Monthly Stumblings # 21: Stefano Ricci

La storia dell’Orso (the bear’s story) by Stefano Ricci

Some comics artists find the word balloons annoying. To them, it’s an intrusion in the purity of the drawings; holes in the composition, so to speak. This pushed them to find solutions to minimize the word balloon’s weight in the panel. Hal Foster, below, for instance, eliminated the word balloon altogether including captions and spoken captions (in italics between quotation marks) in the same caption box.

Hal Foster, "Prince Valiant" Sunday Page, panel 3, December 21, 1952.

Hal Foster, “Prince Valiant” Sunday Page, December 21, 1952. 

 

Hal Foster, Prince Valiant Sunday Page, January 7, 1956. Another procedure used by Foster: the elimination of the caption box putting the caption in a negative space.

Federico del Barrio, below, used the upper part of the panels, contiguous to the gutters, with a very discreet tail, to put the direct speech, freeing the images from the balloons’ intrusion.

Felipe Hernandez Cava (w), Federico del Barrio (a), Lope de Aguirre, La conjura [Lope de Aguirre, the conspiracy], Ikusager, 1993.

Felipe Hernandez Cava (w), Federico del Barrio (a), Lope de Aguirre, La conjura [Lope de Aguirre, the conspiracy], Ikusager, 1993.

La storia dell’Orso by Stefano Ricci was first published in French as L’histoire de l’Ours (Futuropolis, 2014). The Italian edition, by Quodlibet, followed shortly after four refusals from other publishers. It definitely is, in my opinion, one of the best graphic novels published last year.

Stefano Ricci, La storia dell'Orso [the bear's story], Quodlibet, 2014.

Stefano Ricci, La storia dell’Orso [the bear’s story], Quodlibet, 2014.

La storia dell’Orso is a graphic novel in cinemascope: every drawing is a double-page spread.  Stefano Ricci has nothing against word balloons (his are computer lettered white fonts on a dark sepia background – the color of the grizzly), but, most of the times, he strategically puts them – single or coupled by connectors  – on the right or on the left hand of his drawings.

Stefano’s innovation is the use of the page margin (see below) to achieve a counterpoint of narrative voices, sometimes diverging and sometimes converging with the images and the word balloons.

Orso3

The bear referred to in the title is Bruno (a name that also means “brown” as in “brown bear”), famous in Italy, Slovenia, Austria and Germany for a while in 2006. Bruno was born in Italy as part of the Life-Ursus project in Adamello-Brenta park. It roamed between Austria and Germany for a while until, in spite of the World Wildlife Fund’s efforts, it was hunted down in Bavaria.

Stefano Ricci was living in Germany (Hamburg) at the time (he is Anke Feuchtenberger’s partner) and so, in his own words, connected with Bruno’s story at some level.

There are five main stories being told in the book: Bruno’s; Stefano’s (a Ricci alter-ego who writes letters to Stella reporting his travels in Pomerania – these are readable on the page margins) and is also a rabbit performing community service in an ambulance; Enrico [Tinti]’s and Sirio [Ricci]’s life stories during the American invasion of Italy in WWII (Enrico and Sirio were fascists who deserted the German army); Manfred’s (during the fall of the GDR). Bruno’s and Stefano’s stories are the only ones being enacted, all the other stories are told in the first person to Bruno or Manfred. Another story was told by boars on one of Manfred’s tapes. Yet another narrating a dream is told to Bruno by Anke (a Anke Feuchtenberger alter-ego).

Anke and Manfred (an alter-ego of Heinz Meinhardt, a GDR ethologist) are the only humans who help Bruno.

Manfred and Anke

Humanized animals (a grizzly bear, a rabbit, a chimpanzee, a dog), boars that talk: we must be in the fable realm. Stefano helps the reader, who expects verisimilitude, to decode the visual metaphor: Renzo, the ambulance driver and Stefano’s co-worker, calls him “the rabbit” because, according to him, Stefano is always scared. So, this is the ages old procedure of disguising people as animals giving them the latter’s humanized character traits. The boars though, are just wild boars, it’s Manfred who understands them. (This isn’t the time nor place to study all the very complex focalizations of this graphic novel, but this is one of the most interesting: the reader reads the boars’ speech balloons with Manfred’s mind.)

Bruno as man-dog-panda at the beginning of the book and Bruno as bear, after hibernating, at the end.

Bruno as man-dog-panda at the beginning of the book
and Bruno as grizzly bear, after hibernating, at the end.

When characters just tell their stories talking heads were to be expected, but are out of the question for Stefano Ricci. What he shows us are the storytellers talking while they walk in the landscape. Or, even more interesting, in one of the sequences the words have one focalization (Ernesto’s) and the drawings have another (Bruno’s or the ocularizer’s when it’s following Bruno). The landscape, by the way, is a true character. It is one of the most important characters even…

Stefano Ricci’s drawing style reminds its roots in animation — the paint-on-glass technique specifically. It’s interesting to note, as an aside, how many avant-garde European comics artists were seduced by this technique; I mean the Fréon artists Thierry van Hasselt and Vincent Fortemps, mainly). Parts of La storia dell’Orso were also animated.

The dog is detached from the background in order to be animated.

The dog is detached from the background in order to be animated. The trees are constant vertical and horizontal visual barriers.

Stefano Ricci’s drawing style is materic and sensual, but, at the same time, creates a distance that reminds of a strangeness (the feeling that something is not quite right) akin to mute cinema. Not showing the characters’ faces – darkening them – also helps the estrangement.

As I put it above, the humanized animals could be a reference to fables… It’s not exactly what happens here though. Stefano Ricci’s inspiration came from Shamanic culture. Since he admired Heinz Meinhardt’s work he chose him to be the story’s shaman linking the human and the animal world.

Being the original habitat of the grizzly bear, the forest is now humanized: the landscape is punctuated by roads, railroads, houses. Created by a well intentioned human program the bear is not allowed to show its true nature. The humans in the story also mirror the absurd feeling of “not belonging” symbolized by the bear: either because they are being chased (Enrico and Sirio) or because they have to adapt to a completely different set of political circumstances (Manfred when the GDR was united with the West) or because of losing territorial references (Stefano). As Michel Foucault put it (in Le courage de la verité – the courage of truth, 244):

It was by distinguishing himself from animality that the human being affirmed and manifested his humanity. Animality was always a point of repulsion in this constitution of man as a human being endowed with reason.

Stefano Ricci tells us that we may very well substitute “animality” with “being on the wrong side of a war or a revolution,” “belonging to a minority,” “being an immigrant,” you name it… We construct ourselves by not being them… And that’s the root of violence…

The hunter and his spider web.

The hunter and his spider web.

Original Art: A Short Note on Hal Foster

Of late, I’ve been revisiting a number of Hal Foster originals. In so doing, I’ve occasionally noted a certain resemblance between Foster’s work on Tarzan and the pencil sketches he did for John Cullen Murphy as he was handing over the reigns of Prince Valiant to his chosen successor. These sketches were never meant for public consumption but have since reached the collector’s market. Foster’s pencil drawings are like notes to an essay, a more relaxed and open conversation with his collaborator and now, with the passage of time, his readers. In some ways, a Foster Tarzan Sunday might be said to be a few steps closer to the raw ideas of the artist.

[Detail from a Hal Foster Pencil Prelim]

Continue reading

A Nostalgia for Racism?

A few months ago, I chanced upon a piece of art which was up for sale at one of Russ Cochran’s on-line comic art auctions. It was a Hal Foster drawn Tarzan Sunday which is usually an event in original art collecting because of the rarity of such samples.

As you can see, it is a fairly reasonable example of Foster’s art on Tarzan. It was, however, a no-go area for me whatever my feelings for Foster’s artistry. The reasons are simple: this piece of art would not have given me any pleasure and I would have been embarrassed to put it on display in my apartment. I simply don’t have the blindness or nostalgia for racism which allows for an enjoyment of this kind of art. There’s the Aryan beauty standing before the squat depravity that is the Cannibal Chief and later the rather simian qualities of the cannibal tribe as they howl for blood. I have as little passion for the subject matter as I would a depiction of bestiality. There are many pit holes in collecting original art but this particular aspect is less often highlighted. After all, wouldn’t most comic art collectors salivate over the original art to this Frazetta-drawn cover…

…with its razor-toothed natives within an inch of pawing at the white female’s succulent breasts? Any objections would be easily dismissed with the notion that these were more gentle and less enlightened times where such stereotypes were the norm. And clearly they were. The fact that the art displays beautiful draftsmanship and is historically important ensures that such aspects are easily brushed under the carpet. A collector friend of mine who finds such images unpleasant was less happy with this easy acceptance which obviates concerns for subject matter. He placed a comment on this Frazetta cover (when it was displayed on Comic Art Fans) comparing it to Alan Moore and David Lloyd’s depiction of Storm Saxon in V for Vendetta.

As many readers will know, there is a whole area of collecting known as Jungle Girl art of which one of the prime examples must be this particular piece by Dave Stevens:

It’s all in good fun, both mocking homage and parody. It would seem churlish by some to find these items in any way offensive. There are of course people who collect “coon” art for historical purposes (which is absolutely valid) and others because it gives them pleasure. I don’t find the latter aspect particularly respectable.

Another story in the same vein which I chanced upon recently is “Yellow Heat” by Bruce Jones and Russ Heath from Vampirella #58 (Mar. 1977) the scans of which can be found here). The entire story was sold at a Heritage auction for $4370 in 2002

The story is one of Jones’ best remembered from Vampirella in part because of Heath’s lovely hyper-realistic art but mostly because of its twist ending. [I would suggest that those unfamiliar with “Yellow Heat” read the story before continuing with this article.] You’ll find two appreciations of “Yellow Heat” here and here. The Comics Journal message board regular Mike Hunter describes the effect as such:

“Bruce Jones and Russ Heath wreaking havoc with our “we humans are all alike, after all” expectations in “Yellow Heat”.”

Jones uses a number of tricks of sleight of hand to achieve the shock ending in this story. Part of the justification for the ending would appear to lie in the first page where a sort of incipient famine and breakdown in society is described. Jones’ script in the first panel would however suggest that the famine has not arrived and that these are much more bountiful times. The Masai warriors don’t look malnourished in the least which lessens the impact of this early description and any expectations of its relevance. There is also the description of the captive lady as a “beauty” and Heath’s great depiction of the same which effectively throws off the reader.

The confluence of a familiar coming of age story mixed with an unexpected twisting of facts and sensibilities is also a factor. These issues would be further heightened for readers familiarizing themselves with this story for the first time in the 21st century. With a greater appreciation for distant cultures, many readers would be cognizant of the fact that the Masai do not practice cannibalism and would not expect such a denouement. Others would realize that such accusations of cannibalism were often used by white colonialist as an excuse for their excesses thus eliminating such a possibility from their minds. Nor would the modern day reader (or one during the 70s I suspect) expect any writer to produce such blatantly racist caricatures of Africans in the final two panels. Readers perusing a Warren magazine in the 70s would probably be familiar with the elevated ideals of the EC line where stories like “Judgment Day” saw publication. Few readers would expect a backward looking ethos and this makes the ending that much more surprising. Perhaps it might be a useful exercise for readers to imagine a gentle story about Jews taking care of orphaned children during the Black Death before eating them in the story’s final panel. Children aren’t as delectable as beautiful African women but you get what I mean.

While I haven’t read any interviews with Campbell or Heath concerning the genesis of “Yellow Heat”, my suspicion is that there must be some explanation for the strange sensibility on display here. The story was, after all, created during the 70s and not the early 20th century when popular art was considerably less informed. It is entirely possible that “Yellow Heat” was created out of naiveté and plain wrong-headedness but it is also possible that it was born of a flippant underground sensibility – a remark on the excesses of the past (though it has to be said, nothing in the story even suggest this). In many ways, it is much more educational to read these stories “blind” than to rely on any form of stated authorial intent.

There are better examples of these kinds of cultural jibes from more recent times like Robert Crumb’s “When the Niggers Take Over America!” which is so hysterical in its excesses, all but the most simple-minded would mistake it for anything but satire.

There’s also the notable example of Chaland’s An African Adventure where every form of jungle imbued racism is brought forth.

There are the malevolent natives…

….and there’s this scene where a tribesman is slapped:

It should be clear to most readers that the only person taking a slap here is Hergé and Tintin in the Congo.

On the other hand, it would appear to many readers that Jones, Heath and Foster were drawing from the same well with respect to their imagery – the corpulent chief and malicious cannibals in both Tarzan and “Yellow Heat” being the prime examples. On a purely textural basis, Jones and Heath’s story is truly ambiguous in its racial sensitivity. Is “Yellow Heat” actually quite factual (this seems impossible), the product of a more enlightened age where having fun with racial stereotypes is perfectly acceptable (perhaps a satire; I’m sure certain African Americans would find it harmless enough) or is it symptomatic of something much less wholesome?