At first, I began to think about libraries full of books and that thought didn't really resonate with me - it left me feeling bored and rather antagonistic about physical books and all the work (mental and physical) that had undoubtedly gone into their creation. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I thought about the comic book store. Yes, *the* comic book store - the one I used to frequent in that beautiful year off between undergrad and grad school when all I did was work, ride my bike, and read comics.
Wednesday was new comic day, and occasionally if that week was particularly light for me, I would walk up and down the tall rows of graphic novels and study the bindings, waiting patiently for one to pop out at me - one always did.
A small snap shot of a comic shelf in my home |
You see, the binding of comic books tell a story in-and-of themselves. It's unfortunate that many may take this for granted, simply suggesting "well, that's the nature of a book full of pictures." But if we consider the question of survival and its link to reception, what book has more staying-power: the standard novels we see stocked on library shelves today, or the graphic novel and the wild storybook painting it creates along the walls it lines?
Now, I will be the first to admit that there could very well be a large segment of book history that I am unaware of - one that perhaps details a time in which book cover art, bindings, and size were far more playful and could perhaps rival today's graphic novels as physical artifacts that make you long for their tactile nature. But for now, I'm operating off of what I see every day in book stores and in libraries - the shelves that make me want to take a nap, not a journey into fiction or non-fiction.
Getting back to the question of survival, graphic novels most certainly fulfill what Adams and Barker call the "three stages in the life of books that have survived" (61) and interestingly enough, many comics pass right from the first stage to the third - rarely seeing the threat of disappearance. I make this claim on the basis of two reasons: 1) comic books reflect larger story "arcs" which tends to make each individual collection or single issue just as important as the next and 2) some comics are what is referred to as a "first appearance" which essentially makes that particular comic book that lock box containing a character's very essence - their inception. In the comic book world, "first appearances" are cherished as if a reprint doesn't even contain the same story, the same moment - only those few, rare artifacts do - and the faded, falling-apart pages are a reflection of the time that character has spent there, growing and expanding its essence over decades but still somehow never leaving that early book. Obviously this is the third stage - the realization that "the book is desirable as an object" (63) and even so it still seems that both stages one and three are never far apart in the world of graphic novels.
Amazing Spiderman #129 - The first appearance of the Punisher |
Although this post references Day/Adams, it reminds me of Chartier's essay as well. A "first appearance" would not be important--and the comic book would be mere ephemera--if a certain group of readers did not value that character. I think this becomes apparent especially if you reflect on failed comics, ones in which one or many characters make a first appearance, but never made a 2nd (or 5th, or 50th) and fade into obscurity instead. The material object of the comic is not granted any value and so becomes pulp (or literally, landfill refuse). This also brings us back to bindings--why are comics NOT bound in cardboard. What does it say about our acceptance of them as valued art forms, or their self-representation (these are related, not separate questions, of course) that many continue to be just stapled?
ReplyDelete*Adams/Barker* of course.
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