Perhaps my plan should have been to tread carefully since, this Braque person, I have no idea who he be. But no, I was scheduled to forge ahead and say that comparing Chris Ware to Braque et al is a lotta what the Haitians call "beeship."
I was planning to assert that when NYer-caliber critics and editors at the NYTM start simultaneously flogging the same five year old book, using it as a chance to explain how great and important graphic novels are, it looks like CYA criticism. They're just want about saying something about comics, so it looks like they're aware that people are talking about them (Are they? I see the exact same dorks at Forbidden Planet and in 'mic aisle at the bookstore).
And I was going to point out that reports of graphic novels' induction to the pantheon of great art are (regretfully) really, really premature.
But I don't need to make any such arguments because I noticed the one-page comic by Art Spiegelman which also appeared in last week's NYer. A.S. is broadly considered to be one of the half dozen or so leading lights in the history of graphic novel greatness, but his piece in last week's NYer is so bad that, after a person reads it, there's little debate to be had that this is an art form that withstands a skeptical criticism.
I can find no link to this comic, but below I've transcribed the action and the dialogue, bold and italics verbatim, of the first few panels.
NARRATION BOX: Everything I know I learned from comic books.
KID: (looking at a comic book ad for a log cabin construction set): Wow! Lookit this ad! It's big enought for 2-3 kids and it's waterproof!
MOM: $1.00 seems too cheap for such a house, sweetie.
KID: Cheap? It's costs as much as ten comic books -- but I'm gonna save up! It's a bargan 'cuz you buy directly from the factory! I'll put it in the yard and sleep in it. Maybe dad will even let me get a dog and use it as a doghouse!
MOM: Even before Auschwitz your father was afraid of dogs.
No other mention of Germany, genocide, etcetera appears in the piece. That's it. And it is very, very bad.
I have had the recent pleasure of tutoring young kids as they create their own stories, and I can tell you every kid I've worked with would probably have the good sense to write a mad scientist or a vigilant robot or something fantastical into their stories long before they stooped to such a cheap ploy for audience sympathy. I love the NYer, but if they can, with a straight face, claim that they think that is good copy, I can only assume they play poker well.
All a long link-filled way of saying that I have no idea why so many big critical names are stooping to compliment comics. But they are not doing it very convincingly.
Of greater importance: My joy in the Bengals this season is unprescedented. They can score at freaking will in the last two minutes; twice in the last five minutes this week. My love of the game balloons faster than Bill Parcells. (Goodness knows I like to close an entry talking about my own white girthy, but Big Poppa looks like he's been eating waffle sandwiches every night since Christmas.)
