Personal Reflection GO!

So how did Comics Class go, overall? That's the question I've been intending to answer on this blog ever since class ended back in December. I wrote about the planning stages, and the day-to-day activities, so it only makes sense that there should be some kind of self-evaluation at the end. But it's taken me awhile to figure out what I think. As with most human endeavors, the end result is hazy and ambiguous.

Over the last few weeks people have asked me if the class went well and I have said yes, the class was a success. I meant that. The students did their work and most of them passed, many of them with good grades. I followed through on my plans, with some tweaks along the way, and covered most of the material I set out to cover. I learned what worked and what didn't.

So, hurray!

But I also have a sense of disappointment. Even though it's important for teachers to focus on realistic, achievable, and measurable goals, we usually can't help ourselves. We don't just want kids to earn credit toward graduation; we want to Change Young Lives and Resculpt the Face of the Future. In my case, I wanted to change the students' perceptions of comics.

That's not a huge deal, in the grand scheme of things. At certain points in my life I have changed my mind on much bigger matters, after being convinced by a conversation, by a life event, or by something I read. I have, in the past, said, “Oh, I never thought of it that way; I guess I was wrong.”

That always seemed natural to me, so it took me years to realize that this was a fluke; most people don’t change their minds. And most of those people who don't change their minds consider their consistency to be a virtue. Studies at the University of Michigan show, in fact, that when you demonstrate to people that their beliefs are based on incorrect information, they entrench themselves more. If you show people that they are wrong, they become wronger.

This is devastating to the Enlightenment ideals I came to cherish through my liberal arts education. People are not enlightened individuals ruled by reason; they are brute savages, ruled by emotions. Rather, we are brute savages ruled by emotion.

To me, the idea that comics is a legitimate artistic medium is incredibly straightforward. Narrative is accepted as art; pictures are accepted as art; accepting pictures used as narrative as art should not be that big a stretch. The reason comics are generally considered juvenile trash is basically an accident of history, having more to do with pulp fiction publishers of the early 20th century than with any inherent values of the form itself.

(For a detailed look at those publishers who defined what we think of as American comic books, I highly recommend Gerard Jones' Men of Tomorrow: Geeks, Gangsters, and the Birth of the Comic Book.)

Most Americans think of comics as junk for kids, but most don't think about comics at all. It's an uninformed kneejerk reaction. So, on some level I have always believed that if you took the time to explain that comics is a perfectly valid medium of creative expression, and you made your argument clearly and reasonably, people would see the truth. Scott McCloud demonstrates, step by step and in great detail, the vast potential of comics. I can't imagine making it through a few chapters of Understanding Comics and still clinging to an anti-comics prejudice. 

Except that human beings don't respond to reasonable arguments, and prejudices are generally immune to logic. And my students were excruciatingly bored by McCloud. In fact, the whole argument that comics is a valid art form is meaningless to my students. Whether or not an art form is "valid" is a question of interest only to academics. Most of my students, if asked about books in general, would say, "I hate reading." They would evaluate a painting based on whether the subject matter is awesome or boring. My students, like most people, approach works of art with the question "Will this entertain me?" and, based on their immediate emotional response, leave either liking it or hating it.

(That is what normal people are like, right? That's what I've been led to believe.)

Most people who are prejudiced against gay people and then change their minds aren't won over by rational argument, but, rather, by having a gay friend. A respected friend comes out of the closet, and the formerly anti-gay individual comes to realize that, hey, my friend isn't so bad, so I guess other gay people aren't that bad either. An individual experience is more powerful than rational argument. We are ruled by emotion, after all.

Fortunately, I was able to provide personal experiences. I showed my students great comics. They read great comics. They saw with their own eyes what comics can do. And most of them enjoyed at least some of what we read. And yet . . . and yet, and yet, and yet . . .

I don't think I changed anyone's mind. Not one. I had a few students who liked comics going in, and they still liked comics at the end. The kids who said they hated comics at the beginning still hated them at the end, and the kids who didn't care still didn't care. Teachers need to focus on the measurable and achievable goals but, you know, we want to open cracks in the students' minds so that Truth and Beauty can shine in and bring about personal growth and change.    

In the last week of class, one of the students who liked comics at the beginning of the semester was talking about Spider-Man or the Hulk or something. Another student, who had gotten good grades overall, said, in a disbelieving tone, "Man, you like comics? That's kid stuff."

As the responsible adult in the room, I responded with, "You now have an F."

You can never focus on one comment from one student, of course--that's a total rookie mistake--but that comment summed up my frustration, my feeling that I was unable to change even one person's mind. That's all conjecture, of course. You never know what long-term effect you have on a student. It's like your co-workers tell you, during your first year of teaching, when all the joy has gone out of life and everything you try seems like a failure, "We're planting seeds. It will be years before they grow, and you'll probably never see the results." Which is actually comforting.

Talk at my school will soon turn to next year's class schedule. If someone comes to me and asks if I want to teach comics class again, I will definitely say yes. Despite the frustration, I know that you can never predict what students will end up getting out of a class. Who knows? Maybe next time, they'll all learn to love comics. Maybe I'll see students carrying around volumes of Neil Gaiman's Sandman or Jeff Smith's Bone.

That may be an impossible dream, but being a teacher requires some of the self-delusion of Don Quixote and the forever-unrewarded dedication of Sisyphus. We are given goals that are literally impossible, and criticized when we fail to meet those goals. 

But if there's one thing the comics of Jack Kirby have taught me, it's that when you are faced with impossible odds, you always keep fighting, and you never give up.

"Pop-Up" Space

The movie version of Persepolis won a bunch of awards in France but, when it was released here, it bombed. The upside of this is that I was able to buy the DVD at Walgreen's for $5. In the past when I've taught Persepolis I've rented it, but now that there are no movie rental stores I'm glad I lucked into that DVD.

We've read about half the book and we took a quiz yesterday, so I decided to show the students the first part (about 23 minutes) of the movie. The movie adapts both Perseoplis and Persepolis 2, so it breezes through the part of the story that we've read, and leaves out tons of material. It also changes around and adds scenes. Fortunately it keeps the uncle Anoosh scenes mostly intact, and they are as sad in the movie as they are in the book. And I love the animation.

After that we looked at five literary elements of Persepolis, and I'll probably write more about that later. Right now I'd like to tell you about the Jack Kirby Museum & Research Center.

When I first heard about the Jack Kirby Museum, founded in 2005, I was eager to visit.  It turned out, though, that there was no physical location--the Kirby Museum was a website, an educational initiative, and a collection of artwork. Which is good and all, but wouldn't it be nice to visit an actual Kirby Museum? You may think a museum based around a cartoonist sounds ridiculous, but I've been to the Charles Schulz Museum in Santa Rosa, and it was one of the most profoundly spiritual experiences of my life. Though that probably says more about me than about the quality of the museum, it is also an excellent museum.

Anyway, yesterday I opened up my Inbox and received a press release from TwoMorrows publisher John Morrow. He said . . . you know what, I'll quote him:

Inspired by recent events, most notably the legal battle between the Kirby family and Marvel/Disney regarding ownership of Jack's work, we believe that it's time for the Jack Kirby Museum to step out of the digital realm and into the physical. We intend to open a physical space on the Lower East Side of New York City, in the same neighborhood where Kirby grew up. Economic realities being what they are, this initial effort will be a "Pop-Up" space of approximately 1,000 square feet that will remain open for roughly three months. Having such a space in one of New York City's most vibrant neighborhoods will allow us to showcase educational programs, lectures, exhibits and more to pay tribute to one of the greatest storytellers of the 20th Century. We are already reaching out to art collectors and educators in anticipation of opening. 

He goes on to ask for donations.  I don't know about you, but I think this is a worthy cause. I can understand potential objections . . . "There's a recession on! I'm too worried about putting food on the table to donate to some comic book museum!" Fair enough. Or, "There's a recession on! If I'm going to donate money, I'm going to give to some charity that feeds the hungry!" And I agree, these are all hard times, and we should all do what we can. Anyone who can spare a few dollars should absolutely donate to a worthy cause, be it their local food bank, Heifer International, the Red Cross, Habitat for Humanity, or whatever charity you prefer.

I also believe, however, that art is important, and culture is important, and that museums enrich our society in valuable ways. And I think the artwork of Jack Kirby is life-affirming and soul-enriching. I think it makes the world a better place. So I'm going to send them a few dollars, and I urge you to do the same.

Unless, of course, you don't really like Jack Kirby's artwork, in which case you're definitely better off with Heifer International.

Dreaming in Kirby

Last night I dreamed about a Jack Kirby comic book I had never seen before. It was something he created in his later years, around the time of Captain Victory, and he only did one issue. A publisher acquired the rights and hired me to continue the series. It was going to be great, too, not disappointing like Silver Star.

That's the kind of thing I dream about--well, literally, I guess, since I dreamed it last night. It all seemed very compelling, but I can't remember the details. The main character was an alien, and he had a . . . magic cell phone? And urgent mission of some kind? Anyway, it all seemed very compelling. I wish I had more Kirby-themed dreams.

In a way, didn't Kirby spend his whole career creating wonderful dreams?

Jack Kirby Saturday Presents: Kamandi #23

My cousin gave me a copy of this comic for Christmas many, many years ago. As a young lad I preferred superhero comics, and didn't much care for shirtless characters like Conan or Kamandi, so I didn't have very high expectations. And, though it pains me to say this, I found Jack Kirby's artwork strange and off-putting. But when I read it I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. Years later I dug it out and read it again, and liked it even more.

I recently started reading Kamandi through from the beginning and, let me tell you, it is a lot of fun. It's really well drawn, too. When I was a kid comics fans mostly looked down on Kamandi--I'm pretty sure my cousin got a thick stack of Kamandi comics for less than a dollar. The problem is that it's overshadowed by Kirby's other work. If he had only done Kamandi, it would probably be remembered as one of the all-time classics (though if Kirby hadn't come along until the 70's the history of American comics would have been completely different, so who knows how it would have been received.) Also, people claim that Kamandi just a Planet of the Apes rip-off. But the Avengers is just a Justice League of America rip-off, and no one seems to mind that.

Anyway, here's a cool picture of a big scary shark! Enjoy!

Under a Bright Yellow Sky

When I've asked the students to describe different artists' styles, the most common descriptions are "detailed" or "not detailed." I figured I should show them what detailed really means, so I took in some Geof Darrow. He's one of those artists whose name has become a shorthand explanation. Any comics artist who uses lots of detail is inevitably compared to Geof Darrow--"it's hyperdetailed. . . .you know, a Geof Darrow kind of thing." But, unlike so many, Darrow makes it work. I took in Big Guy and Rusty the Boy Robot, because it is appropriate for all ages, unlike Hard Boiled. I told the students how long I expect it took for Darrow to draw a page, and they didn't believe me.

The class finished drawing their examples of the seven types of word/picture combinations, and we moved on to Chapter 8, which is about color. I have read many a black-and-white comic in my time, and in many cases have preferred black-and-white to lousy coloring, so I forget how hung up on color most people are. Some of the students have complained from the beginning about how Understanding Comics is black-and-white. Today their dreams came true, though, because we made it to Chapter 8, the chapter about color, which is the only color section in the book.

McCloud makes some good points about how color changes the way we see the image, and how it emphasizes specific objects. He also talks about how the two main factors in the history of color in American comics were "commerce and technology." Color is expensive and hard to pull off. (This is something I used to have to explain regularly to my Journalism students, who constantly insisted that the only way to make our school newspaper worth reading would be to print it all in color.) McCloud explains why, historically, American comics had such lousy color reproduction. And since there were such limitations to the color, the artists who did the best work with flat coloring were "masters of form and composition." McCloud specifically mentions Jack Cole, Winsor McCay, and Jack Kirby.

Here's an example of a page by Jack Kirby:

Even though the coloring is basically terrible--an orange monster against a yellow sky? Blue people standing on white ground?--the power of the drawing remains intact. It's still a satisfying picture, because it's Jack Freakin' Kirby.

Tomorrow I'll give them handouts with questions about Chapter 8. I know, I know . . . "Handouts with questions? How is that challenging them to learn in new and exciting ways? You've got to move higher on Bloom's Taxonomy! Instead of giving them sheets of questions, you should be assigning them to write and perform puppet shows that express their feelings about the material you've covered!"

Well, Straw Man, what you have to realize is that we teachers in the real world face many limitations. You can't do puppet shows every day; sometimes you've just got to get them to demonstrate that they've read the material.

Happy Jack Kirby Day!

Today would be Jack Kirby's 94th birthday. Every year I find out it's Kirby's birthday on the day of, and vow to remember the date and plan some sort of celebration.  And I always forget. This has been happening for several years now.

Jack Kirby, as you may or may not know, was the greatest American comic book artist of the 20th century. That's my opinion--some people may argue with the "greatest" part, but no one can argue that was one of the two or three most influential comic book artists. As with George Herriman, of Krazy Kat fame, the average person who sees his art for the first time will probably find it strange and possibly even ugly. When you invest yourself in the story, though, and get in the right mindframe, it becomes glorious and even addictive. Here's a sample of his artwork.  Look at that stuff! Once you accept the Spirit of Kirby into your heart, each drawing is like a mystical revelation.

Years ago, a few days after I started a new job, my manager Matt saw me reading a graphic novel. He asked me if I liked comics, and I said yes. Nothing unusual there. Then he said, "Have you read Jack Kirby's New Gods? It's one of the greatest things I've ever read." At that moment I knew Matt and I would get along great. Sure enough, he ended up becoming one of my best friends. (He's a talented artist, too.)

I decided to celebrate Jack Kirby Day by re-reading a couple of  favorites. One was "The Glory Boat," the climax of which can be seen above. The other was "Himon" from Mister Miracle #9. I've read it several times and I thought I knew what to expect, so I surprised by how much the story spoke to me, and how relevant it is to my life and my job.

Even though this school year has been going great so far, I still get frustrated from time to time about how hard it is to get students really interested in the material. They're all dealing with so many distractions, and have so many other concerns, it's hard for them to care about reading The Epic of Gilgamesh.

The story "Himon" is about a man who is a scientist and a dreamer and a teacher, who lives on the hell-planet Apokolips. The young people are, like everyone else, dedicated to the service of the tyrant Darkseid. Thinking for yourself is a crime. But even though the authorities are out to kill him, Himon is determined to show these young people a better way, to expose them to beauty, to free their minds from Anti-Life. It's exaggerated, obviously, but it's a metaphor for the importance of education, even in a society that doesn't always value it.

And if Himon can get shot and blown up for his troubles, and still keep on teaching, what do I have to complain about?