Introducing Project P.R.O.J.E.C.T.
From Issue 10, Page 14, Panel 3
I ended my review of All Star Superman #12 (which I’m thoroughly happy with, by the way) by comparing Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely’s landmark run on the book to the book’s subject. A remarkable and alien artifact, crash landed in a medium that was not prepared for its sheer spectacularness, and whose presence had forever altered it. I stand by the assessment. All Star Superman was certainly one of the best comics I’ve ever read. And as a writer and an artist, Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely stand as two of the most influential figures in their respective fields, at least as far as my own work goes.
And so it got me thinking. As readers of this blog and my reviews might already know, I’m awfully keen on deconstructing the mechanics of how comics work on the page. Part of this is because it’s obviously quite important and not very talked about, but part of it is because I’m just saying out loud what my brain is always thinking when it reads comics. ”How does this work?” ”What goes into making this work?” All, naturally, in the hopes that some of that process and problem solving might seep into my own work.
And so, along those lines, and carrying through on this All Star Superman as Superman himself idea, I thought it’d be neat to do what Clark does for Leo Quintum, both throughout the book and specifically in the panel cited above. Examine, in detail, the genetic structure of this book, how it was built, in the hopes that, if necessary, we (okay, “I”. I admit it. I’m both selfish and egotistical.) could build another one.
Now, one thing you won’t see me talking about are the kind of Barbelithy (but seriously, I love you guys!) kinds of discussions about arcane symbolism and that sort of thing. I just don’t have the head for that. I’ll be talking more about the straight ahead storytelling stuff. The book is obviously not without it’s overt symbolism, and I’ll of course touch on that, but if you’re looking for a guide to what chakras the Kryptonian Bloodline represents, you’re in for a disappointment. A lot of criticism of Morrison’s work tends to focus a bit too much on that sort of thing when, on the surface, I always feel that his work is far more straightforward than people give it credit.
I’m making no promises about how frequently you’ll see installments of Project P.R.O.J.E.C.T., or provide any kind of schedule. I am a simultaneously very busy and very lazy man.
But hopefully it won’t be too long before you and I take an extraordinarily close look at one of the best first pages of any comic, ever, and why it’s not the four panels themselves that make it so amazing, but rather the double page spread that follows it.
Baby’s First Commission: Hawkman
So, the idea behind this one started as like a hip Hawkman who was a Thanagarian grad student, flying around with a Thanagarian iPod that stored like 800 terrabytes worth of pretty much every piece of Earth music ever recorded.
But as I started to think more about it, he evolved into more of a kind of anti-war art activist, with a bit of Jet Set Radio thrown in for good measure. He stole some Thanagarian army equipment and now, on a war torn Thanagar inhabited both by Thanagarins and Rannians, he subverts the Thanagarian Supremecists slowly taking over the planet’s government, wall by wall.
Click image for a larger version.
David Foster Wallace: 1962-2008
There are a lot of reasons I decided to become a writer, and a lot of writers I can put the blame on for its focus in my life. There was an adolescence of Claremont comics and Stephen King novels. The movies of people like The Coen Brothers and Paul Thomas Anderson. But there was one writer in particular who resonated with me the most, and in doing so, inspired me to seek the same kind of potential for connection in something that I made myself.
I had the good fortune of meeting David Foster Wallace just once. I was in Grad School for Creative Writing at the New School and it was something like the 100th Anniversary for The New Yorker? Or something? Anyway, my instructor and the mentor of my thesis Mary Gaitskill was reading there so I was excited about that. And also, David Foster Wallace was reading, so I was really excited about that. Afterwards, in the courtyard of the 12th Street campus, there was a small clatch of students standing around Wallace, I don’t really remember who was regaling whom with what exactly, but I did eventually find an opening and decided to speak to him.
I told him I was working with Mary Gaitskill and that we had talked about his work, as my own work was heavily inspired by his. I told him that she said he was a really nice, approachable guy and he smiled at that. And then I thanked him for being showing me that it was possible to be a truly great writer but also an incredibly funny writer and that the two didn’t need to be mutually exclusive. He told me that was sweet of me to say.
There are a lot of terrible things about what’s happened. There’s the fact that someone so genuinely enthusiastic and good-humored found life that unbearable. There’s the fact that he left behind a family and dogs that I know he really loved having. But since I spent only about thirty seconds in direct conversation with the man, that’s not really the stuff that itches at me the most.
As a fan of his work, as someone who started a strange and sprawling and barely even started novel solely for the purpose of writing my “own” Infinite Jest, there are other things that hit me harder.
There’s the fact that now, inevitably, this will color reactions to his work. That something like Infinite Jest will now be read and not just appreciated for its wit, its humor, or its melancholy, but as a “roadmap, man.” A series of clues that “like, totally told you what was coming.” There’s a shadow now over a body of work that really didn’t need any other basis of interpretation other than its own reassertion of a true ingenius voice at work.
And there’s the fact that that’s it. Not just that we’ll never get to read another word of prose or non-fiction from him, because like any other late artist, there will still be releases by him, incomplete of course, or maybe not, but still, we haven’t read the last word of work by him, I’m quite sure. It’s that such a fantastically inventive mind will never be inspired by anything else. By anything new. Not that the world won’t be changed by his work, but that his work can never be changed by the world, ever again.
The commencement address he gave to Kenyon College in 2005 is probably the most fitting thing to read today. To get a sense of how he saw the world, and what the world has lost.
But most days, if you’re aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line. Maybe she’s not usually like this. Maybe she’s been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. Or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the motor vehicle department, who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a horrific, infuriating, red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness. Of course, none of this is likely, but it’s also not impossible. It just depends what you what to consider. If you’re automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won’t consider possibilities that aren’t annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.
It’s a strange sensation. It’s probably the deepest I’ve ever felt the loss of someone I barely knew, a celebrity. It’s not a depression or true aching loss. It’s a sense of regret.
David Foster Wallace gave as much to the world as it gave to him. And I regret that there is now such a strong imbalance in that equation.
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Benjamin Birdie
Suddenly kind of aged, Benjamin lives in Queens with his cat. His Master's Degree in Creative Writing has helped him immensely with his primary responsibilities of drawing things.
He can be reached at benjaminbirdie (at) gmail (dot) com.
And do feel free to follow him on Twitter.
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His Comics
Every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, this charming comic strip by myself and Kevin Church receives a sparkling new installment. A Comic Strip About A Comic Shop.