I have a lot of comics I did that were pictures I could not do in movies. Because for me, comics is an art, not like in America where the comics are only [about] superheroes. I most like the underground comics who try to speak about other things, and I do that in comics.
It is virtually impossible to discuss any mainstream superhero — from Captain America to Wonder Woman to Spider-Woman to Captain Marvel — without running into the terms “relaunch” and “reimagining.” And “retroactive.” And “retcon.” And other “re” words.
Comic book artists think comic strip artists have it made, strip artists want to work on animated features, and I think a lot of people working on animated features are envious of the autonomy that indie comic book creators have. And they’d chuck it all in a second to get a cartoon published in The New Yorker.
I had a big portfolio of artwork that I wanted to show him [Neal Adams]. I almost broke his nose with it when I opened it up.
He looked over my artwork and said “You’re from where?”
I said “Vermont.”
“You should go back there and pump gas. You’re never going to be good.”
I love the way my web site is completely mine. I can do whatever the hell I want on there — from occasional blog posts that have nothing to do with comics to uploading sketches and short stories. […] It feels like you’re reading these comics in a room full of friends, with conversations going on around you, and the cartoonist sitting right there, waiting to hear what you think of it. That’s something I loved about the small press in the 80s and 90s — that sense of freedom, of a lively unpolished discussion between art and people and back again.
Wonder Woman is psychological propaganda for the new type of woman who should, I believe, rule the world. There isn’t love enough in the male organism to run this planet peacefully. Woman’s body contains twice as many love generating organs and endocrine mechanisms as the male.
I tried to get a job at Fantagraphics when I was 13 or 14 years old. […] So, I called Fantagraphics and asked them for a job interview… […] The voice on the other end of the phone gave me a date and time to meet and a couple of days later my mom drove me to the Fantagraphics office. […] My mom and I knock on the door and someone yelled at us to come in, so we walk inside “… Hello?” and this guy is over in the corner and drunkenly yells “Oh shit! Hide the stuff! A kid’s here!”.
From the 1940s to the 1970s, comic book art and comic books were the same thing. In the decades since, the art of comics has been carefully separated from the original physical conditions of its reproduction. Elevation of the 20th century art form has resulted in the erasure of the 20th century mechanical processes that enabled comic books to exist and thrive – for ten, twelve, fifteen, or twenty cents, millions of times over.
It was an economic bargain that significantly defined the aesthetic terms of comic books: cheap paper, cheap printing, and four-color separations that could not hide their limitations. These accidental aesthetics governed the experience of comics for generations, were appropriated for fine art in the 1960s, and today fall into the “retro” category of graphic design.
Comics are holistically moving toward center, along with graffiti, music, and contemporary art, and this convergence of influences is occurring “beneath the radar of the curators of high culture.” It’s powerful stuff, a sobering call to arms for the creators who will rise up and usher in tomorrow.
Can you imagine the world of sequential art? A world where time exists frozen forever in snap shots, yet feels animated in sequence? A world where text can be read like prose, but the story can be told in bold visuals like film? A world that moves without motion and speaks without sound.