Author: Cedar Weyker

I really liked this book because I think it accurately portrays several different aspects of the immigrant experience from a very personal, individualistic perspective. One of my favorite pages is the one that features the protagonist unpacking his suitcase in his new apartament. As he puts things away, he peers into the suitcase and sees his wife and daughter sitting in their kitchen. This is a metapicture, and I think it’s fitting to close out this course with themes we’ve discussed from the very beginning. As the reader watches him watch his family, they are reminded of the very essence of pictures and drawings: to create a scene or situation that speaks to us. Through all of the objects he unpacks (which we get in separate panels), a composite situation is created; home. Just like the book itself, a collection of images/things that creates an overall feeling or message, a suitcase is a collection of items that construct identity and place.

A suitcase may be a picture book of character, of life, of location. Assembled together, all of its elements hint at a life, a story. All of our possessions serve to create a narrative of where we’ve been and who we are.

One of the really interesting things about this book is its visual representation of the human voice. Each character has a different style speech bubble that reflects their personality and “reality.” In the above panel, we get a few examples. Asterios’ box is square and rigid, with straight, forceful font that mirrors his no-nonsense, inflexible approaching to life. Hana’s bubble is curved and “feminine”, the font graceful, calm, and smooth. The text depicts her sensitivity, empathy, and relative passivity in comparison with Asterios. Willy Ilium’s bubble is misshapen and irregular, with a bold font that reflects his eccentric and dramatic personality.

Near the end of the book, Asterios and Hana’s speech bubbles intertwine to create a new kind of font, signalling their mutual understanding:

One of the most compelling instances occurs while Asterios is dreaming. In the “Road” chapter near the end of the book, Asterios has a dream while he’s in the hospital in which his brother Ignazio appears in his place and begins to recount the story of Astetios’ life as if it had been his. However, we can differentiate between the two thanks to their speech bubbles (at least in the beginning). Ignazio’s speech bubble has font similar to Asterios’, but it is ultimately larger and italicised. This is the same font used in the narrative sequences because, as we know, Ignazio is the narrator of this story (or is he?!). Ignazio’s speech bubbles have a cloud-like, curved aspect in stark contrast with Asterios’ boxy, rigid, speech that signals his imaginary, ethereal existence. Ignazio’s words are very similar to Asterios’, but they come from on high, from the “clouds”, and have a physically larger, more epic presence.

However, as the scene progresses, Asterios becomes increasingly agitated (Ignazio is trying to steal his life…!) and Ignazio’s speech bubbles become more box-like, the font smaller and straighter. He begins to adopt Asterios’ speech. Soon, the two characters’ speech bubbles are indistinguishable, and Asterios becomes violent. Ignazio has uncovered the truth of Asterios’ existence, has described in simple terms the very essence of his life and struggles, and the stylistic aspect of his speech reflects that. The merging of these two binaries seems to affect the waking life of Asterios. It is after this dream that he decides he is “going somewhere”, and attempts to find Hana.

 

While flipping through Amphigorey once again, I attempted to figure out why I found it so funny. What makes Amphigorey so darkly hilarious? I think a lot of it may have to do with his choice of language, his speech patterns, and their relationship with the genre/visual presentation.

Gorey’s writing has a quietly ironic, self-mocking air. The narrative world is set in the Victorian era, and when we think of this period of time we often imagine the self-involved, regimented, stifled, and posh upper class.  When we think of writing from the 19th century, we think of ostentatious vocabulary, a stoic and ambiguous treatment of uncouth/inappropriate subjects, unnecessarily long sentences, and “proper” vocabulary. Every one of us could mock, when asked, old-timey speech patterns, and we often do so quite frequently.

Gorey utilizes these speech patterns and reinforces them with Victorian era images/characters. E.g.: “He must be mad to go on enduring the unexquisite agony of writing when it all turns out drivel.” The vocabulary he chooses helps to create this world steeped in the past: “oysters with trifle”? Who eats oysters with trifle these days? Additionally, people rarely “loiter in a distraught manner.” Seeing this type of language combined with childlike pictures and dark themes creates a contrast between presentation and connotation. Individuals in the Victorian era existed within a strict social code, a code that forbade impropriety, blatant sexuality, and discussion of “unpleasant” topics. They most likely would not have discussed “Prue, trampled flat in a brawl” in polite conversation, would have been astonished by the dark humor in The Fatal Lozenge. The triviality of Gorey’s details mimic the superficial, delicate conversation of the Victorian era, and conflicts with the decidedly serious, disturbing topics. The incongruity of these elements creates a ironic, amusing, uncomfortable jolt.

This is, by now, an established genre: mixing children’s books with macabre, dismal themes in a semi-fantastical Victorian setting. I was immediately reminded of A Series of Unfortunate Events. The books include illustrations, but they are mostly text. You can definitely see how “Lemony Snicket” (a pseudonym, just like Gorey often used) draws heavily from Gorey. Here are some pictures of the artwork (paratext!):

Snicket writes in a similar manner. Some quotes from the books in the series:

“If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats.”

“Assumptions are dangerous things to make, and like all dangerous things to make – bombs, for instance, or strawberry shortcake – if you make even the tiniest mistake you can find yourself in terrible trouble.”

“It is one of the peculiar truths of life that people often say things that they know full well are ridiculous.”

Did you guys read these books, too? What do you think?

In Une Semaine de Bonté, Max Ernst presents us with many human-beast composites. The broad term for these creatures (according to Wikipedia) is Chimera, and although our Western understanding of these manifestations mainly comes from Greco-Roman tradition/mythology, depictions of beings composed of disparate body parts is a universal trope.

He focuses on birds, especially in Jeudi (Thursday): Le noir (blackness) and Mercredi (Wednesday): Le sang (blood).

My question: what are the cultural and literary implications of turning into a bird? What do birds traditionally symbolize, and how does Ernst manipulate artistic/cultural paradigms to add meaning to his novel?

A popular motif in Greco-Roman and, later, Victorian art is the Harpy. The harpies were typically birds with women’s heads. They are wind spirits–sometimes hideous hags, sometimes beautiful young women–known to scoop people up and carry them off as punishment. William Blake depicts these creatures in one of his last works:

How do other monsters and mystical figures, like the Gorgons or Harpies, contrast with one of the most popular chimeric avian-human transformations: the angel (in addition to winged Greco-Roman figures such as Mercury/Hermes, Cupid/Eros)? Ernst clearly juxtaposes the angelic association of wings and birds with the base and disturbing actions of his characters.

I’m a very involved reader. While reading a book (or an article, or a packet, etc.), I flip through the pages with the thumb and index finger of my right hand, intermittenly stopping to smell the pages (if I like how they smell). Reactions vacillate between amusement and annoyance as the flurry of flipping pages escalates in intensity from the pleasant trickle of a distant stream to the insistent humming of a manic bumblebee. It’s an idiosyncrasy that I’ve had as long as I can remember.

When we discussed hand scrolls in class, we described them as a tactile reading experience; the reader slowly reveals the evolution of the narrative as she unfurls the scroll. It is perhaps a more immersive, personal experience than the way Westerners read.

But what about those of us who physically interact with our books? For me, my hypnotic ritual is completely involuntary and has become complete necessary to my reading experience. I find that if I can’t bend/flip through my books, I can’t concentrate on what I’m reading. I need to feel the pages between my fingers, and, yes, shove my face into the spine to get a good sniff every once and a while. When I go to the bookstore or the library, one of my first reactions is to smell each book I pick up. It is for this reason that I always have to print the pdfs and course readings that teachers put on Blackboard.

Maybe I’m creating white noise to soothe myself, or maybe I’m just trying to catapult myself into the literary world, using the pages as a springboard. When I was younger, before I could read, I would have my mom read me library books until I memorized the general plot. Then, I would walk around the room, flipping pages back and forth and pretending to read the words aloud. So, for me, reading has always been a tactile experience. A lot of my friends and family think these habits are funny, but many of them have their own reading quirks.

Books may not be handscrolls, but they certainly are a very physical experience, even if you’re not as crazy as I am. How does the digital world affect our reading experiences? What are your weird reading habits?

As a Hispanic Studies/Comparative Literature double major, I feel like my entire college career has prepared me for this moment. I find it fascinating to read and interpret this bilingual text, especially since, as the professor mentioned on Wednesday, translations can be problematic.

Something I always valued about the Comparative Literature major (RIP) was its intensive multilingual requirement. I think being able to read texts in their original language is a very important tool. Much is lost in translation and dialectal variability: ideophones, idioms, sarcasm, slang. I really appreciate this opportunity to compare a translation with its original in a classroom setting.

One particular translation that I found fascinating was the 32nd plate. The title says, “Porque fue sensible” which translates to “Because she was susceptible.” However, “sensible” more directly translates to “sensitive.” Perhaps the word was used differently 300+ years ago. It would be interesting to study the changes in lexicon. In this case, the word “susceptible” doesn’t dramatically alter the meaning of the image.

In 48, the caption reads “Soplones,” which means tattle tales/rats. It comes from the verb soplar, which means “to blow.” The engraving depicts flying witches/demon spreading meaningless gossip. However, the English translation adds extra descriptions: “Tale-bearers–Blasts of wind.” This isn’t a mis-translation, but I think it’s always interesting to note how languages vary. In referencing the verb “soplar”, “soplón” aquires a visual, rather comical description of the act of speaking (blowing air about) and the augmentative ending “ón” functions as a superlative noun that emphasizes the intensity of this act. The word’s literal definition would be close to: “someone who blows a lot of air.” We don’t, to my knowledge, have one word in English that can describe this particular idea. The difference in translation here highlights the diversity of language due to idiomatic and referencial differences. I think that’s really really cool.

Panel 71, the original caption reads, “Si amanece; nos vamos,” which translates to: “If day breaks, we will be off.” However, the book uses this translation: “When day breaks we will be off.” Not sure why that change was necessary.

 

I hope we spend some time on translation in class on Monday.

I think this workshop was very eye-opening. I could barely figure out how to trace a pre-made historiated letter, let alone sketch it by hand. If it took so much time and concentration just to do my one, silly little letter, how much more difficult must it have been for the monks who had to blend their own paints, make their own paper, craft their own writing utensils, draw their own designs, and sit in the middle of a freezing room?

Can you even imagine how frustrating it would’ve been to mess up? Every action must have been carefully thought through. We’re so lucky that we have resources that make messing up irrelevant. We can just grab another piece of paper or remix some paint. These days, so much of the creation process is streamlined that even when we create we’re only doing half the work. Of course, it’s unlikely that one scribe would make all of his supplies, paper, and paint every time–we learned about how they divided up the work. But they definitely knew the value of their materials.

Meanwhile, we can’t even be bothered to throw unused paper in the recycling bin.

This chapter is so meta (that’s so meta = new sitcom about psychic liberal arts students struggling with the everyday pitfalls of aesthetic discernment?), especially considering today’s modern printmaking industry. In fact, all of the chapters in this book narrated from the perspective of drawings have incredibly meta undertones.

Consider this: A drawing of a tree speaks to us from its position on a piece of parchment.

First level: A drawing bluntly postulates, criticizes, and yearns with human intensity. This drawing has, in other words, become its own autonomous entity, an organism with emotions and perspective.

However, this tree “thanks Allah” (51) that he has not been drawn in the Frankish style, a style that allows viewers to “correctly select” one particular tree out of many. He is relieved to have been depicted in a uniform way, and is sad to have been ripped from the pages of a book–an action that calls attention to his individuality on display–but “secretly takes pride” (47) in the thought that men will prostrate themselves before his uniqueness.

Despite his embarrassment for wanting individuality, he has certainly achieved it. The tree is its own being, come to life through artistic expression. Our ability to listen to this internal struggle proves his autonomous, individual thought.

This could possibly be a comment the individual nature of all drawings. Despite the fact that several master illuminators worked to paint the Tree in a disjunct, interrupted manner (the way illuminators divide work in their professional workshops), and from memory, the Tree has achieved an individual flair. The divided composition of this drawing, meant to dissuade prideful illuminators from adding personal flair to their creations, has nevertheless produced an individual being. Does this comment on the impossibility of removing individuality from artistic expression? We know from Master Osman, for example, that even the best illuminators make mistakes, and that these mistakes become signatures (253).

Second level: In many of my literature classes at Hamilton, we’ve discussed the voyeuristic qualities of book reading. The readers watch delightedly as a series of events unfold, completely invisible to the actors and judge the episodes of the plot privately. Observers enjoy this same voyeuristic perspective when viewing images, be it in art galleries, or at home on the sofa.

But this Tree, with all of its individuality, speculates about his own creation, observes his several different owners, and even speaks to the reader/viewer. He converses with us:

“My request is that you look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?”” – p. 49

The tree watches us. Who is the reader, and who is the read? The tree also watches itself:

“I am a tree and I am quite lonely. I weep in the rain. […] At this moment, there are no other slender trees beside me, no seven-leaf steppe plants, no dark billowing rock formations which at times resemble Satan or a man and no coiling Chinese clouds. Just the ground, the sky, myself and the horizon.” – p. 47

Is the tree reading itself to produce this ekphrasis? When we describe ourselves, are we not describing the image of the self, and also performing ekphrasis? Are we the readers of our own books?

This level reinforces the individuality of the tree and calls into question our own role as readers.

Third level: The tree’s existence comments on the relationship between words and pictures.

The tree is a drawing, but expresses itself with words. We associate it with a picture (it is an image) His existence encompasses thought (words) and the pictoral realm. If this tree is an individual with human thoughts, does this quandry extend to our own existence? Are we all both drawing and text?

Fourth level: Although I’m uncertain, I assume that the parchments of the Ottoman empire (including the one on which the Tree is drawn) were made from animal skin. However, Orhan Pamuk most certainly did not expect My Name is Red to be printed on animal skin. That adds another interesting layer.

…technically this whole book is a tree. The drawing is a Tree, but what we hold in our hands is material from a living, breathing thing. No one tree is just like the other. Trees are unique, but also imperfect; “looking at a drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a tree” the Tree notes on page 49. Therefore, each printed book will be slightly different from another copy of the same edition.

This has probably been the most frustrating level for me to ponder, and the following quote the most intriguing:

“I don’t want to be a real tree, I want to be its meaning.” (51)

What do you think it means? (inside or outside of the context of this post)