Colossus’ five earliest codeswitches in UX #94-102: ‘A squad of
американский soldiers’, ‘Take that веэумный [sic] уеповек [sic]’ and
‘профéссор Xavier’.17 While the first two are (attempts at) Russian words, the
third is only shown to be a codeswitch by the script, as the transcription would
have been identical to the English. The Cyrillic alphabet has evidently caused
trouble for the letterer. The second should in fact be ‘безумный человек’ (‘mad
man’) - <б> have been confused with <в>, which looks like the Latin <b>. Cyrillic
<з>, <ч> and <л> have been replaced with the graphically similar <э>, <у> and
<п>. The <ф> in ‘профéссор’ is incorrectly written, with the lower bar missing.
The accent on the <e>, indicating stress, suggests that the word has been picked
from a dictionary. It seems likely that there was a decision after these early issues
to write all of Colossus’ codeswitches in Latin script. The transcriptions are often
based on pronunciation rather than the Cyrillic spelling, implying that later
codeswitches are not taken from a dictionary but by aural means.
The reasons behind codeswitching in the real world are many and varied, and
not always fully understood. It can be used (to name a few reasons) to express
group identity, to emphasise nuances in meaning, to make a statement more
indirect or more humorous, to include (and exclude) listeners and to avoid lexical
gaps. Codeswitching is sometimes a conscious process, but studies indicate that
many speakers do it without thinking.18
This leads us to the question of why codeswitching plays such a major role in
several characters’ speech in these comics. Stan Lee has claimed that ‘[p]erhaps the
most important element in the so-called Marvel style is the fact that we have to
stress realism in every panel. [---] The trick is to create a fantastic premise and then
envelop it with as much credibility as possible.’19 Sharon Walshe argues that
Marvel’s use of accents and dialects is part of this, but also shows that the Irish
accents in Marvel are often ‘Stage Irish’ and sometimes includes Scotticisms.20
There are mistakes in all recurring languages, both in grammar (‘ma pére’ for
French ‘mon père’, ‘my father’, ‘mein klein Freund’ for German ‘mein kleiner
Freund’, ‘my little friend’) and in spelling (‘todt’ for German ‘tot’, ‘dead’, ‘hei’ for
Japanese ‘hai’, ‘yes’).21 On several occasions, Sunspot, whose first language is
explicitly stated at his first appearance in the New Mutants Graphic Novel (1982)
as Portuguese, is shown codeswitching into Spanish. In NM #5, it is even claimed
that he speaks Spanish. This mistake presumably stems from the large number of
Spanish-speaking countries in South America, and Brazil’s uncommon status as
Portuguese-speaking. The mistakes in the Cyrillic script have already been touched
upon. Furthermore, the realism is undermined by the fact that the social situations

__________________________________________________________________
where codeswitching often takes place - among fellow bilinguals - are absent.
Instead, characters codeswitch seemingly independently of their surroundings and
their listeners.
This leads to the possibility that the codeswitching is in fact representative of
something greater - part of an idiolect which in turn is part of an identity. Frequent
codeswitching invited the reader to imagine the character speaking with an accent.
It is no surprise that every time Nightcrawler, whose codeswitches are most
frequent and most closely associated to him as a character, has been depicted on-
screen, in the feature film X-Men 2 (2003) (by Alan Cummings) and in several
animated shows (X-Men (1992-1997), X-Men: Evolution (2000-2003) and
Wolverine and the X-Men (2009)), he is portrayed with a strong German accent.
Although Colossus does not have an accent in his brief appearance in X-Men 2
(played by Daniel Cudmore), he has a distinct accent in both X-Men and Wolverine
and the X-Men. These distinctive idiolects, which become an integral part of the
characters, convey different kinds of identity. In the cases of Nightcrawler,
Colossus and Sunspot, the use of the national languages of their country of origin
reminds us of the characters’ national identity. Colossus’ frequent use of the term
‘tovarisch’ is also a reference to his political convictions. It reminds the reader that
he is not just a Soviet national but also a Communist. Karma is never depicted
speaking Vietnamese, even to her family, but French is not an arbitrary choice, as
Vietnam was part of French Indochina. Her codeswitches do not give any clues to
her specific nationality, but it underlines her foreign identity. Her use of
exclamations such as ‘sacré mère’ (‘holy mother’) serves a reminder of her
Catholic upbringing.22
The languages which occur are all recognisable to the reader. The most
common - Russian, German, Portuguese/Spanish and French (which takes the
place of Vietnamese, which would not be recognisable) - are all Indo-European,
and spoken in Europe. Vietamese is consciously excluded, as most readers would
not recognise or understand it. The only commonly occurring language which is
not European is Japanese. Most of the instances of Japanese are either represented
by English enclosed in angle brackets (the standard way in Marvel to represent
other languages), or given in Japanese followed by a translation in angle brackets.
Within this English rendition, there are sometimes codeswitches, mainly in the
form of honorifics, e.g. ‘Mariko-chan’, ‘Xavier-san’.23 It can be no coincidence
that UX of the later 1970s and early 1980s features several story-lines set in Japan,
so soon after the publication of James Clavell’s incredibly popular novel Shogun in
1975, which made the American general public more aware of Japanese language
and culture (if not always in an accurate way).24 The influence of Shogun is seen
even in the name of Mariko Yashida, first introduced in #118 (1979), possibly
named after Clavell’s character Toda Mariko.
Despite codeswitching being so common, not all characters who are not native
speakers of English codeswitch, or do so very infrequently. Magma, who is from a

Annie Burman 179
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lost Roman colony in the Amazon rainforest and therefore has Latin as her mother-
tongue, only codeswitches once in the source-material (the greeting ‘avé [sic]’,
presumably with the macron misinterpreted as an accent), but her Roman heritage
is underlined in her speech through her frequent invocations of Roman gods.25
Magik, the sister of Colossus, does not codeswitch at all. When she first appears,
she is a small child who only speaks Russian (represented by English in angle
brackets), but after she has been preternaturally aged into adolescence in the demon
realm Limbo in UX #160, she starts speaking English, without any codeswitches.
Unlike her brother Colossus, Magik does not share in the Russian cultural heritage
or Soviet state ideology, which his switches often represent. Storm, the daughter of
an American photographer and a Kenyan princess, who grew up in Cairo’s slums,
never codeswitches either, but it is never made clear what Storm’s mother-tongue
is. Is it English (because of her father)? Is it Kiswahili (because of her mother) or
one of the over sixty other languages spoken in Kenya?26 Is it Arabic (because of
her childhood in Egypt)? Kiswahili, Arabic or tribal languages would not be
recognisable to a reader in the way that European languages or Japanese are. It
would not help the reader to remember Storm’s backstory and her identities, but
instead serve to alienate her.
Although he is occasionally shown speaking other languages than English, the
sometime-villain, sometime-hero Magneto is never shown codeswitching.27 Before
Chris Claremont’s run, Magneto’s origin-story was unknown, but in UX #150, it is
established that he is a Holocaust survivor.28 It was not revealed until much later
(in 2008) that Magneto was originally German, so during this period, it was
unknown from which country or even part of Europe he was, and therefore which
language he spoke.29 Introducing codeswitches of any language now that it had
been established that Magneto was not a native speaker of English (although he
may have been written as non-American from the very beginning) would be a great
change in how the character spoke.30 Light-hearted, even comical, codeswitches
would be an odd contrast to Magneto’s formal way of speaking.
However, the most pressing reason why Magneto does not codeswitch is the
implications it has for other characters and their identity. Codeswitching shows that
the speaker is part of a greater context. Magneto has consciously rejected any such
context.
Nor do I accept the dominion of any nation over my person. My

land - all the countries of the world - turned their backs on me
and mine when we were condemned to Hitler’s death camps.
Therefore, in return, I have sworn to deny them!31
The Holocaust has erased his previous nationality. In #199, Magneto uses ‘me
and mine’ to refer to the European Jews, but in UX #200, he uses the very same
words to refer to mutants.32 His experiences during the Holocaust make him reject

__________________________________________________________________
national identity, but the hatred against mutants he encounters makes him reject all
forms of human identity. The absence of codeswitching tells us just as much as the
inclusion of it.
The codeswitching in Uncanny X-Men and New Mutants of the 1970s and
1980s play an important part in conveying characters’ identities. The execution
may not be particularly realistic, and the switches may contain mistakes, but
realism is not their primary purpose. Along with numerous visual prompts and
representations of accents and dialects, this illustration of bilingualism makes the
national, ethnic and religious diversity of the team not just a fleeting starting-point,
but a defining feature throughout the entire comic, its sequels and its adaptations.
Emphasising that mutants have other identities, which they share with humans,
such as national, ethnic, religious and linguistic identities, humanises them further.
Ultimately, the practice of codeswitching becomes part of the central message of
both comics, of everyone’s equal value, regardless of their origins or their
identities.
Notes
1
Shane Walshe.‘“Ah, laddie, did ye really think I’d let a foine broth of a boy such
as yerself get splattered...?” Representations of Irish English Speech in the Marvel
Universe’ in Linguistics and the Study of Comics, ed. Frank Bramlett (Basingstoke:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 264-290.
2
I am indebted to Johan Anglemark, Carina Burman, R. B. Griffiths, Anna Judson
and Katherine MacDonald for valuable comments which improved this chapter.
3
Shana Poplack. ‘Sometimes I'll start a sentence in Spanish y termino en español:
Toward a Typology of Code-Switching’. Linguistics 18 (1980): 581-618. 583. For
more on the intricacies of the terminology of codeswitching, see Penelope Gardner-
Chloros, Code-Switching (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 12-13,
122-123.
4
Poplack, ‘Sometimes I’ll Start’, 615.
5
Suzanne Romaine, Bilingualism (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 1995), 123.
6
Gardner-Chloros, Code-switching, 11.
7
Ibid., 1; Romaine, Bilingualism, 145.
8
Throughout this chapter, I will refer to issue numbers, rather than the volumes
they are found in. UX #94-119 can be found in Chris Claremont and Len Wein.
Essential X-Men vol. 1 (New York: Marvel Comics, 2006). UX #120-144 in Chris
Claremont. Essential X-Men vol. 2 (New York: Marvel Comics, 2005). UX #145-
161 in Chris Claremont. Essential X-Men vol. 3 (New York: Marvel Comics,
2010). UX #162-179 in Chris Claremont. Essential X-Men vol. 4 (New York:
Marvel Comics, 2006). UX #180-179 in Chris Claremont. Essential X-Men vol. 5
(New York: Marvel Comics, 2007).

Annie Burman 181
__________________________________________________________________
9
NM #1-7 can be found in Chris Claremont. The New Mutants Classic vol. 1 (New
York: Marvel Comics, 2006). NM #8-17 in Chris Claremont. The New Mutants
Classic vol. 2 (New York: Marvel Comics, 2007). NM #18-25 in Chris Claremont
The New Mutants Classic vol. 3 (New York: Marvel Comics, 2008). NM #26-34 in
Chris Claremont. The New Mutants Classic vol. 4 (New York: Marvel Publishing,
2009). NM #35-60 in Chris Claremont. The New Mutants Classic vol. 5 (New
York: Marvel Worldwide, 2010). NM #41-47 in Chris Claremont and Jackson
Guice. The New Mutants Classic vol. 6 (New York: Marvel Worldwide, 2011).
NM #48-54 in Chris Claremont and Jackson Guice. The New Mutants Classic vol.
7 (New York: Marvel Worldwide, 2012).
10
In UX #155, 158, NM #5, 35 and NM #3 respectively.
11
In e.g. UX #99, 116, 157, and NM #1.
12
E.g. UX #99.
13
See Gardner-Chloros, Code-switching, 65-73.
14
UX #121; NM #50.
15
E.g. UX #155 and 180 and UX #160 and 174 respectively.
16
UX #99 and #104.
17
The first two occurs in UX #95, the third in UX #102. The two transliterated
codeswitches are ‘gospodin’ (#94) and ‘tovarisch’ (#99).
18
Gardner-Chloros, Code-switching, 15.
19
Quoted in Walshe, ‘Ah, laddie’, 270-271.
20
Walshe, ‘Ah, laddie’, 273.
21
NM #1; UX #140; #161; 174.
22
E.g. NM #34, 54.
23
UX #120, 181.
24
Hurst, Cameron C. ‘Learning from Shogun’, review of Learning from Shogun:
Japanese History and Western Fantasy, by Henry Smith. Journal of Asian Studies
41 (1981):158-159.
25
NM #43.
26
‘Kenya - Ethnologue’, viewed 12 November 2013,
http://www.ethnologue.com/country/KE.
27
E.g. UX #161, and outside the scope of this chapter, in Classic X-Men #23
(1986) and Wolverine #23 (1988).
28
It is not stated explicitly that Magneto is Jewish until much later, but it is
strongly implied in UX #161 and 199. See ‘The Magneto is Jewish FAQ’, last
modified 21 February 2009, viewed 12 November 2013,
http://cyberhellfireclub.myfreeforum.org/ftopic13.php&sid=209ef010f8fd0fe86b9e
221718b7d84c.
29
Magneto’s German origins are established in Greg Pak. X-Men: Magneto
Testament. New York: Marvel Worldwide, 2009.

__________________________________________________________________
30
See C.A. Malcolm, ‘Witness, Trauma and Remembrance: Holocaust
representation and X-Men Comics’, in The Jewish Graphic Novel: Critical
Approaches, eds. S. Baskind and R. Omer-Sheran (New Brunswick: Rutgers
University Press, 2008), 144-160. 147.
31
UX #199.
32
Malcolm, ‘Witness, Trauma and Rememberance’, 157.
Bibliography
Ben-Rafael, Miriam and Eliezer Ben-Rafael. ‘Plurilingualism in Francophone

Comics’ in Linguistics and the Study of Comics, edited by Frank Bramlett, 142-
162. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.
Bramlett, Frank. ‘Linguistic Codes and Character Identity in Afro Samurai’. In

Linguistics and the Study of Comics, edited by Frank Bramlett, 183-209.
Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.
Bramlett, Frank, ed. Linguistics and the Study of Comics. Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2012.
Claremont, Chris. The New Mutants Classic vol. 1. New York: Marvel Comics,
2006.
Claremont, Chris and Jackson Guice. The New Mutants Classic vol. 6. New York:
Marvel Worldwide, 2011.
Claremont, Chris and Jackson Guice. The New Mutants Classic vol. 7. New York:
Marvel Worldwide, 2012.
2007.
Claremont, Chris. The New Mutants Classic vol. 5. New York: Marvel Worldwide,
2010.
2008.

Annie Burman 183
__________________________________________________________________
Claremont, Chris. The New Mutants Classic vol. 4. New York: Marvel Publishing,
2009.
Claremont, Chris, and Len Wein. Essential X-Men vol. 1. New York: Marvel
Comics, 2006.
Claremont, Chris. Essential X-Men vol. 3. New York: Marvel Comics, 2010.
Cyber Hellfire Club. ‘The Magneto is Jewish FAQ’. Last modified 21 February
2009. Accessed 12 November 2013, http://cyberhellfireclub.myfreeforum.org/
ftopic13.php&sid=209ef010f8fd0fe86b9e221718b7d84c.
Ethnologue. ‘Kenya - Ethnologue’. Accessed 12 November 2013, http://www.et

hnologuecom/country/KE.
Gardner-Chloros, Penelope. Code-Switching. Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 2009.
Hurst, Cameron C. ‘Learning from Shogun’. Review of Learning from Shogun:

Japanese History and Western Fantasy, by Henry Smith. Journal of Asian Studies
41 (1981):158-159.
Malcolm, C.A. ‘Witness, Trauma and Remembrance: Holocaust representation and

X-Men Comics’. In The Jewish Graphic Novel: Critical Approaches, edited by S.
Baskind and R. Omer-Sheran, 144-160. New Brusnwick: Rutgers University Press,
2008.
Pak, Greg. X-Men: Magneto Testament. New York: Marvel Worldwide, 2009.
Poplack, Shana. ‘Sometimes I'll start a sentence in Spanish y termino en español:

toward a typology of code-switching’. Linguistics 18 (1980): 581-618.
Romaine, Suzanne. Bilingualism. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 1995.

__________________________________________________________________
Walshe, Shane. ‘“Ah, laddie, did ye really think I’d let a foine broth of a boy such
as yerself get splattered...?” Representations of Irish English Speech in the Marvel
Universe’ in Linguistics and the Study of Comics, edited by Frank Bramlett, 264-
290. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.
Annie Burman is currently working on a PhD in Classical linguistics at King’s

College, Cambridge. Her research interests include language classification,
bilingualism and language contact in both the ancient and the modern world.

Maghrebian Diaspora and Immigrant Identity in Farid
Boudjellal’s L’Oud: La Trilogie
Tamara El-Hoss
Abstract
Farid Boudjellal’s L’Oud: La Trilogie (1996) includes three graphic novels, L’Oud,
Le Gourbi and Ramadan, originally published in France in the eighties (1983,
1985, and 1988 respectively). The graphic novels’ storylines are set in a French
metropolitan city (Toulon, Paris) and depict the challenges – for example overt
racism – that first generation Arab immigrants, specifically those of Maghrebian
descent, face on a daily basis. L’Oud: La Trilogie also portrays Beur youth (i.e.
youth of Maghrebian origin born and raised in France) facing alterity, caught
between their traditional Muslim families and a ‘modern’ French society. These
Beurs are living an ‘in-between’ life, searching for an identity that is theirs. This
chapter will focus on the manner in which Boudjellal represents the Maghrebian
postcolonial diaspora of the seventies and eighties as it tries to integrate into
French society where, more often than not, North African immigrants are
perceived to be transient (in the sense that they are expected to leave France and
return to their native land in the Maghreb, be it Algeria, Morocco or Tunisia). It
will also explore the construction of immigrant as well as Beur identities in an
environment that is frequently racist, judgmental, and hostile, as seen through the
eyes of a Beur graphic novelist.
Key Words: Boudjellal, identity, alterity, Beur, bédé, immigrants, diaspora,

banlieue, Maghrebian, France.
*****
Farid Boudjellal’s L’Oud: La Trilogie (1996) includes three graphic novels,

L’Oud, Le Gourbi and Ramadan, which were originally published in France in the
eighties (1983, 1985, and 1988 respectively). The three titles are an explicit
reference to Arab/Berber Muslim cultures: Oud is the musical instrument often
used in traditional Arabic and/or Berber music (resembling a lute), Gourbi refers to
a tent or a hut in the Maghreb (i.e. North Africa), especially in Algeria, and
suggests the small apartment immigrant families (from the Maghreb) often live in
while in France, while Ramadan obviously refers to the Muslim annual
observance. The graphic novels’ storylines are set in French metropolitan cities
(Toulon, Paris) and depict the challenges – which includes overt racism – that first
generation Arab/Berber immigrants, specifically those of Maghrebian descent, face
on a daily basis. L’Oud: La Trilogie also portrays Beur youth (i.e. youth of
Maghrebian origin born and raised in France) facing alterity, caught between their
traditional Muslim families and a ‘modern’ French society. These Beurs are living

186 Maghrebian Diaspora and Immigrant Identity
__________________________________________________________________
an ‘in-between’ life, searching for an identity that is theirs, in an often hostile
environment.
‘Beur’ refers to the first generation of Arab and/or Berber immigrants from the
Maghreb (which include Algeria, Morocco and Tunisia), born and raised in France.
The term, which is the ‘verlan’1 of the word ‘arabe’, first emerged in Parisian
housing projects in the eighties and is a self-designation. Beur youth feel torn
between the culture of their birthplace, France, and that of their parents, the
Maghreb. Their parents, in turn, feel torn between the culture of their birth and that
of the country they immigrated to (France). Alex Hargreaves sustains the following
in Immigration and Identity in Beur Fiction: Voices from the North African
Community in France:
Partly as a consequence of the Algerian war, the word ‘Arab’ has

often carried pejorative connotations in French ears. Public
opinion polls have indeed consistently shown Arabs, especially
Algerians, to be the least liked foreigners in France. […] By
inventing an alternative form of self-designation [Beur], young
members of the immigrant community were able to expunge
from their own discourse the stigma attaching to the term
‘Arabe’.2
In 1983, French youths organize ‘la marche pour l’égalité et contre le racisme’
(March for Equality and Against Racism) from Marseilles to Paris, quickly dubbed
‘la marche des Beurs’ (Beurs’ March) by the French media. The march is fuelled
by the rise of the Front National political party (i.e. extreme right) under the
leadership of Jean-Marie Le Pen and is considered the birth of the Beur movement
in France. Part one of Boudjellal’s trilogy, L’Oud, was published in 1983.
Boudjellal was born and raised in Toulon, France, in 1953 to an Algerian father
and an Armenian mother. He’ll grow up in Toulon in the shadow of the Algerian
War of Independence (1954-1962), and will witness the rise of the extreme right
(Front National) in his native city in the late seventies and early eighties. He’s the
first child of Algerian immigrants to have published a bande dessinée (graphic
novel) in France.
In this trilogy, Boudjellal narrates the lives of the Slimanis (Algerian
immigrants) and their extended family, some of which live in Toulon, the others, in
Paris. The Slimanis include, according to Ann Miller:
Abdel and Salima, born in Algeria, and their French-born

children including the banane – and leather jacket-wearing
Mahmoud, who, like the author, limps as a result of suffering
from polio as a child, an autobiographical detail which suggests a
certain investment by Boudjellal in this character. Comedy arises

Tamara El-Hoss 187
__________________________________________________________________
out of the younger generation's negotiation of the demands of
French youth culture and the constraints of their family life.3
The artist (Boudjellal is the artist as well as the author of the trilogy) draws in
black ink on a white background, focusing on the characters and their lives,
suggesting perhaps, as sustained by Scott McCloud, that ‘the ideas behind the art
are communicated more directly’ in this black-and-white graphic novel trilogy
where ‘meaning transcends form [and] [a]rt approaches languages.’4
Boudjellal’s ‘preface’5 to L’Oud includes the stories of his first major graphic
character, Abdulah (an oud player), who initially appeared in strips in the magazine
Circus in 1978 then in the author/artist’s album entitled Les soirées d’Abdulah. At
the time, according to Boudjellal, ‘l’immigration est encore un sujet tabou, comme
la guerre d’Algérie. Il est clair pour chacun que la finalité de l’immigré, c’est de
rentrer chez lui. […] Dans la bande dessinée, l’immigré n’est guère représenté.’
[Immigration is still a taboo subject, as is the Algerian War. It is clear that the
finality of the immigrant is to go back to his native land. […] The immigrant is not
yet represented in graphic novels.] 6 In other words, Abdulah’s entrance into the
comic strip is uncommon, his presence in the graphic world, marginal.
Abdulah’s face seem like a caricature the purpose of which, I would argue, is to
represent the universality of the Immigrant’s experience. He faces racism on a
daily basis, even gets beat up multiple times because he’s visually identifiable as an
immigrant from the Maghreb.
Strip 1: ‘Puisque t’aimes pas les Arabes, je lui dis, pourquoi tu

bois le café avec moi? Alors il a dit: ‘toi, c’est pas pareil!’’
[Since you don’t like Arabs, I told him, why are you drinking
coffee with me? So he said: ‘you, it’s not the same!’ (or ‘you’re
different!’)].
Strip 2: ‘Peut-être je suis Arabe je lui ai dit, mais mon sang il est
rouge comme le tien! Alors il a dit: fais voir!’’ [Maybe I’m an
Arab I told him but my blood is red like yours!... So he said:
‘Show me!’. ]
Strip 3: ‘J’en ai marre des Français racists qui sentent la
mortadelle et le sperme rance lui ai-je envoyé! Alors il a dit:
‘Ho! Ho! Je vois que ça avance bien ton stage
d’alphabétisation!’’ [I’m sick of French racists who smell like
mortadella and rancid sperm, I threw at him! So he said: ‘Wow!
Wow! I see that your literacy [in French] is advancing well!’].7
Abdulah’s face remains (exactly) the same throughout the strips, the reader’s
attention is therefore focused on his words and their content. The reader, faced

__________________________________________________________________
with Abdulah’s harsh remarks, overcomes his initial uneasiness thanks to the
chosen medium and the manner in which the character is drawn.
Boudjellal states the following in an interview:
[Dans] mon album L’Oud je représente assez vite la réalité

culturelle qui oppose les deux générations : j’ai voulu étudier
l’évolution de la famille Slimani avec ses contradictions, ses
joies et ses doutes. […] A travers la saga de cette famille j’ai
voulu montrer un aspect positif du phénomène de l’immigration.
Les Slimani sont comme les autres familles, ni plus, ni moins.’
[In my album L’Oud I quickly show a cultural reality that
opposes both generations: I wanted to study the evolution of the
Slimanis with all its contradictions, joys and doubts. […]
Through the saga of this family I wanted to show a positive
aspect of the immigration phenomenon. The Slimanis are like
other families, no more, no less].8
His first motivation, he sustains, was to show the presence of Algerian immigration
in France with all its specificities. According to Mark McKinney, in his recent
article ‘Transculturation in French Comics’: ‘Transculturation in the comics of […]
Boudjellal is […] a form of anti-anticulturation, at least implicitly: against
contemporary racist and classist exclusion, the cartoonis[t] draw[s] postcolonial
and immigrant stories.’9 The first album L’Oud depicts the relationship between
young Beurs and the first generation of Algerian immigrants (like Abdulah, for
example), in other words their parents’ generation. The story revolves around a
local Beur band in Toulon, their eventual oud player (none other than the character
Abdulah) and their interactions within their own communities and French society
at large – often hostile and violent, specially in the case of Abdulah who (often)
gets beat up. The album also puts forth the difficulties faced by young Beurs:
racism at school where they may, at times, invent a French name in order to fit in;
secular education at the lycée which clashes with the beliefs their predominately
Muslim parents, who always dream of returning to Algeria, value at home. Beurs
consider France, with all its challenges, their home and have no interest in, nor
emotional attachment to, Algeria, which they consider the country of their parents
and their parents’ generation.
One of the storylines, for example, follows two men on a street in Toulon, two
generations: the first is attached to Algeria while the second, Beur generation, is
attached to France. The content of the last two panels reveals some of the
difficulties and mixed messages faced by Beur youths, who feel marginal both at
home and within French society:

Tamara El-Hoss 189
__________________________________________________________________
- Tu l’as quand même la religion.’ [You at least have
religion.]
- La religion?... Tu parles… Quand j’étais gosse, y’a pas
si longtemps que ça… Je croyais que Mahomet était
mort crucifié.’ [Religion? You’re kidding… When I
was a kid, not so long ago… I thought that Muhammad
was crucified. ] 10
In the second album Le Gourbi, Nourredine, the eldest son in the family, takes
on the role that would traditionally be bestowed upon him in Algeria and leaves
Toulon for Paris in search of his sister Nadia, who left town with a Frenchman. As
the story progresses we are introduced to his extended family, the Slimanis, who
have eight children and all of whom live in a very small apartment (2 rooms, a
kitchen and a bathroom) in Paris, most likely in a cité (housing project) in the
banlieue (suburbs). The Slimanis are a hybrid family: the matriarch, Salima, has a
traditional mother’s role and is often portrayed in the kitchen. The girls in the
family, on the other hand, are hard working and either hold a job or study hard
while the boys seem to be irresponsible and even spoiled at times, including
Mahmoud (the character who has polio). The Slimanis are visually represented as a
hybrid family, their Western clothing sometimes combined with traditional
Algerian jewellery and/or hair styles. It would be interesting to note that even
though the mother is often drawn attending to various chores in the kitchen, none
of the female characters (including the mother) wear a veil. L’affaire du voile, the
Veil Affair, a crisis caused by a law that forbids wearing the hijab11 in secular
French public schools, arose in 1989, after the graphic novel’s first publication in
1985.
The narrative is more significant in the last album of the trilogy, Ramadan. The
Slimani’s daughter Djamila, for example, moves out of the family apartment in
order to be closer to her job, an action that causes a rift between her and her father.
The panels are a lot busier, even crowded, and the characters have a lot to say – the
speech bubbles are more often than not filled to capacity, almost bursting with text.
The complexity of various situations requires words, as images don’t seem to be
enough. It is rare to see an image without text in this album and we often see
overlapping panels. We learn, for example, that a Slimani daughter named Latifa
committed suicide when she learned that she was pregnant (out of wedlock). Her
picture hangs ‘alone’ in the middle of the main room wall: a visual reminder to the
father, and a visual reference to the reader who wonders who she is before things
are ‘verbally’ explained by a character.
Boudjellal, through this trilogy, uses the medium to entertain the reader as well
as to underline the challenges immigrants of Maghrebian origin face in France. He
will publish, a decade later, a graphic novel in colour entitled Blanc Black Beur:
les folles années de l’intégration [White Black Beur: The Crazy Years of

__________________________________________________________________
Integration] where he uses humour to criticize the Front National’s extreme right
wing ideology and French bureaucracy. He will reverse the order of things when he
introduces the character ‘Philippe’, a French young man resembling a Gaul from
The Adventures of Astérix, who decides to become Beur like his friends.
Notes
1
In verlan the first and last syllables of a French word are inverted.
2
Alec G. Hargreaves, Immigration and Identity in Beur Fiction: Voices from the
North African Community in France (Oxford: Berg, 1997), 30.
3
Ann Miller, ‘Postcolonial Identities’, International Journal of Comic Art 9.2 (Fall
2007): 264.
4
Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York:
HaperPerennial, 1994), 192.
5
I am not referring to a formal preface here, but rather to the two pages inside the
book cover that include six strips, three on each page. These strips are repeated
inside the back cover.
6
Farid Boudjellal, L’Oud: La Trilogie (Paris: Soleil, 1996), 3.
7
Ibid.,, n.p., second page inside front cover.
8
Naïma Yahi, ‘Farid Boudjellal, la BD de l’immigration’, Générations: un siècle
d’histoire culturelle des Maghrébins en France, Viewed 9 September 2013.
http://generationsexpo.wordpress.com/2011/12/21/farid-boudjellal-la-bd-de-
limmigration/.
9
Mark McKinney, ‘Transculturation in French Comics’, Contemporary French
and Francophone Studies 7.1 (2013): 11.
10
Farid Boudjellal, L’Oud: La Trilogie (Paris: Soleil, 1996), 39.
11
Veil.
Bibliography
Boudjellal, Farid. L’Oud: la trilogie. Paris: Soleil, 1996.
Hargreaves, Alec G. Immigration and Identity in Beur Fiction: Voices from the
North African Community in France. Oxford: Berg, 1997.
McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. 1993. New York:
HaperPerennial, 1994.
McKinney, Mark. ‘Transculturation in French Comics’. Contemporary French and

Francophone Studies 7.1 (2013): 6-16.

Tamara El-Hoss 191
__________________________________________________________________
Miller, Ann. ‘Postcolonial Identities.’ International Journal of Comic Art 9.2 (Fall
2007): 258-74.
Yahi, Naïma. ‘Farid Boudjellal, la BD de l’immigration’. Générations: un siècle

d’histoire culturelle des Maghrébins en France. Viewed 9 September 2013.
http://generationsexpo.wordpress.com/2011/12/21/farid-boudjellal-la-bd-de-
limmigration/.
Tamara El-Hoss is an Associate Professor at Brock University, Canada. While

interested in postcolonial literature in French as a whole, currently her research and
writing focuses on postcolonial graphic novels and Beur output.

‘This is Chaos’: Boundary Transgressions within Batman: Year
One and Arkham Asylum
Marcel Fromme and Nils Zumbansen
Abstract
At the beginning of Grand Morrison and Dave McKean’s Batman Arkham Asylum:
A Serious House on Serious Earth the Joker lures Batman into Arkham Asylum,
which signifies a confined space existing beyond the cogency and sanity of the
outside world. Shortly before Batman enters this place, he reveals his own inexora-
ble psychological insecurities as he is afraid that he might rightfully belong in the
asylum, and thus is a full-fledged inhabitant of the ‘mad world’. The atmospheric
opening not only illuminates Batman’s insecurities, but also alludes to the other-
worldliness of the adventure in the graphic novel. A similarly vulnerable Batman is
portrayed in Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli’s Batman: Year One, where the
so-called Dark Knight earns his rite of passage by overcoming many (moral, phys-
ical) obstacles. In our chapter we will provide insights into the character and the
represented world within the cosmos of these graphic novels. More specifically,
our aim is to employ a modified version of Jurij M. Lotman’s ‘theory of the trans-
gression of boundaries’. According to Lotman, the represented world consists of at
least two opposing, demarcated and topological (i.e. value and psychological)
systems. In case of the two comics, Batman, as a representative of social order,
encounters and interacts with a chaotic or degenerate sphere and the villains therein
(e.g. the Joker), who are topologically different from the protagonist’s moral stand-
ards. We will also take a closer look at how far Batman himself moves on the edge
of disorder and might even be consumed by the very forces that he tries to beat.
Our contribution will therefore investigate how the comics visually and textually
depict topological and topographical boundary transgressions.
Key Words: Batman, Lotman, boundary transgressions.
*****
1. ‘Of Spaces and Boundaries’: Introduction

Readers of Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli’s Batman: Year One (1986)
as well as Grant Morrison and Dave McKean’s Arkham Asylum: A Serious House
on Serious Earth (1989)1 are confronted with the so-called Dark Knight’s insecuri-
ties and anxieties. Both graphic novels depict Batman/Bruce Wayne as a fragile
character, who has to earn his rite of passage as a crime-fighter and is forced to
come to terms with his identity. En route to accepting and coping with his identity,
Batman has to traverse various mental and physical spaces. Throughout the two
stories Batman is in danger of losing control and of turning into an ‘impotent’

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token of his environment (e.g. Gotham City or Arkham Asylum). On the basis of
Jurij M. Lotman’s modified2 ‘theory of the transgression of boundaries’ this chap-
ter intends to dissect Batman’s journey through the novels’ represented worlds.
According to Lotman’s theory, a narrative text can be divided into two or more
semantic subsystems or spaces, which stand in opposition to each other with regard
to at least one feature.3 What is compelling in this context is the fact that these
spaces not only cover the concrete topography (i.e. geography, physical places like
Gotham City) but also the abstract topology (i.e. norms, codes, regulations or men-
tal states).4 In Batman: Year One, an intelligible example of two different spaces in
terms of their physical and abstract characteristics is the difference between Go-
tham City itself and Wayne’s mansion at the outskirts of the metropolis. That is,
whilst Gotham stands for corruption, moral depravity and disorder, Wayne’s luxu-
rious home – although it is only shown briefly5 – epitomizes order and integrity.
Moreover, the opposing and demarcated spaces are separated by a boundary.6
Thus, topological and topographical boundaries that capture the physical and ab-
stract dimensions can exist within a represented world of a narrative text. A textual
entity’s crossing or transgression of such a boundary constitutes, for Lotman, an
event.7 So, one of the first events in Morrison and McKean’s graphic novel takes
place as soon as Batman enters Arkham Asylum. Here Batman leaves the more
familiar Gotham City and walks into an obscure building, in which he is (mentally
and physically) challenged by his enemies, i.e., the space’s representatives. Gener-
ally speaking, a transgression of a boundary is always a significant deviation or
violation of the norm.
In line with the theory, the main character also comes across extreme points
toward which his/her movement within the semantic subsystems is geared.8 These
extreme points metonymically represent the order of a space in general and often
entail the turning or end point of a narrative structure. Outstanding topographical
areas (e.g. the top of a mountain) as well as textual/topological entities (e.g. a head
of a family), for instance, are frequently functionalized as these integral parts of
semantic hierarchies. In case of Year One, the Batcave underneath Wayne’s luxu-
rious mansion palpably serves as a topographical extreme point; whereas, in Ark-
ham Asylum, the Joker embodies the random templates of the ruling inmates.9 To
sum up, all these theoretical components form the basis for the following analysis,
and thus we will take a closer look at how Batman: Year One and Arkham Asylum
textually and visually depict Batman’s boundary transgressions and his potential
departure from sanity and his inner development as the upholder of morality as
well as justice.
2. ‘Your Lucky Day in Hell’: The Topographical and Topological Settings

At the very beginning of Year One James Gordon and Bruce Wayne cogently
describe Gotham City as a metropolis in which corruption holds sway and conven-
tional notions of law and order no longer apply. Gordon, for instance, states: “Go-

Marcel Fromme and Nils Zumbansen 195
__________________________________________________________________
tham City. Maybe it’s all I deserve, now. Maybe it’s just my time in Hell”.10 Even
though the millionaire Bruce Wayne does not clarify his stance on his birthplace
after his return on a plane, he seems to be conscious of the city’s dark sides as he
directly thinks: “I should see the enemy”.11 Tony Spanakos correspondingly ob-
serves: “Both know they are entering a fallen city, where government has lost con-
trol over crime, and it becomes their personal challenge to solve that”.12 The graph-
ic novel thereby establishes Gordon and Wayne in unequivocal opposition to the
city and its criminals. More specifically, Wayne and Gordon enter the represented
world that appears to uphold a topology, which differs from their own. As it turns
out, the corrosion of law and order among its representatives is omnipresent. Not
only does Gordon’s assigned partner, Detective Flass, arbitrarily attack a teenager
in the streets, but even Commissioner Loeb is a seedy figure, who closely cooper-
ates with Gotham’s leading criminals.13 Judging from their actions and Loeb’s
connections to the underworld, their roles as lawgivers as well as topological au-
thorities are fundamentally undermined. In the words of Spanakos: “[…] Loeb and
his henchmen in Year One impose an order onto Gotham City. But […] their inten-
tions are hardly praiseworthy [and] they use violence in a profoundly illegitimate
way”.14 In short, Gotham manifests itself as a topography and topology of degener-
ation that overtly renders conventional ideas of law enforced security irrelevant.
This ties in perfectly with Arkham Asylum since Batman is keenly aware that he
has ventured into a place that is governed through chaos and he is determined to
restore (rational) order. This topological and topographical setting is obvious from
the beginning. After the inmates, led by the Joker, are on the loose and take hos-
tages inside the mental facility, Batman is called to the scene and is coerced by the
Joker into coming to the asylum to resolve the situation. The institution immediate-
ly emerges as an outstanding geographical marker since it looks like an ominous
Gothic (horror) building with its significant outside features.15 Inside the house, the
inmates fittingly indulge in mad behavior and cause severe pandemonium. They
consequently suspend any previously imposed rules and appropriate the place for
what the Joker dubs “The Feast of Fools”. This chaos apparently degenerates into a
blasphemous occasion, where one unknown lunatic even questions Einstein’s fun-
damental principle of physics: “Einstein was wrong! I’m the speed of light crack-
ing through shivery atoms […]”.16 Besides, it is fitting that the Joker – who accord-
ing to Morrison “personifies the irrational dark side of us all”17– has assumed con-
trol of the topography and subsequently sets the topological parameters, especially
for Batman. Arkham Asylum therefore signifies a confined space existing beyond
the cogency and sanity of the outside world. So with respect to both graphic nov-
els, the asylum and the city’s current state are coterminous with one another and
the Dark Knight (along with Gordon in Year One) functions as a harbinger of sta-
bility.

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3. ‘What is Happening to Me?’: Batman’s Initial (Mental) Instabilities
All the same, the two graphic narratives make it evident that Batman has to face
numerous physical as well as psychological challenges, which push him onto the
edge of illegality and insanity. The represented worlds, in other words, threaten to
blur the distinction between Batman as an upholder of justice and his (inner) ad-
versaries. To be more specific, in Year One Bruce Wayne disguises himself as a
soldier and wanders through Gotham’s red-light district whilst an irate pimp as-
saults a young prostitute since she does not know how to ‘properly’ approach po-
tential customers. Wayne, instead of trying to verbally mitigate the situation, im-
mediately antagonizes the pimp and physically attacks him. Here, Wayne is por-
trayed as a vengeful man who primarily seeks to satisfy his desire to severely hurt
outlaws. Stephen Kershnar echoes this sentiment: “The provocation suggests that
Batman is looking for an excuse to injure the pimp, rather than merely trying to
protect the young girl”.18 Although Batman has frequently resorted to violence in
order to stave off his enemies, the scene in Year One is particularly significant
because it introduces a sense of sadistic volatility into Wayne’s behavior. That is,
his actions – notwithstanding the fact that he assaults an abusive felon – have argu-
ably more in common with the aforementioned Detective Flass than with a crime-
solving detective who wants to be righteous. Even Wayne himself concedes: “Idiot
– never should have done this […]. Mess – made a mess of it – no excuse – didn’t
control myself […]”.19 Batman, to say it rather bluntly, comes across like a very
ambivalent character whose topological standards cannot be easily separated from
his depraved environment. The book consequently illuminates how insecure Bat-
man is about his deeds.
Interestingly enough, Arkham Asylum also suggests that Batman is demonstra-
bly uncertain about his mental state and moral standards. After the Joker, for in-
stance, provocatively remarks that Batman rightfully belongs amongst the mad in
the mental facility, the latter questions the very fabric of his own personality: “I’m
afraid that the Joker may be right about me. Sometimes I…question the rationality
of my actions. And I’m afraid that when I walk through those asylum gates…When
I walk into Arkham and the doors close behind me…It’ll be just like coming
home”.20 Batman obviously doubts his sanity and apparently deems himself irra-
tional. Indeed, the Dark Knight initially struggles with maintaining his grip on
reality because he emphatically thrusts a shard through his left hand to prevent
himself from instantly succumbing to madness. In another scene, Batman deliber-
ately and quite viciously kicks the wheelchair of the villain Doctor Destiny down-
stairs and leaves him lying on the floor. It looks, at this point, as though Batman
has become an anti-hero who blends in perfectly with his topological as well as
topographical surroundings. It follows that Morrison and McKean’s portrayal (in
line with Year One) of a self-conscious and ruthless Batman departs from the pro-
totypical image of a superhero/Batman who is confident about his pro-social mis-

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sion, identity, and powers.21 Simply put, the Joker seems to have correctly gauged
Batman’s true, insane nature, which should be confined in Arkham Asylum.
4. ‘A Hero With a Thousand Masks?’: Batman’s Significant Boundary

Transgressions
This chapter is now going to examine the most eventful occurrences and Bat-
man’s boundary transgressions. The first important event, as can be inferred, in
Arkham Asylum happens as soon as Batman crosses the threshold of the mental
institution, for he not only enters a special geographical space but is simultaneous-
ly immersed in an exceptional topology that defies any regular notion of order. It
additionally poses an immediate challenge to Batman by reducing him to a fearful,
merciless, and mentally unstable bat.
With regard to Year One, the first relevant event occurs when Wayne walks in-
to the red-light district.22 By starting a brawl with a pimp, he does not clearly dis-
tinguish himself from the representatives of this violent space; hence, his fight
hardly appears to amount to a deviation from the space’s dominant code. He is
nevertheless an outsider, who eventually gets arrested, whilst the pimp is not penal-
ized.23 Apart from once more showing the moral defects of Gotham’s law en-
forcement, the implication is that Wayne has not completely adapted to the topo-
logical space of Gotham and the red-light district in particular. For this reason, the
incident is, in fact, an eventful boundary transgression, which later culminates in
Wayne’s decision to become the Batman.24
It is in this connection necessary to elaborate on Wayne’s transformation into
the crime-fighting Dark Knight. This event consists of two complex boundary
transgressions, namely a bat – an ominous creature of the dark underworld – break-
ing through the window of Wayne’s study and inspiring him to become the Bat.
Secondly, the upper-class Wayne decides to descent into the ground; that is, the
Batcave underneath Wayne manor turns into his designated headquarters. He
thereby consciously leaves the elite-strata of society by means of molding himself
into a ‘cave-dweller’. This transmutation, appropriately enough, allows him to
access and fight Gotham’s criminal underworld.25 The Batcave, for this reason, is
an extraordinary topographical place that deviates from Wayne’s normal ‘habitat’
since it stands in unequivocal opposition to the comfortable family mansion. The
symbolically charged encounter with the bat can therefore be regarded as a tangible
extreme and turning point because it changes as well as determines
Wayne/Batman’s life. Following this crucial event, Batman additionally succeeds
in instilling fear in the criminal minds of Gotham.
The first extreme and turning point in Arkham Asylum is arguably Batman’s
first eye to eye meeting with the epitome of the asylum’s topology, the Joker. Af-
terwards, Batman regresses into a childlike state, in which vivid memories of his
parents’ murder haunt him. Furthermore, and in contrast to Year One, Batman does
not dispense but rather experiences fear. In a drug-induced condition Batman suit-

__________________________________________________________________
ably reveals: “Panic-stricken, I flee. I run blindly through the madhouse”.26 These
words convey how Batman precipitously relinquishes his mental abilities.27 Hence,
whereas Wayne in Year One embraces Batman as his crime-fighting avatar, Ark-
ham Asylum gives the impression that Batman is the irrational, dominant character
of Wayne. In other words, Year One presents the protagonist as a man in costume,
while Arkham Asylum shows the costume as the man.28
5. ‘You Can’t Stop Me’: The Dark Knight’s Rise as a Viable Hero
Now, the focus of this chapter will shift to other remarkable events that shape
the endings of Year One and Arkham Asylum. In the course of the former, Batman
constantly violates the established criminal order of Gotham City, and is therefore
perceived as a perpetual boundary transgressor. Simply put: “[I]t is Batman who
challenges the state’s monopoly over the […] use of violence”.29 This results in the
relentless hunt of the Dark Knight who, as the embodiment of the opposing topolo-
gy, eventually finds himself trapped and surrounded by police in a dilapidated
building.30 Irrespective of the fact that Gordon tries to stop him, Commissioner
Loeb orders an aerial attack on the house in order to brutally dispose of the verita-
ble threat to his status. This showdown counts as a radical clash of two different
topologies. Even though this incident arguably does not involve a transparent topo-
logical boundary transgression on Batman’s part, it is still an excessive assault on
his life and, in abstract terms, on the topological subsystem he stands for. The
momentous conflict of the opposing topologies is, in any case, a culmination point
of the narrative, from which Batman emerges injured but victoriously.
On a pictorial level, the attack on Batman’s live is also aligned toward another
extreme point. First and foremost, the ruinous building visually mirrors the city’s
moral and physical demise. Batman appears to be hopelessly outnumbered by the
police squads and severely under equipped as opposed to the representatives of the
space of Gotham. It is these aspects that make Batman’s surfacing from the rubble
more striking, for he proves himself ready to continuously challenge the corrupt
topography and topology. His escape also signals that he, alongside his ideals,
cannot be constrained to a concrete place – even when it collapses over all around
him. In consequence, this incident ranks amongst the most significant turning
points in Year One.
Within Arkham Asylum Batman’s quest is not merely physically, but also men-
tally challenging as he tumbles deeper and deeper into the ominous recesses of his
mind. The Mad Hatter correspondingly tells Batman: “You must be feeling quite
fragile by now, I expect this house, it…does things to the mind”.31 The Dark
Knight knows that his surrounding poses an immediate threat to his psyche and he
eventually discloses: “[…] I must confront the unreason that threatens me”.32 In
this instance the topography converges on and alters his topological system.
For him Killer Croc becomes the physical manifestation of unreason and is
simultaneously a kind of threshold keeper, who stands between Batman and his

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recovery from his psychological crisis. In the end, Batman prevails by injuring
Killer Croc and by finding Dr Cavendish, who instigated the riot within the mental
institution. The discovery of Cavendish’s chamber, which marks a topographical
crossing, results in an extraordinary topological boundary transgression that leads
to Batman’s redemption. After Cavendish tries to persuade Batman that he is just
the bat and thus insane, the Dark Knight immediately responds: “No I…I’m just a
man”.33 As can be extrapolated, Batman has slowly regained control over his mind
and is able to affirm his identity, which is a crime-fighter in a costume and not a
strange fantasy figure. The ending of the graphic novel divulges that Batman
solves the hostage situation and easily walks out of the asylum. Simplistically
speaking, the confrontations with killer Croc and Cavendish can be equated with
the turning and absolute extreme points in Arkham Asylum.
As for the visual representation, what comes to mind is the graphic novel’s
“distinctive art and its rejection of traditional representational strategies (clean
lines, clear panel divisions, primarily inked art) in favour of a surrealist, vaguely
abstract approach […]”.34 The figure of Batman, for example, is only realized
through blurry and sketchy images; that is, readers can never catch a straight
glimpse of the protagonist’s masked face. This drawing technique corresponds to
and even amplifies the bizarre journey through the mental facility. Briefly, as Bat-
man crosses several boundaries, the rendition of the Dark Knight digresses from
the conventional topologies in graphic novels.
6. ‘You’re Free to Go’: Summary and Conclusion

In summary, our analysis has shown that by means of Batman’s successful
boundary transgressions, he has earned his rite of passage as a hero. In Year One
Batman clearly surfaces as an upright crime-fighter inside the ‘vice city’. Corre-
spondingly, Arkham Asylum eventually re-establishes Batman as a representative
of reason.35 After all, Batman can leave the asylum behind, which reinforces the
notion that he is not synonymous with the inmates. His perseverance in the respec-
tive graphic narratives illustrates that Batman’s topological standards are grounded
on a (relatively) solid foundation.
Notes
1
Unless otherwise noted, all direct citations and references in our chapter will be
taken from these editions.
2
Our chapter mainly consults the versions by Michael Titzman, Hans Krah and
Karl Renner as they have adapted and applied Lotman’s theory to narrative texts.
3
cf. Michael Titzmann, ‘The Systematic Place of Narratology in Literary Theory
and Textual Theory,’ in What is Narratology?: Questions and Answers Regarding
the Status of a Theory, eds Tom Kindt and Hans-Harald Müller (Berlin: de
Gruyter, 2003), 191.
__________________________________________________________________
4
cf. Hans Krah, Einführung in die Literaturwissenschaft/Textanalyse (Kiel:
Ludwig, 2006), 299-300.
5
Morrison and McKean, Arkham, 4, 20-2, 58, 80-1.
6
cf. Titzmann, ‘Narratology’, 191.
7
Ibid. Additionally, it should be briefly mentioned that Lotman’s theory also pro-
vides another category or type of event, a so-called meta-event (cf. Titzmann 2002,
182-3). Such an event happens independently of the protagonist’s actions, trans-
forms the order of a semantic space in the represented world and is thus accompa-
nied by a meta-erasure since the topological order is replaced by a new one and
boundaries lose their former status (cf. Ibid.). This particular aspect, however, only
plays a minor role in the two graphic narratives. One of the rare examples occurs at
the very beginning of Arkham Asylum when the inmates take over the institution
and establish their arbitrary ‘norms’ that clearly deviate from the former organiza-
tion of the asylum.
8
cf. Karl Nikolaus Renner, ‘Grenze und Ereignis: Weiterführende Überlegungen
zum Ereigniskonzept von J.M. Lotman,’ in Norm – Grenze – Abweichung:
Kultursemiotische Studien zu Literatur, Medien und Wirtschaft, eds. Gustav Frank
and Wolfgang Lukas (Passau: Karl Stutz, 2004), 375-7.
9
A more detailed analysis and contextualization of the Batcave and the Joker with-
in Arkham Asylum will follow below.
10
Miller and Mazzucchelli, Year One, 2.
11
Ibid.
12
Tony Spanakos, ‘Governing Gotham,’ in Batman and Philosophy: The Dark
Knight of the Soul, eds. Mark D. White and Robert Arp (Hoboken: Wiley, 2008),
59.
13
cf. Miller and Mazzucchelli, Year One, 5, 36-7.
14
Spanakos, ‘Governing’, 61.
15
In the script to his work, Grant Morrison clarifies: ‘It is a bad dream house
whose windows are lit with a weird, delirious light. A mystery in stone and timber,
best left unsolved’ (1989, 12).
16
Morrison and McKean, Arkham, n. pag.
17
Ibid, 12.
18
Stephen Kershnar, ‘Batman’s Virtuous Hatred,’ in Batman and Philosophy: The
Dark Knight of the Soul, eds. Mark D. White and Robert Arp (Hoboken: Wiley,
2008), 32.
19
Miller and Mazzucchelli, Year One, 12-3.
20
Morrison and McKean, Arkham, n. pag.; emphasis in original.
21
cf. Peter Coogan, ‘The Definition of the Superhero,’ in A Comics Studies Read-
er, eds. Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester (Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2009), 77-9,
83.

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22
A convincing case could be made for defining Wayne’s return to Gotham via
plane as an event; yet, the scene in the red-light district marks the first time readers
can witness Wayne in action. He moreover describes this part of the city as the
‘worst of it’ (10).
23
cf. Miller and Mazzucchelli, Year One, 13-4.
24
Ibid., 20-2.
25
Ibid., 36-8.
26
Morrison and McKean, Arkham, n. pag.
27
James F. Wurtz equally states: ‘Batman’s movement through the house is thus a
movement through the mind, a traversal of the limits and possibilities of sanity and
madness’ (2011, 562).
28
The ending of Year One supports this reading, for it is Wayne without his cos-
tume who saves Gordon’s infant.
29
Spanakos, ‘Governing’, 68.
30
cf. Miller and Mazzucchelli, Year One, 45-61.
31
Morrison and McKean, Arkham, n.pag.; emphasis in original.
32
Ibid. Here Batman directly mentions Parsifal. For more information on the sym-
bolism of this particular scene and the narrative in general see Morrison’s script
included after the story.
33
Ibid.
34
James F. Wurtz, ‘‘Out there in the Asylum’: Physical, Mental, and Structural
Space in Grant Morrison and Dave McKean’s Arkham Asylum: A Serious House
on Serious Earth,’ American Studies 56.4 (2011): 557.
35
cf. Ibid., 560.
Bibliography
Coogan, Peter. ‘The Definition of the Superhero.’ In A Comics Studies Reader,
edited by Jeet Heer, and Kent Worcester, 77-93. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2009.
Kershnar, Stephen. ‘Batman’s Virtuous Hatred.’ In White and Arp 28-37.
Krah, Hans. Einführung in die Literaturwissenschaft/Textanalyse. Kiel: Ludwig,

2006.
Miller, Frank, David Mazzuchelli, with Richmond Lewis. Batman: Year One.
1986. New York: DC Comics, 2005.
Morrison, Grant, and Dave McKean. Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious
Earth. 1989. New York: DC Comics, 2004.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche, trans-
lated and edited by Walter Kaufmann, 179-435. New York: Modern Library, 2000.
__________________________________________________________________
Renner, Karl Nikolaus. ‘Grenze und Ereignis: Weiterführende Überlegungen zum

Ereigniskonzept von J.M. Lotman.’ Norm – Grenze – Abweichung:
Kultursemiotische Studien zu Literatur, Medien und Wirtschaft, edited by Gustav
Frank, and Wolfgang Lukas, 357-81. Passau: Karl Stutz, 2004.
Spanakos, Tony. ‘Governing Gotham.’ In White and Arp 55-69.
Titzmann, Michael. ‘The Systematic Place of Narratology in Literary Theory and

Textual Theory.’ In What is Narratology?: Questions and Answers Regarding the
Status of a Theory, edited by Tom Kindt, and Hans-Harald Müller, 175-204.
Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003.
———. Grenzziehung vs. Grenztilgung’: Zu einer fundamentalen Differenz der

Literatursysteme ‘Realismus’ und ‘Frühe Moderne.’’ In Weltentwürfe in Literatur
und Medien, edited by Hans Krah, and Claus-Michael Ort, 181-209. Kiel: Ludwig,
2002.
White, Mark D., and Robert Arp, eds. Batman and Philosophy: The Dark Knight of
the Soul. Hoboken: Wiley, 2008.
Wurtz, James F. ‘‘Out there in the Asylum’: Physical, Mental, and Structural Space
in Grant Morrison and Dave McKean’s Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Seri-
ous Earth.’ American Studies 56.4 (2011): 555-71.
Marcel Fromme did his BA in Cultural Studies at Paderborn University and re-
ceived his MA in British and American Studies at Bielefeld University. His MA
thesis analyzed the relevance and reliability of history in the contemporary post-
modern novel.
Nils Zumbansen studied British and American Studies in Paderborn and Bielefeld
University. He is currently writing his PhD thesis about visual representations (e.g.
documentaries) of the English Civil War.

Graphic Life Writing in Kaisa Leka’s I Am Not These Feet
Leena Romu
Abstract
Many of the celebrated graphic novels that have been published in recent years are
autobiographical. The current autobiographical trend is noticeable also in the
Finnish comics scene and many cartoonists get their inspiration from the real life.
One of the most noteworthy Finnish autobiographical comic book artists is Kaisa
Leka who has published several comics based on her own life and experiences.
Leka’s stories concentrate on the construction of her identity: who she is as a
person, as a comic book artist and as a practitioner of Hare Krishna1. Both of
Leka´s feet were amputated below the knee in 2002 because of a difficult
congenital malformation and her comic book I Am Not These Feet (2003)
concentrates on the process of the amputation. In this chapter, I discuss the
representations of embodiment in Leka’s book by using the concept of pictorial
embodiment by comics scholar Elisabeth El Refaie. I will concentrate especially on
the drawing style and the pictorial choices for depicting bodies, disability and
gender.
Key Words: Disability, performativity, autobiographical comics, pictorial

embodiment, gender, Kaisa Leka.
*****
1. Disabled Mickey Mouse?

I Am Not These Feet is Kaisa Leka’s most well-known book and even after ten
years of its publication, it still defines her artistic career.2 Although Leka does not
depict disability in her more recent books in an explicit way, she is still referred to
as a disabled artist.3 In her comic books, Leka uses naïve and simple line drawings
that do not reveal any details of the characters or story world. People are depicted
as simplified animal caricatures, usually as mice that draw inspiration from the
world famous characters of Walt Disney. According to Leka, with I Am Not These
Feet she wanted to break the silence and shame that surround disability and
sickness.4 A protagonist that bears a resemblance to Mickey Mouse invites people
to read her story and reaches readers who otherwise would not pick up a book
about disability. The artist admits that first the mouse character was also a parody
of Mickey Mouse because, for her, Mickey represents culturally hegemonic
normality.5 In Leka's books, the always cheerful and energetic Disney character is
transformed in order to depict a vulnerable and fallible human being.
Because Leka talks openly about her disability in interviews, people are eager
to see her prostheses. In I Am Not These Feet the reader's curiosity gets fulfilled
already on the cover where six photographs of the author and her prosthetic feet are

204 Drawing the Body in Kaisa Leka’s I Am Not These Feet
__________________________________________________________________
arranged in a grid-like layout (see Image 1). The photos form a sequence and the
reader is encouraged to construct a narrative by interpreting the order and framing
of the images and the bodily postures and gestures of the portrayed artist. By using
photographs instead of drawn pictures the cover makes claims about the historical
accuracy and authenticity of the depicted events to such a degree that no label of
ʽBased on a true storyʼ is required. The reader may feel sympathy or pity for the
artist because of her disability but the colorful cover attempts to affirm that the
story will be a happy one. The artist smiles to the reader and seems to have an
active life: she swings happily and rides a scooter with her boyfriend. In this
regard, the cover also raises expectations about the narrative as a survival story.
Image 1: The cover of I Am Not These Feet. © 2016, Used with permission.
2. Distancing the Reader

The body can be regarded as one of the key themes in many autobiographical
comics or graphic memoirs. The autobiographical comics genre offers artists
Leena Romu 205
__________________________________________________________________
several possibilities to represent their physical identities and, according to comics
scholar Elisabeth El Refaie, this process of engaging with one’s own identity
through self-portraits can be referred to as pictorial embodiment.6 An
autobiographical comics artist is forced to visually portray herself panel after panel
which necessarily involves some engagement with the body and body image.7 The
artist must decide and choose what features she wants to render and how she wants
herself to be seen by the reader. From this aspect, the representations of self can be
seen as products of performative and repetitive act.
According to Judith Butler, people construct their gender and identity through
imitative and rehearsed practices. In fact, also the body is shaped by political
forces and must not be considered as a passive medium but as a site of negotiation.
Political regulations and disciplinary practices affect how bodies and gender are
understood and constructed.8 The whole strategy of constructing one’s body image
is a continuous act that is both intentional and performative but always also
dependent on cultural and political regulations. In other words, there is no such
thing as a ʽnatural bodyʼ since all bodies are defined and redefined in cultural
discourses.9 I use the concept of performativity in my reading of Leka’s book as an
interpretational strategy for scrutinizing how Leka depicts herself and what
political or ideological aspirations may be behind her formal and stylistic choices.
Leka does not provide any details of her malformed original feet on the cover
and in the story she draws her legs after the amputation by using only a couple of
black lines. This can frustrate the reader’s desire to see the author’s deformity and
the simplified style allows the author to control the distance between the author
and reader.10 In this respect, the author can also control how her body is seen by
others in a way that is not possible in the real life. Instead of getting detailed
information about the original malformed feet, the reader gets elaborate facts about
the new prosthetic feet in a couple of large pictures. The reader gets details about
the material of the prostheses (carbon fibre) and how they can be adjusted to make
the protagonist a bit taller than before the operation.
However, overall in the story, her prostheses seem to be nothing else but a
couple of black lines with white loops at the base. Interesting fact is that, on the
penultimate page, the prostheses become visually part of the protagonist and they
are drawn in the same style as the feet of the other characters. The omission to
depict this physical difference continues also in Leka's more recent books where
she tells, for example, about her bicycle trip across Europe. According to El Refaie,
people with a serious illness or disability are often judged by their different
appearance and they are perceived as more ʽfully bodyʼ than others.11 By drawing
herself in the same style as she draws the other characters, Leka refuses to be
defined only by her disability. In other words, on the pages of the comic book she
can decide how she wants to perform her body in relation to the idea of a
normative healthy body.

__________________________________________________________________
3. Drawing the Difference
Butler’s idea of performativity has been used widely in discussions about the
construction of gender. According to Butler, gender identity is constructed by
imitating cultural understandings of gender and in Western culture gender has
traditionally been divided into feminine and masculine.12 Leka draws people in her
book as identical mice that are distinguishable only by initialed t-shirts or slightly
different clothing. The sole exception is her boyfriend who is depicted as a duck
and hence his role in the life of the protagonist is underlined. The reader does not
get any visual clues about the gender of the characters which can be interpreted as
the artist’s commentary on the conventions of depicting gender in popular culture.
In this comic book we do not see exaggerated eyelashes or other minor physical
features that are often used, for example, in funny animal comics in order to help
the reader to identify the characters as female.13
El Refaie claims that ʽEvery time autobiographical comics artists draw
themselves and those around them, they cannot avoid engaging with the
sociocultural models that underpin body image, including categories of sex,
gender, health, and beauty.ʼ14 However, instead of highlighting physical, cultural,
social or gender differences Leka chooses to emphasize the shared human
experience. Her anthropomorphic animal characters do not promote a certain body
image but provide equal freedom for everyone to determine how their own bodies
are defined. El Refaie continues that pictorial embodiment is always profoundly
social and political activity and in the light of this remark Leka's simplified
caricatures appear to be more than silly animal characters.15
The refusal to categorize people shows in I Am Not These Feet also content
wise. In the next example (see Image 2), the main character is situated in the
bottom right corner of the page-sized panels and above her hovers a huge speech
bubble full of text.
In the speech bubble, the protagonist tells about her inner turmoil and low self-
esteem caused by the contradiction between her malformed figure and the imagery
of a perfect woman presented in media. By using an ironic tone she wants to
remind people of ʻthe fact that there are more important things in life than fighting
celluliteʼ. Her speech gets a religious tone when she pronounces that her life
changed when she became interested in the Hare Krishna movement and realized
that it is up to her how she wants to perceive herself and to be perceived by others.
The critique attacks the Western consumer culture and culturally accepted beauty
norms that force individuals to constantly monitor their own and other people’s
bodies. In other words, Leka underlines the performative aspect of gender and
identity and questions the dominant ways of performing oneself. The choice of
drawing herself as a simplified mouse caricature that does not physically differ
from the other characters can be seen as a formal strategy that realizes her body
politics and the criticism towards material thinking. Thus, the style of drawing can
be considered as a narrative strategy that persuades the reader to accept the

Leena Romu 207
__________________________________________________________________
author’s ideological views.
Image 2: I Am Not These Feet. © 2016. Used with permission.
4. Breaking up the Visual Surface

Although, for example El Refaie is interested in the pictorial representations of
the body she leaves aside the relevance of textual elements. If we consider the
pictorial embodiment as a performative act, we have to scrutinize the handwriting
as a part of it. Like Leka’s drawing style, also the handwritten lettering is
undecorated consisting of even and plain upper case letters. Interestingly,
occasional misspellings and errors in the text have been corrected in a manner
which leaves the blotches of ink visible. For example, on the above mentioned
spread the word material is accentuated because of a misspelling. It can be claimed
that the errors are incidental but further contemplation might be prolific. Comics
scholar Hillary Chute analyzes the visually versatile and constantly transforming
lettering of comics artist Lynda Barry and contends that the shifting of the lettering
style, size and coloring even in the middle of a word is enacted to break up the
actual visual surface of the text.16 Likewise, it can be asserted that in Leka´s
comics the misspellings in the lettering breach the uniformity of the text and,

__________________________________________________________________
moreover, call attention to the craftedness of the work. In addition, the errors can
be interpreted as underlining the documental value of the comic book: the distance
between the author and reader diminishes when the author reveals her liability to
error. If we connect the flaws in the textual elements to the performative project of
constructing the self, we can also claim that by leaving the errors visible Leka once
again underlines her body politics. Thus, the title I Am Not These Feet can be
changed into ʻI am not these flawsʼ.
On the title page, the narrative is labeled as a diary (ʻKaisa’s diary 5ʼ) and the
choice of the diary genre can be seen as an attempt to highlight the authenticity of
the depicted events. Diary has been considered an acceptable form for delving
personal and intimate issues and at the same time it is regarded as a feminine form
of writing. Comics scholar Bart Beaty notes that diary has often been characterized
as ʻexisting outside the mainstream of heroic and masculine autobiographyʼ.17
However, the rhetoric effects of diaristic writing conflict with Leka’s drawing style
that does not support the intimacy of the form. In my view, also the choice of a
genre that is normally used for depicting mental activity collides with the
distancing drawing style that omits the portrayal of emotions.
Isaac Cates writes that authenticity is implicitly staked by unpleasant or
embarrassing revelations: if the author agrees to show herself at her worst, the
reader can rely that author is being sincere.18 In I Am Not These Feet, the
depressive and sad moments of the main character are conveyed mainly via verbal
means because the pictorial cues, for example postures and facial expressions, are
minimal. In our last example from the book (see Image 3), we see twelve panels
which depict the main character in almost unchangeable positions. She sits in a
wheelchair and looks straight to the reader. The author maintains the distance to
the reader by controlling the depiction of her emotional reactions. The expression
on Kaisa’s face remains almost immutable and variations in the depiction of the
forehead, eyes and hand are almost unnoticeable.
5. Conclusions
Autobiographical comics is considered as a means to perform and actively re-
create one’s identity. The presence of the body and focus on embodiment in
autobiographical comics encourage to use the concept of performativity. In
addition, the fact that autobiographical writing has been considered as a
performative act requires pondering what those visual means in comics storytelling
are that engage in the construction of the self. If we claim that bodies are
performative, we claim that bodies are never merely described but always
constituted in the act of description.19
In this chapter, I have analyzed Kaisa Leka´s comic book by using the concept
of pictorial embodiment. I have shown how the simplistic drawing style and
handwritten lettering work as a part in Leka’s body politics but also as ways to
negotiate the distance between the reader and author. I have suggested a reading

Leena Romu 209
__________________________________________________________________
that considers both the content and form as inseparable parts of the project of
performing self but also as means to convey the artist’s political and philosophical
views. I must add that discussing the performativity of autobiographical comics
does not imply that constructing self could be seen as merely straightforward
theatre. When discussing I Am Not These Feet, we can say that the artist chooses
the means to perform her identity, gender and body and in this way the choices can
be seen as extensions of her own body project. Nevertheless, we must be careful
and not claim that by reading I Am Not These Feet we can unravel the body image
of the real author. Rather, the idea of performativity can help as a concept to
understand the representations of embodiment and the stylistic choices in the
Leka’s comic book.
Image 3: I Am Not These Feet. © 2016. Used with permission.

__________________________________________________________________
Notes
1
Leka openly tells about her relation to Hare Krishna philosophy, a theme that is
essential also in her other comic books (See e.g. On the Outside Looking in, 2006,
and Tour d’Europe, 2011).
2
In a radio interview Leka tells how she still often gets questions concerning I Am
Not These Feet although she has published several comic books since it (See
Lindeberg, Aura and Jukka Lindström. Interview with Kaisa Leka. YleX Etusivu.
YleX, January 25, 2012).
3
See for example, Sandahl Carrie: ʽKaisa Leka: Confusing the Disability/Ability
Divideʼ in Art and Social Justice Education. Culture as Commons, ed. Therese
Quinn and John Ploof and Lisa Hochtritt (New York and London: Routledge,
2012).
4
Antonio Díaz: ʻWhen Disability Turns into Virtuosity – Interview With Kaisa
Lekaʼ in Free! Magazine, November 9, 2007.
5
See Leka’s interview in Nono blog, January 5, 2007. Viewed 15 October, 2013.
http://nono102.blogspot.fi/2007/01/haastattelu-kaisa-leka.html.
6
Elisabeth El Refaie: Autobiographical Comics. Life Writing in Pictures (Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi 2012), 51.
7
Ibid.
8
Judith Butler: Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New
York & London: Routledge 1999), 164.
9
Sara Salih: ʽOn Judith Butler and Performativityʼ in Sexualities and
Communication in Everyday Life. A Reader, ed. Karen E. Lovaas and Mercilee M.
Jenkins (London: SAGE Publications Ltd), 55.
10
See also Ian Williams: ʻGraphic Medicine: How Comics Are Revolutionizing the
Representation of Illnessʼ in Hektoen International. A Journal of Medical
Humanities.
11
El Refaie, Autobiographical Comics, 73.
12
Butler, Gender Trouble, 30-31.
13
Trina Robbins ʻGender Differences in Comicsʼ. In Image [&] Narrative, Vol.II:
2 (4), 2002. Viewed on 14 Marzch 2016.
http://www.imageandnarrative.be/inarchive/gender/trinarobbins.htm.
14
El Refaie, Autobiographical Comics, 73.
15
Ibid.
16
Hillary Chute: Graphic Women. Life Narrative and Contemporary Comics (New
York: Columbia University Press, 2010), 110-111.
17
Bart Beaty: Unpopular Culture. Transforming the European Comic Book in the
1990s (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007), 162.

Leena Romu 211
__________________________________________________________________
18
Isaac Cates: ʻThe Diary Comicʼ in Graphic Subject: Critical Essays on
Autobiography and Graphic Novels, ed. Michael A. Chaney (Wisconsin: The
University of Wisconsin Press, 2011), 214.
19
Salih, ʻOn Judith Butler and Performativityʼ, 61.
Bibliography
Beaty, Bart. Unpopular Culture. Transforming the European Comic Book in the
1990s. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007.
Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New
York & London: Routledge, 1999.
Cates, Isaac ʻThe Diary Comicʼ. In Graphic Subject: Critical Essays on

Autobiography and Graphic Novels, edited by Michael A. Chaney, 209-226.
Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2011.
Chute, Hillary. Graphic Women. Life Narrative and Contemporary Comics. New
York: Columbia University Press, 2010.
Díaz, Antonio. ʻWhen Disability Turns into Virtuosity – Interview With Kaisa
Lekaʼ in Free! Magazine, November 9, 2007. Viewed 15 October 2013.
http://www.freemagazine.fi/when-disability-turns-into-virtuosity/.
El Refaie, Elisabeth. Autobiographical Comics: Life Writing in Pictures. Jackson:

University Press of Mississippi, 2012.
Leka, Kaisa. Tour d’Europe. Helsinki: Absolute Truth Press, 2010.
–––. On the Outside Looking In. Helsinki: Absolute Truth Press, 2006.
–––. I Am Not These Feet. Helsinki: Absolute Truth Press, 2003.
Lindeberg, Aura and Jukka Lindström. ʻInterview with Kaisa Leka.ʼ YleX Etusivu.
YleX, January 25, 2012. Listened 15 October 2013.
http://ylex.yle.fi/radio/vieraat/ylex-etusivun-vieraana-sarjakuvataiteilija-kaisa-leka-
disney-maailmassa-ei-ole-politii

__________________________________________________________________
Robbins, Trina.ʻGender Differences in Comicsʼ. In Image [&] Narrative, Vol.II: 2

(4), 2002. Viewed 15 October 2013.
http://www.imageandnarrative.be/inarchive/gender/trinarobbins.htm.
Salih, Sara. ʻOn Judith Butler and Performativityʼ. In Sexualities and

Communication in Everyday Life. A Reader. Edited by Karen E. Lovaas and
Mercilee M. Jenkins. London: SAGE Publications, Ltd, 2007, 55-67.
Sandahl, Carrie. ʻKaisa Leka: Confusing the Disability/Ability Divideʼ. In Art and
Social Justice Education: Culture as Commons. Edited by Therese Quinn, John
Ploof and Lisa Hochtritt. New York: Routledge, 2012, 53-55.
Williams, Ian. ʻGraphic medicine: how comics are revolutionizing the

representation of illnessʼ. Hektoen International. A Journal of Medical Humanities,
2010. Viewed 15 October 2013.
http://www.hektoeninternational.org/graphicMedicine.html.
Leena Romu is postgraduate student in the School of Language, Translation and

Literary Studies, University of Tampere, Finland. Currently she is writing her
doctoral thesis on the representations of embodiment in Finnish comics.


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Graphic Narrative Intertexts

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Part I The Graphic Narrative

More than Simply a Flash of Colour: The True Rhetorical Power 3

Images in Space: The Challenges of Architectural Spatiality 15

S/Z in Panels: Adaptation, Polysemous Textuality and the 31

Defining the British Political Cartoon 39

Bourdieu vs. Batman: Examining the Cultural Capital of the 51

M, John J. Muth’s Adaptation of Lang’s Film: An Inference 63

Framing the Subconscious: Envisioning the Polysemic 73

(Re)Interpreting Dante’s Inferno in Gaiman’s Season of Mists 85

Comics on Screen: Pages and Places in the Cloud 93

Alternative Graphic Fiction and the Web: Models of 103

DNA (Deco Nouveau Afrique): Futurising African Frames 123

From Dashing to Delicious: The Gastrorgasmic Aesthetics of 139

Part II Tooned In... Identity and Representations

Negotiating Ordinariness and Otherness: Superman, Clark Kent 153

Travelling Through Time and Space: Influences of Travel on 163

Identity and Idiolect: Code Switching as Identity Marker 173

Maghrebian Diaspora and Immigrant Identity in 185

‘This is Chaos’: Boundary Transgressions within 193

Graphic Life Writing in Kaisa Leka’s I Am Not These Feet 203

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Mikhail Peppas and Sanabelle Ebrahim

The graphic narrative – in merging text with image – showcases an experiential

• Just what makes a Graphic Novel so Graphic and so Novel?

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Subthemes covered topics that comprised:

• Comics and graphic novels are often used interchangeably

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What will bookstores be buying for their comic departments over

The potential contribution of tabletop gaming rooms to the

Africa – The springboard for the next Golden Age of Comic

Does the future of e-reading spell the death of paperback books

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Abbott, Lawrence L. ‘Comic Art: Characteristics and Potentialities of a Narrative

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Difference Between. ‘Difference between Comics and Graphic Novels’. Accessed

Fletcher-Spear, Kristin; Jenson-Benjamin, Merideth and Copeland, Teresa. ‘The

Gazur, Lukasz. ‘Graphic novel Anachronism or future?’. Museum of

Kozlowski, Michael. ‘Print Makes a Comeback at the Expense of e-Readers’.

Lewis-Williams, David J. Believing and Seeing: Symbolic Meanings in Southern

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McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York:

Metz, Thaddeus. ‘Toward an African Moral Theory’. The Journal of Political

Popova, Maria. ‘Depression-Era Woodcuts by Lynd Ward, Father of the Graphic

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