Poking A Dead Frog Part 20

His first series, Lloyd Llewellyn (198687), a parody of 1950s gumshoe detective noir, lasted only six issues. But his next attempt, called Eightball, would evolve into a fifteen-year odyssey. Originally subt.i.tled "An Orgy of Spite, Vengeance, Hopelessness, Despair, and s.e.xual Perversion," Eightball was introduced in October 1989 and featured an array of bizarre story lines and controversial comedic rants, such as "I Hate You Deeply," "Ugly Girls," "s.e.xual Frustration," and "The Sensual Santa." Clowes became popular with the kind of people who had previously never entered a comics store.

His most famous series, first published in Eightball No. 1118 and then reprinted as its own comic in 1997, was Ghost World. Set within a suburb with no name and no distinctive characteristics beyond the usual detritus produced by chain stores and fast-food restaurants, it followed the lives of two teenage girls and best friends, Enid Coleslaw (an anagram of "Daniel Clowes") and Rebecca Doppelmeyer, after their graduation from high school as they grapple with the inevitable by-product of the late-teen maturation process: melancholy. Enid feels disconnected from the "obnoxious, extroverted, pseudo-bohemian art-school losers" that surround her, and she ends up befriending a collector of 78-rpm records-a lonely, older male (is there any other type?)-who soon becomes her sole confidant.

When Clowes collaborated with director Terry Zwigoff on the movie adaptation of Ghost World, released in 2001, he approached the task with the same all-encompa.s.sing devotion he gave to his comics. It took more than five years and nearly two dozen drafts before they finally got it right. In the end, Clowes was Oscar-nominated, but didn't win, for Best Adapted Screenplay.

"Dan has an astute, critical eye," Zwigoff once wrote. "He's been accused of being p.o.r.nographic, nihilistic, misanthropic, sacrilegious, overly critical, and hopelessly negative. How would I not love the guy?"

In 2010, Clowes published Wilson, a book featuring seventy one-page gags about an unlikable middle-aged man. The long-time Simpsons writer George Meyer remarked: "Dan is somehow able to dip bucket after shimmering bucket from the roiling depths of his unconscious. Add talent and hard work and courage, and you create blazingly original art like Wilson. The book is heartbreaking, wistful, and joltingly funny. I've read it nine times."

Is it true that your first professional published work appeared in Cracked magazine?

That's true. I contributed to Cracked from around 1984 to 1989, though I think I only published one piece under my own name. For the other pieces I was "Herk Abner" and "Stosh Gillespie"-Stosh was the name my father originally wanted for me.

Any particular reason?

He worked in a steel mill when I was born, and several of his Polish co-workers had the name Stosh. Also, I think he was trying to b.u.m out my mom.

As for Gillespie, it's my middle name.

Were you even a fan of Cracked? And, actually, I should probably point out to readers that this was the first incarnation of Cracked, not at all similar to the current Internet version. This was for print only, and was, more or less, a direct Mad rip-off.

n.o.body was ever a fan of Cracked. I was buying it at the time because I wanted work in the satire magazine field, but it was just a terrible publication.

Growing up, my friends and I used to think of Cracked as a stopgap. We would buy Mad every month, but about two weeks later we would get anxious for new material. We would tell ourselves, We are not going to buy Cracked. Never again! And we'd hold out for a while, but then as the month dragged on it just became, Okay, f.u.c.k it. I guess I'll buy Cracked.

It was like comedy methadone.

Right. Then you'd bring it home, and immediately you'd remember, Oh, yeah, I hate Cracked. I don't understand any of the jokes, and [Cracked mascot] Sylvester P. Smythe is the most unappealing character of all time. He wears janitorial overalls and carries a mop.

I don't know if you've ever seen Sick magazine-just one of many Mad rip-offs over the years-but they actually had an even uglier mascot: Huckleberry Fink. He was just so ineptly drawn that you didn't know what the h.e.l.l he was. I think he was a freckled hillbilly. And instead of "What, me worry?" [Mad's Alfred E. Neuman's motto], his was something like: "Why try harder?"10 Were you given free rein at Cracked?

Maybe too much. The very first thing I published was a two-pager called "Aren't You Nervous When . . ." which was a by-the-book Mad rip-off. One panel had a gag about noticing a fire engine heading toward your house as you drive home, and the only reference picture I could find was from an old children's book. I remember my roommate looking over my shoulder and saying, "Aren't you nervous when . . . you're being followed by a fire engine from the 1930s."

My friend Mort Todd was the editor in chief for several years, and we created some truly ridiculous material. We did parodies of TV shows that n.o.body our age, much less the nine-year-olds reading the magazine, had ever seen-programs like Ben Casey [ABC, 196166] and The Millionaire [CBS, 195560]. I don't think we ever bothered with a show from our own era [the eighties], or even the seventies.

Did any Cracked readers complain?

Oddly enough, n.o.body ever wrote in to say, "What in the h.e.l.l are you doing parodying Dragnet and [1950s sitcom] My Little Margie?"

Cracked was a strange place. They had a consistent, revolving audience of nine- and ten-year-old kids who would innocently pick it up at the grocery store for a year or two before moving on. In the front section of each issue there would be photos of children holding up their issues of Cracked, or posing in front of giant Sylvester P. Smythe birthday cakes with confused, lukewarm smiles on their faces.

I also remember that one of the publishers had a vanity plate that read "Cracked Man." Sad, but also kind of charming, I suppose.

Cracked did achieve one note of distinction: It managed to somehow convince longtime Mad cartoonist Don Martin to leave Mad and join Cracked in 1988. Mad is still upset about this.

I know. There was some below-radar talk about lawsuits, but I don't think they had any real claim. They were furious. Don had been there for more than thirty years.

I remember Cracked throwing this big, fancy dinner for Mr. and Mrs. Don Martin in an attempt to woo them over to the other side. Don's wife was really a character. She acted as his agent and was angry about the way Mad had treated her husband. She thought Mad paid too little. They wouldn't allow Don to own the rights to his own work. Companies would call Don and ask, "Can we make a calendar with your work?" and he'd have to say no.

Both were very happy to jump ship. Don received a little more money per page-I think a hundred dollars more-and he regained the rights to his own work, which was more important.

How happy was Don Martin at Cracked?

As far as I could tell, he was happy. I don't think he ever seemed to notice that Mad was respected, whereas Cracked was loathed.

I left Cracked in the early nineties. Once my own comics started to get published by Fantagraphics Books-first with Lloyd Llewellyn and then with Eightball-I started to receive freelance offers from The Village Voice and Entertainment Weekly and other magazines.

You became one of the first comic artists to contribute to Esquire magazine-or, really, to any major, mainstream magazine. What year was this?

Dave Eggers, who was an editor for Esquire then-but who had not yet written his first book [A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Simon & Schuster, 2000] or published the first issue of his literary journal McSweeney's-wanted me to create a comic for Esquire's fiction issue in '98. The story was called "Green Eyeliner," about a slightly unhinged young woman who was arrested for pulling out a gun in a crowded movie theater.

The fact that Esquire would even publish a comic for "adults" in their fiction issue was really a big deal, it turned out. No one remembers the actual specifics of that comic, only that it was published.

I wonder why it was such a big deal-your comics had been out for years by that point.

It was one of the many "comics aren't just for kids and fat collector creeps anymore" moments in what has become never-ending fodder for journalists.

Did you ever imagine that you'd one day be producing covers for The New Yorker or have a serial comic strip in The New York Times Magazine?

Back in the early Eightball days? Never in a million years.

Your strip, Mister Wonderful, about a shy middle-aged man on a blind date, ran in The New York Times Magazine in nineteen installments, beginning September 2007 and ending February 2008. How was it received?

I've received more response to Christmas cards. The New York Times didn't have a comments section on their website at the time, but the editors told me that they received some nice letters-although, of course, I never saw any of them.

It's interesting: I'll receive a lot more of a reaction when something appears on a small website than I will when something's published in a major magazine or newspaper. The easier it is for a reader to contact you, the more responses you receive.

Maybe that's a good thing. I have a feeling that a lot of the responses to Mister Wonderful would have been negative. It's amazing how sensitive newspaper readers are when it comes to humor. If you look at the syndicated comics, you have to wonder who reads that sort of thing. One would think editors would want to lure readers back to the comics section again, but they're just so terrified of one negative letter.

Were you given free rein by the Times to write whatever you wanted with Mister Wonderful?

As far as subject matter, they never said a word, but they were very touchy about language-their little "stylebook" is very important to them. Aside from Jesus, for instance, I wasn't allowed to use the word schmuck. Mad's been using the word for fifty years! It's not as if I were using it in the Yiddish sense: "Wow, that guy has a huge c.o.c.k!" I even found an old William Safire column from The New York Times Magazine about schmuck. He wrote something like, "The original meaning of the word has long ago been forgotten, and it's commonly accepted for general use."

I showed this to the editors, but they told me, "No. We can't run the word." I could have acted like an a.s.shole and told them I was going to end the strip halfway through, but this was a really good a.s.signment for cartoonists. I didn't want to be the guy who killed it for everyone else.

I suppose you have to play the game.

Sometimes that can be a good thing. I was restricted-but this restriction ultimately helped the comic. I wasn't allowed to use the words Jesus or G.o.d, but once I was faced with having to replace them, I got more focused on what the character was actually trying to say-or not say-and I realized how much of a crutch the "Jesuses" had become. The central character was a repressed middle-aged guy who was terrible with women, so any time he was further repressed by not being allowed to fully relieve his frustration it only helped.

When I worked on the movie Ghost World [in 2000], there were restrictions that you wouldn't believe. For instance, we weren't allowed to show a painting of comedian Don Knotts-unless we had Don Knotts give us permission. It's all about rights, clearances, lawyers. We wanted a character to sing "Happy Birthday to You"-but we couldn't unless we paid something like ten thousand dollars, so we just cut the scene.

In comparison, not being allowed to use certain words in a comic strip became no big deal. You have to work with the situation you're given.

In 2010, you published Wilson, a graphic novel that centered on a middle-aged man oblivious to social cues. He may be one of the most obnoxious characters in comic history. One panel ends with him saying out loud, on a playground: "Hey! Can you get that brat to shut up for two f.u.c.king seconds!?" And yet I read that you came up with this character as you sat next to your dying father. True?

Yeah. Around that time, I had read a quote from Charles Schulz that was something like, "A real pro cartoonist can sit down at the board for a few minutes and come up with a funny strip." And so I was kind of testing myself to see how fast I could write a bunch of joke comics that were actually funny-at least to me. My dad was in many ways very similar to Schulz, and a big fan of Peanuts, and so in retrospect I guess I was trying to gain the old man's approval.

Every story in Wilson is only one page. They remind me, in their rhythm, of syndicated comics or even Mad pieces. But the material is obviously much darker: death, failed hopes and dreams, inability to connect. It's an interesting combination, similar to hearing canned laughter during a drama.

I'm blind to the darkness. I just genuinely thought the strips in the book were either funny or moving in some way. That format seemed to work for the character, but it's unlikely I'd ever use anything exactly like that for another strip.

What do you think you tapped into while sitting in that hospital? Was it a meditative state?

It was more of a burst of creativity that you can have when trapped in a situation that's both boring and anxiety-inducing. I used to think about enrolling in college courses in subjects I had no interest in so I would be able to achieve that state of restless boredom.

Early in your career, did you find that readers had a difficult time labeling you? The type of work you produced wasn't your typical style of a traditional comic.

They still have a difficult time. I've been called everything from a graphic novelist to a comic-strip novelist to just a cartoonist. I've always preferred cartoonist, because that seems the least obnoxious.

I used to tell people I was a comic-book artist, but they'd look at me as if I'd just stepped in dog s.h.i.t and walked across their Oriental rug. I never knew what to call myself, but I was always opposed to the whole "graphic novelist" label. To me it just seemed like a scam. I always felt that people would say, "Wait a minute! This is just a comic book!" But now I've given up. Call me whatever you want.

When you started, the graphic novel was such a new form. Growing up, where did you even find inspiration for something like this?

Well, there were a few people doing this as early as the seventies. There was a writer and ill.u.s.trator named Justin Green who wrote and ill.u.s.trated a comic book called Binky Brown Meets the Holy Virgin Mary, which was published in 1972. It's about a young boy living within the strict confines of his Catholic upbringing as he deals with his s.e.xual awakening and severe OCD symptoms.

Art Spiegelman has claimed that Binky Brown influenced his Maus books.

The Binky Brown comic was out of print for many years, but it's not as difficult to find as it used to be. It is definitely worth buying. I was around sixteen when I discovered it, and, truthfully, I didn't understand it at first. A friend told me that it was the greatest comic ever, but I was not raised Catholic. It was kind of over my head. Then I reread it when I was in my twenties and I really connected with it.

People say that Binky Brown is the first autobiographical comic book. I'm not sure if that's exactly true, but, at the very least, it is extremely personal and wonderful.

What were some of your other comic influences when you were growing up?

I have a brother who is ten years older than me, and he gave me his stack of comics from the late fifties and the early sixties-a lot of horror and sci-fi and c.r.a.ppy superhero comics. I never watched TV until I was older. I was obsessed with a lot of early Marvel Comics and DC Comics.

When I was about twenty-one or twenty-two, I bought The Official Marvel Comics Try-Out Book, which had a bunch of professionally penciled comic pages printed on good paper. Some of the pages were unfinished to give young artists a chance to ink and color a "pro" drawing. It seemed like it would be fun to test my skills on a few pages of Spider-Man swinging through 1970s New York on his webs. That lasted for about fifteen minutes and then I started giving all the characters afros and exposed t.i.ts.

Which did you prefer, Marvel or DC?

I liked DC comics, such as Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen and Superman's Girl Friend Lois Lane, because they were about "real" people, with the superhero stuff in the background. I never quite got into superheroes-except on kind of a Pop Art level. I just never got into the fighting. What I found more interesting was the romance and the attempts at conveying some kind of reality in this absurd universe. Like Superboy's dad still working at the general store, even though his son could take over the world-things like that. My friends were the exact opposite. They used to say, "G.o.d, who cares about this romance? Get to the punching!"

And, actually, you know what I liked even more? Regular people yearning to become superheroes.

And perhaps failing?

Oh, that I would have found especially fascinating.

Was it always your intention to become a cartoonist?

I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I really wanted to be a cartoonist, but there was no market for anything I was interested in doing. I just couldn't see myself drawing newspaper strips or working for Marvel Comics. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and being petrified: What's going to happen to me? What am I going to do?

I mean, to this day, I have no skills beyond those within the narrow confines of what I do.

So you were laying it all on the line for this?

My parents were like, "Are you sure you want to do this?" It was a ridiculous career choice, which I should have known early on in my life. Thankfully, it took a very long time to hit me just how ridiculous it was.

At what point did you notice that people were beginning to understand what a graphic novel actually meant?

For me, there was a sea change by 2001 or 2002, around the time the Ghost World movie was released. Average citizens like my parents' neighbors started to say things like, "Oh, you do graphic novels! I love [Art Spiegelman's] Maus!" A few years earlier, they would have thought of me as the lowest p.o.r.nographer.

I a.s.sume you never had any interest in creating a syndicated strip for newspapers?

No, that's a whole different genre-an entirely different genus of cartoonist. The ones I've met tend to be these odd, suburban, country-club types. And just because the format worked with audiences in the 1920s doesn't mean it's still the greatest idea today.

It's not very appealing. To create these four-panel increments, day in and day out, week after week, I just don't see how you could accomplish anything of note.

Were there any syndicated cartoonists that had an influence on you?

I guess Peanuts would be the obvious one, though I never read it in the paper. Nancy was the only strip I read every day throughout my childhood, and it had quite an impact. As the Mad cartoonist Wally Wood said about Nancy, "By the time you decided not to read it, you already had." I think that's something I always keep in mind with my own comics-always opt for clarity and simplicity.

You grew up pre-Internet. To what degree do you think the Internet has changed comics?

I'm not really sure. There are comics now being created on the Internet, but I'm not interested in reading that sort of thing. I'd just rather wait until it's printed. I don't like the aesthetics of seeing something like that lit up on the screen. That's just my personal take on it-I don't expect anybody else to not read Internet comics for that reason.

One thing I've found about the Internet is that it's very distracting to cartoonists-myself included. Most cartoonists are just looking for any excuse for a distraction. This type of work can be so lonely and tedious and frustrating at various stages of the process.

If I had had a computer in high school, I would no doubt have become obsessed and literally thrown away twenty years of my life. I would not be here talking with you. I would be sitting in front of a TV playing Grand Theft Auto. I would have done nothing.

You really wouldn't have become a cartoonist?

I don't think so; I really don't. I would have been way too busy trying to talk to girls in chat rooms. Why would I ever have bothered with comics? I can't imagine.

Do you work alone?

Yes.

You don't have a.s.sistants at your disposal, like many syndicated newspaper cartoonists?

No, no. I'd love to hire an a.s.sistant, but only to do the lowest s.h.i.t work. I don't have the right temperament to have an a.s.sistant. I'd feel bad criticizing them, and I'd wind up accepting work I wasn't happy with.

I do like the idea of having a whole studio of artists and forcing them to draw in my style and cranking out these huge books every year, but I know I'd never be happy with that. They'd never get it right, and I'd wind up doing everything myself anyway.

Who do you bounce your ideas off of?

I don't. That's part of the fun.

I've tried in the past to gauge people's reactions, and n.o.body is really honest. I'm not the sort of person who would encourage somebody to be brutally honest; I may really like what I created and not want to hear anything bad. I have to just go with my own instincts. They're not always right, but I'd rather do that than be swayed by somebody who might just be in a bad mood or have these reasons I don't necessarily agree with.

Also, the work becomes more specific if you work alone, more singular.

I'd think that as a comic-book artist you'd have to really commit to an idea. Once you put an idea down onto paper, it would be difficult to tweak it-unless you worked on a computer.

No, I draw everything by hand. But that's right. To change it once you start the process is literally impossible-unless you just start over from the beginning.

What I'll usually do is start with an outline. I try to get the beats of the plot figured out, and from there I just wing it. At a certain point, a cartoonist will have a sense of how long and what rhythm a strip should be. You don't really need to break it down further than that.

Often, when I'm halfway through a story, I realize that if I went in a more promising direction, the strip would have been a lot more interesting. When that happens, rather than starting over, I switch gears. It's exciting to work that way. It's one of the few things about drawing comics that actually is exciting.