Obsession: Life in Comics – Part 2

Continued from last week

Sometime in my early teens, I found a local comic store, one I could get to without telling my parents. They already gave me an incredibly hard time for locking myself in my room and reading comics all the time (quite reasonably in retrospect), and I didn’t want to risk more “conversations” by telling them how much I needed to go to a comic store. At the time they didn’t give me a lot of pocket money, but I’d worked out that by eating a candy bar for lunch most days, I could save most of my lunch money. My friends (who loved drawing and science fiction as much as me) thought I was crazy to read comics (well, both crazy and stupid). So I didn’t want to tell anyone what I was doing. That store became my lifeline, suddenly I could talk to other people who read comics, and yes they were all weird boys, but at least they got it, understood what I was talking about. Even better, I had access to all kinds of books. Alan Davis was drawing Batman in Detective Comics while he had a torrid affair with a Catwoman gone kind of good (until a sadistic Joker messed with her head and made her all bad again, torturing poor Batman again — it was pretty dismal). The New Mutants were coming out, (with increasingly intense, expressive art by Bill Seinkiewicz). Slowly the owners encouraged me to branch out when V for Vendetta happened, Watchmen, and (even more badass than I ever could have hoped for), The Dark Knight Returns came out, and the incredibly painted Elektra: Assassin.

Comics were changing, the stories (and what it was possible to express) were growing right along with my own appetites and desires. I’d never imagined that comics could be this good, could speak to me on so many levels. Most of all, these people were drawing some insanely hot-looking, scary women. Women with great bodies, and incredible strength who weren’t so crazy or stupid that they killed themselves. They looked amazing, and this wasn’t a liability for them, it was a bonus. While men were drooling on them they kicked ass. This might sound really pedestrian and hackneyed as a concept now, but at the time there was nothing else like this.

By 17, my identity as the weird art-chick who wore a Batman t-shirt was firmly entrenched. This was London, and American comics were marginal. Pretty much everyone thought I was insane, but they tolerated my obsession. I’d still buy comics and read them, but I couldn’t tell people. It was my own private joy. For various reasons I was not a happy person (like most people in their late teens), and comics took me out of my head in a way that started to feel essential. It was around then that I discovered Love & Rockets: a stark, black and white story about young women who dyed their hair, drank too much, listened to angry music, and were just like me and my friends. I showed it to one of my new punkier friends (Tara), and for once, a friend didn’t turn her nose up. Tara immediately saw how like us the characters were, and loved the method of storytelling. Finally sharing a comic with a female friend was a great little moment, and we became fast friends.

Like a lot of people, for most of my late teens and twenties I was trying very hard to prove that I was a grown-up. One of the side-effects of this misguided move was trying not to like comics. For a couple of years I moved to Holland, and then Germany. Each time I remember seeking out an American comic store, only to secretly visit it and buy the handful of decadent, over-priced import books to devour. My friends and partners couldn’t understand what they meant to me, how they’d provided a lifeline. Their affectionate derision only set me further apart from them, and so I kept it to myself.

Moving back to London in my twenties was mostly just an exercise in keeping my head above water. I don’t remember picking up a comic for the entire two years I was there. But I had a little brother (Sam) who was turning into a young man, and I quickly realized that we had nothing in common. He didn’t read comics, he liked soccer, and collectable cards (?). I didn’t get it.

It wasn’t until I moved to San Francisco 12 years ago that I suddenly realized that here, in America, it would be perfectly acceptable to read comics. Gradually I met more and more people who also read comics, who owned obscure books, and even visited comic stores. And while for them it was a very casual thing, and they didn’t know much about the books, the fact that they shared my enjoyment of the medium was massive.

After a couple of years in San Francisco, my dad approached me. “Sonia”, he seriously intoned, “I don’t know what to do, your brother doesn’t read. He looks up to you, send him a book, recommend something to get him excited about reading. He’s got to read”. We’re a bookish family, and I could feel his concern. I thought carefully about this 14 year old boy, and what I’d like to impart to him as someone on the edge of manhood. So I sent him the first two reprints of Lone Wolf & Cub. I remembered reading them when I was in my late teens, and respecting Lone Wolf’s identity and solidity as a man who lived true to his own code. If I were a man, this is the kind of moral compass I’d hope to have. So I sent them off and waited to see what would happen.

Sam inhaled them, and wanted more. It can’t have been long after reading it that he discovered the massive treasure trove of my comic collection from the 80’s stashed in our parents house. I remember him calling me and marveling at the power of The Dark Knight Returns, or asking me “What happened to Maggie and Izzy in Love & Rockets? Who are they now?” Consistently, he was blown away by the same comics that had totally enthralled me at a similar age. And now it’s gotten to a point where he recommends titles to me. This week Sam is coming to San Diego for Comic-Con with me. I couldn’t be happier.

Somehow I’ve never really been in a relationship with anyone that liked comics as much as me (but I’ve had a lot of kind and patient explanations of how limited and childish comics are – thanks guys *ahem*), so it’s remained a relatively private joy… until recently that is, when a friend gave me a pass to WonderCon, and I ended up at an Isotope after-party, where I met some people who changed my view of things. Because no matter how much comics are influencing movies these days, most people are happy to never read the originals, and find out how much more intense and challenging the experience could be. Now I know a lot of really incredible people to talk about comics with, and they’re just as obsessed as me (even more so)! I feel pretty lucky, and it’s a huge relief to finally come out of the closet about my secret obsession.

Sonia Harris is a limey designer living in California, spending about ten percent of her time translating her English into American. She’s extremely nervous about the magnitude of Comic-Con and hopes it won’t eat her alive. She can be reached at sonia@ifanboy.com