Not too long ago – in the light of eternity – when I was a kid, about 9 years old, I was walking on clouds. I wanted to reach the sky you see, and now and then I got pretty close. Read more
Comic, graphic novels, strips, BD (bande dessinée)
Great documentary about the late Jean Giraud, better known as Moebius, perhaps the biggest genius in the world of European “comics”, reaching well beyond the genre and creating visuals for films like Tron and the Fifth Element… all that accompanied by the alien tunes of former Kraftwerk member Karl Bartos. Read more
This is a top 10 of my favourite graphic novels / artists.
The ground underneath the feet of the quiffed reporter and his talking dog is heating up so much that the asphalt is melting. At the same time, a mysterious star appears in the evening sky, next to the big dipper. The curious reporter decides to call the star watch.
It is Friday late afternoon. The smell of onion meatballs and gravy appears, together with the sound of talking heads on the kitchen radio. I close my door and continue reading my comic.
According to the star watching scientists the star is actually an approaching meteorite bound for the destruction of Earth. Luckily instead, all it does is causing a massive earthquake and our hero is send out for an excursion with his dog and friends.
Dinner is served. From the high chair I can just see the full content of the table. My brother had just laid it. My mother puts the mashed potatoes on my plate, creates a hole in the middle and pours some gravy in it, together with a couple of meatballs. On the table is a bowl with Brussels sprouts in it. I say I don’t want them as they smell like my brother’s farts. Despite my protest I get them anyway, accompanied by some cucumber salad and my brother’s giggles.
My mother says something, to which my brother answers in a mumbling voice. They both look so tall and grownuppish. My brother is 7 years older and he is from another planet. He talks strange, his room smells like sweaty socks and his farts smell like sprouts.
After dinner we do the dishes together. He washes and I dry. He turns the channel on the radio to something with loud music. He puts some water in his long blond hair and puts it backwards and starts singing along the song on the radio. He grabs the scrubber and holds it in front of his mouth as if it is a microphone and starts making weird uncontrollable movements with his body. I laugh and he asks me to do the same. As I do, I look at the kitchen door to the balcony. It is pitch dark outside, so you can see clearly our reflection in the glass of the door.
I enter the hospital room and there he is, sitting up straight in his bed with his bald head hanging low into his hands. Even though I can’t see his face, his thin long fingers reveal his bones. He doesn’t seem to notice me.
Outside the room on the hallway are my mother and his second current wife, the both of them holding guard. They close the door behind me. I get closer to him and whisper his name. Slowly he raises his head.
The illness had eaten away his temples and cheeks, his eyes were some bulging marbles hanging in caves next to his still prominent but thinned nose. Not much was left of his neck and his mouth revealed his teeth even through his skin.
Yet upon noticing me his eyes light up. He mentions my name and a faint smile appears on his thin lips. He says something about how glad he is that I came to visit. I keep on looking at him knowing it will be the last time.
Here is the man who adopted me as a baby with his then wife, my mother now sitting outside on the hallway, and after they got divorced continued to be a welcoming man. In summer I often would spend my school holiday with him and his second wife and their son. I remember him walking around the house naked, visitors or not. He would be sitting on some rattan chair reading a book and I would be wondering how painful that must feel. More so, I would be reading one of his many comic books. From Robert Crumb for example, prompting me to think of my father as Mister Natural and his infinite meditation sessions, or from Heavy Metal, the science fiction magazine containing my first female fantasy, making me not wanting to join in and walk around the house naked myself. I felt as embarrassed as excited.
This was only a couple of years ago and now here I am, not even 16 years old, looking at Mister Natural in his hospital bed soon to be rolling out his meditation rug for eternity. I know how much he has been in pain the last couple of months and how he must be delirious from the morphine in his body. But that faint smile he just gave was genuine and so is the glimmer in his eyes looking at me. It is as if he is now more naked than ever before and all I can see is his soul, smiling at me forever.
Recently I got the latest Chris Ware, and it is safe to say that this is (yet again) his greatest masterpiece.
More than just a book; you can create your own stories.
Clearly a Joost Swarte fan to say the least, this colourful Amsterdam based illustrator Stefan Glerum.
The master of the genre doesn’t look as good online as it does in print, so get your own copies. The “ACME Novelty Library” series are brilliant. Beautiful colours, melancholic, excruciating, and he is a perfectionist in overseeing to make sure the prints look the way he wants them to; in China I believe.