Tagged: Joe Kubert

John Ostrander: Details, details, details…

OStrander Art 130407There’s a saying that goes “The devil is in the detailsl, but so is character, whether writing, drawing, or acting. I had the opportunity of teaching at the Joe Kubert School a few times (and the inestimable pleasure of getting to know not only the legendary Joe Kubert but so many others working at the school) and I had the maybe unenviable task of teaching writing to a bunch of art students. Some didn’t take to that right away; after all, they were there to learn how to draw. From talking to some of the graduates over the years, however, I think most found it worthwhile and I enjoyed it.

For me, everything in comics is about character and storytelling. Design to me means nothing unless it is tied to those two points. I’m not interested in a mask or costume whose design is simply “cool” or its what the artist wants to draw.  The character has chosen to make or wear a given mask, costume, or uniform. What does that tell us about him or her? Famously, Batman wants to invoke a bat because criminals are (supposedly) a cowardly and superstitious lot. He wants to invoke fear in them.

One exercise I gave the students was to create their own mask – not for a character but something that would express and freeze some aspect of themself. It would both reveal them and, because it was a mask, it would also conceal them. They were safe behind the mask. It was and was not them.

When the masks were completed, I asked them to wear them. Masks in many societies have power; often, they represent a god and the wearer (supposedly) channels the power of the god. I asked the students to let the mask act upon them; how did they act, how did they feel, how did they move? What – if anything – changed in them?

The purpose was to get them to understand the affects that the masks the characters they wore had upon the characters they were writing and/or drawing. Spider-Man, for example, certainly reacts differently than Peter Parker. Batman, on the other hand, becomes more of who he is when he wears the cowl; his true mask may be Bruce Wayne, as perceived by others.

We do the same thing with what we choose to wear. We say something about ourselves, about who we perceive ourselves to be, of how we want to be perceived by others. Even a careless choice – “whatever is clean” or “whatever I grab” says something. Even if the message being sent out, “I can’t be judged by my clothes; I’m deeper than that.” that is still making a statement. Maybe the message is – I don’t want to be noticed. That is also still a statement. That’s a choice being made and that tells us something about a person – or a character.

What kind of clothes does your character wear? Bruce Wayne may wear Armani; I asked my students if they knew what an Armani suit looked like. Peter Parker is going to shop off the rack. Which rack?

In movies and TV, they have a whole team of people deciding what the rooms look like. Bedrooms, offices, desks, kitchens – depending on the person and what room is most important to them, what are the telling details about them that personalize the space, that say something about the character?

As an actor, I needed to know what my character wore, how he walked, how he used his hands when talking (or did he?). What sort of shoes did he wear? I compared knowing this to an iceberg; the vast majority of the iceberg is under water and only the tip shows. However, for that tip to show, the bulk of the iceberg had to be there. (One of these days I’m probably going to have to explain what an iceberg was.) I have to know far, far more about a character than I’m actually going to use just to be able to pick the facts that I feel are salient to a given moment or story. When Tim Truman and I created GrimJack, we had a whole vast backstory figured out, some of which was revealed only much later; some of it may not have been revealed yet.

Generic backgrounds create generic characters. To be memorable, there have to be details. The more specific they are, the more memorable the character will be. That’s what we want to create; that’s what we want to read.

MONDAY: Mindy Newell

TUESDAY MORNING: Emily S. Whitten

 

Dennis O’Neil, Time Bandit

O'Neil Art 130103Okay, let’s agree that 2012 wasn’t a bad year. It wasn’t a good year, either. (Does that mean it wasn’t tired?) It just…wasn’t. It had no reality other than the one we slathered onto it, and either do minutes, seconds, hours – the whole temporal shebang. (All hands brace for Blather.)

Once upon a time…no, let’s just say once the ancestors who still live deep within us observed certain natural events and recurrences and used them to structure their lives and somewhere in the ancestral murk they gave the intervals between these events names and when a lot of intervals had passed and the universe committed us, we homo sapiens acted as though the names were real and – heck, we probably believe that they are. We place labels on the unknowable and believe the labels are the reality.

Anyone seen a unicorn lately?

There were obvious benefits to believing these illusions – this time stuff. For some of us, probably for most of us, these phantom seconds and hours and so forth help prevent our lives from being a tumble through chaos. If they weren’t useful, evolution would have dispensed with them before now. (Can you define now?)

Of course, not everything is part of an interval and maybe we should be glad. How boring would our lives be if they were ticked off by a metronome? If our happenings were utterly predictable? A little surprise occasionally brightens our…I was going to type “days,” but given the context, it might be better to use the word “existence” instead.

I’ve had some good happenings this past yea…ooops!…this past interval. Enjoyable books, movies, television. Enjoyable companions. A few laughs. New snow in the front yard and dazzling foliage in the fall…ooops again! Not “fall,” not another damn time word. (Maybe “state of existence after a warm interval”?) I’ve taken some interesting courses and finished writing a book and taught a comics writing class and traveled a bit and there is nothing much wrong with any of that. I should be grateful for all of it and I probably am.

But the interval had its negatives, too. My world is emptier without Jerry Robinson and Joe Kubert. Although it was kind of exciting too watch Hurricane Sandy shake the trees outside the window, the storm wasn’t really very friendly. And I could have done without the kinney stoones. It has been a dismal exercise in masochism to learn of the behavior of our politicians and to witness a presidential campaign that might have shamed Thomas Jefferson. Lies have been told and the telling of lies has gone unpunished and we wonder if it is now acceptable to lie. And if it is, what happens next?

That’s what we always want to know, isn’t it? What’s next? And this mystery, this next, is what none of our constructs can help us with. Not que sera sera, not “what will be will be” but rather, “what is, is.”

Have you defined now yet?

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

Mindy Newell: The Greatest Generation

Newell Art 121230This is a story I told to Joe Kubert. He loved it, said to write it up and he would use it as a backup in Sgt. Rock.

1943. Somewhere over Burma. The Dragonfly Squadron, inheritors of the famed Flying Tigers, is returning to base after flying a coverage mission for Merrill’s Marauders. First Lieutenant Meyer “Mike” C. Newell is flying wingman to his best bud, First Lieutenant Benjamin “Blackie” Blackstone. They met in training, and have been flying together ever since. The P-51D’s are pretty banged up, but the planes are the workhorses of the CBI and the pilots are confident that they will make it back to base, even though Johnson’s aircraft is leaking hydraulic fluid.

It is the rainy season in Burma and the landing strip, cleared out of the jungle overgrowth by Army engineers and sun-baked and rock-hard during the dry months, is a quagmire of mud that sucks at the wheels of P-51s as they touch down. The pilots must come down fast and hard with their throttles all the way open to clear the runway.

Three succeed, but Johnson’s plane, with its loss of hydraulic fluid, doesn’t have the power. Even with the throttle all the open the plane comes in slow and dodgy, and the mud captures the P-51 halfway down the runway. Johnson quickly gets out of the plane, and with the aid of the ground crew, is working to move the plane off the landing strip.

Blackie is already making his approach when the flare is sent up warning the other pilots off. Unable to veer off, he is forced to come in, still flying hard. As the wheels hit the ground, Blackie pulls back on the throttle and hits the brakes, but the inertia drives the P-51 forward and up onto Johnson’s plane. Blackie can’t shut off his engines, and the propellers are chopping their way through the other plane’s fuselage. That bird is still leaking hydraulic fluid. Blackie tries to open his canopy, but it is stuck. He is trapped.

Up above, Mike Newell, preparing his landing, sees the flare and pulls off, circling over the airfield. There is radio silence; no one knows what is happening below, though they know it is bad.

Admiral of the Fleet Lord Louis Mountbatten, First Earl of Burma and Supreme Allied Commander, Southeast Asia Command (SEAC) is visiting the base. He and his aide-de-campe (they have been together for many, many years) are watching the disaster on the landing strip unfold.

Fire is dancing from the Johnson’s plane, and billowing black smoke is making the work of the ground crew even more difficult as their eyes tear and their lungs fill with the noxious stuff. Blackie is still alive; he can be seen struggling to open his canopy.

Suddenly the aide-de-campe runs to Blackie’s plane, jumps up on the wing, and works to free Blackie…

The fire is inching closer. It is an inferno consuming both P-51’s…

They explode.

The air is heavy with the smell of fuel.

Bits of burnt fuselage dance in the air like dust motes.

There is nothing left.

The runway is clear.

A second flare is sent up. Mike Newell resumes his approach.

He lands cleanly.

The remaining pilots bring in their planes, one by one, without incident.

They report for debriefing.

Late that night, Mike Newell is sitting on the wing of his plane, a bottle of Scotch in his hand. He swills it frequently, staring at the now silent and empty runway. It is raining again.

A shape approaches him in the darkness, and a clipped British voice says, “May I join you, Leftenant?”

Mountbatten swings himself up onto the wing as Mike moves over.

“This buggered war.” says Mountbatten.

“Yeah,” says Mike Newell.

“May I have some of that?”

Mike hands him the bottle. Mountbatten takes a swallow.

The two men sit in silence, sharing the Scotch.

•     •     •     •     •

Lord Mountbatten was the Last Viceroy and First Governor-General of India, overseeing the transition of that country into an independent republic. The IRA, who planted a bomb aboard his yacht when Mountbatten was vacationing in Ireland, killed him. First

Lieutenant Meyer C. Newell, awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and many other medals and honors for his service in the Army Air Corps, survived the war, came home, and married Loretta Yontef. They had two children, Mindy and Glenn. He stayed in the Army Air Corps – which became the U.S. Air Force – until the middle of the 1950s. His unit was called up during the Korean War, but never saw active service. The new Israeli Air Force sought him out, offering him a high commission if he would join them. Worried about losing his United States citizenship, he refused. In 1985 he received the Medal of Honor from China for brave and decorous duty for the Chinese Republic during World War II. The Dragonfly Squadron received the Congressional Medal of Honor for their service to the United States of America several years ago. Last year, a student at the Air Force Academy wrote his graduate paper on the CBI theatre, the Dragonfly Squadron, and First Lieutenant Meyer Carl Newell, P-51 fighter jock.

Sgt. Rock was cancelled and the story of Blackie, the aide-de-campe, Lord Mountbatten, and my father never saw print. Until today.

My father, who will be 90 in January, is dying. We brought him home from the hospital. He is receiving hospice care. Every now and then he will talk to us.

Yesterday I said to him, “Dad, it’s Mindy.”

“I know,” he said.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too.”

I bent over and gave him a kiss. He moved his head, weakly gesturing for me to come closer.

He gently kissed me on my cheek.

 

TARZAN NEWS!

  • News
  • September 24, 2012
Art: Joe Jusko

Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan turns 100 this year, but don’t think celebrating his centennial has slowed down the Lord of the Jungle. Quite the opposite. Here are a few odds and ends from Tarzan’s world happening in 2012 and beyond.

Art: Tom Grindberg
Art: Tom Grindberg

 EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS COMIC SERVICE-
By signing up for the new Edgar Rice Burroughs Comic Service, you will be able to view New and Coming Tarzan comics as soon as they leave our artist’s desk!

Read the recent All Pulp interviews with Tarzan 2012 comic strip writer Roy Thomas and artist Tom Grindberg.

Art: Sterling Hundley

TARZAN ART TO APPEAR ON NEW USPS POSTAGE STAMP-
CHESTERFIELD, VA – Edgar Rice Burroughs, the author who created Tarzan and a host of other sci-fi heroes a century ago, didn’t get much respect for what was considered pulp fiction at the time. Now, the work of a Chesterfield artist commemorating the prolific author is taking a licking literally.

A brand-new postage stamp showing Burroughs and Tarzan is set to take off around the world. It’s the second U.S. Postal Service stamp drawn by Sterling Hundley, an artist, illustrator and Virginia Commonwealth University art professor. (His first was Oveta Culp Hobby, the first woman to hold a presidential cabinet position.)

Learn more about Sterling Hundley and the new Tarzan stamp here.

OFFICIAL TARZAN STATUES NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER-
Details here.

Art: Joe Kubert

JOE KUBERT’S TARZAN OF THE APES: ARTIST’S EDITION COMING IN SEPTEMBER-

Art: Joe Kubert

Joe Kubert is one of the most lauded artists in the history of comics, a true living legend. He has been a vital creative force since the 1940s and remains so to this day. He has had defining runs on Hawkman, Enemy Ace, Tor, Sgt. Rock, and many others. Among his career highlights is Tarzan of the Apes, and Kubert’s rendition could arguably be called the definitive comic adaptation of the Ape-man.

“To have the Tarzan stories I drew commemorate the 100th anniversary of a strip I fell in love with as a kid is the thrill of a lifetime,” said Joe Kubert, writer and artist of all the stories in this Artist’s Edition.

This Artist’s Edition collects six complete Kubert Tarzan adventures, including the classic four-part origin story. Each page is vividly reproduced from the original art and presented as no comics readers have seen before. For fans of Kubert and Tarzan, this new entry in the Eisner-winning Artist’s Edition line must be seen to be believed!

2012 is the centennial year for Tarzan. Created by master storyteller Edgar Rice Burroughs, Tarzan is instantly recognizable to countless fans around the globe. Other notable creations of Burroughs’ include John Carter of Mars, Korak, Carson of Venus, and At the Earth’s Core.

“I first read these comics when I was 10 years old, and they remain some of my favorite stories ever,” said Editor Scott Dunbier, “this is Joe Kubert at his absolute best.”

What is an Artist’s Edition? Artist’s Editions are printed the same size as the original art. While appearing to be in black & white, each page has been scanned in COLOR to mimic as closely as possible the experience of viewing the actual original art—for example, you are able to clearly see paste-overs, blue pencils in the art, editorial notes, and art corrections. Each page is printed the same size as drawn, and the paper selected is as close as possible to the original art board.

JOE KUBERT’S TARZAN OF THE APE: ARTIST’S EDITION ($100, hardcover, black and white, 156 pages, 12” x 17”) will be available in stores September 2012.
Visit IDWPublishing.com to learn more about the company and its top-selling books. IDW can also be found at http://www.facebook.com/#!/idwpublishing and http://tumblr.idwpublishing.com/ and on Twitter at @idwpublishing.

Art: Tim Burgard

SEQUENTIAL PULP/DARK HORSE COMICS PRESENT TARZAN AT THE EARTH’S CORE-
Coming 2013 – TARZAN AT THE EARTH’S CORE Adapted by Martin Powell and illustrated by Tim Burgard. Tarzan At The Earth’s Core © Edgar Rice Burroughs Inc., Tarzan ® TM owned by Edgar Rice Burroughs Inc. and used by permission. Coming soon from Sequential Pulp/Dark Horse Comics.

Not bad for a guy turning 100, eh?

Marc Alan Fishman: Comics Are Good For Learnin’

So it came to my attention by way of an amazingly nice lass that some forward thinking teacher-types are slowly coming around the bend. Yup, they are looking toward comic books, those evil things, as potential fodder for their classrooms. Gasp! And, as it would seem, this very nice girl asked me – little old me – to give my two cents on the matter. And because I love killing two birds with one stone, I figured this outta make a great li’l rant to share with you, my adoring public. Of course, I realize now I admitted to the glee I feel when I commit aviaricide. Well, there went my fan-base. Tally ho!

I know back in the olden days, comics were largely seen as kitchy wastes of ink and paper. Kids buried in them were potentially violent sociopaths just waiting to commit crimes of laziness. But by the time I was in school they were starting to be called graphic novels. Thanks in large part to the artsy works of Art Spiegelman, Joe Kuburt, and Will Eisner, the medium as a whole was slowly pulling itself out of the low-bro.

That being said, I was never assigned a graphic novel to read for a class. Nor was I able to select one for independent book reports or the like. Even within the realm of studio art classes I was nixed the ability to cite Alex Ross as a major influence without scoffs. But as Bob Dylan sings, “The times, they are a changin’.”

If I were to suggest opening up a classroom to comics, well, it’s a simple issue – do it. Comics are easily one of the best gateways to literacy I can think of. Truth be told, the first books our parents read us (and I’m reading to my own boy now) are gloriously illustrated. Dr. Seuss, a one-time newspaper comics guy, is just panel borders away from sharing shelf space with Daniel Clowes. In the earliest of classroom settings I’d start with the recognizable. Art Baltazar and Franco’s Tiny Titans is as accessible a comic as I know of. But more than just being kid friendly, the book is funny, bright, and charming. So much so that I was an avid reader of it long before I was even married, let alone a father. And because it uses semi-recognizable super hero sidekicks, it’s easy for kids to relate, and learn to read.

Tiny Titans aside, there’s always Jeff Smith’s tome of toonage, Bone. The long running series blends laughs, mysteries, and adventure. If kids can’t find something to love there? Well, then I’ll eat my hat. Come to think of it, I don’t own hats anymore. Note to self…

Beyond the early readers, the always-tough-to-please nine year olds (perhaps through 13 or 14?) are going to start dividing themselves. Girls have cooties. Boys are messy. The division of the sexes may make many a teacher feel like comic books will degrade into the capes and cowls for the boys and leave nothing for the girls. Nay, I say. Nay! Both the boys and girls can take heed that I myself grew to love comics at this tender age due to the long-running Archie series. And Archie, unlike his more heroic counterparts, seems to have found a way to stay with the times, without diverging into the too-real, too-gritty, or too-angsty. Consider also the Adventures of TinTin. Long before it was a computer-animated movie, it was a comic. A great comic. And don’t we all laugh a bit when we recount the Scrooge McDuck comics of yesteryear? That book was doing Inception long before Chris Nolan was firing up the vomit-comet to film anti-gravity fight scenes.

The real meat and potatoes for me though come right at adolescence. Here, our kids are primed to learn that comics are more than just good fun. The Pulitizer Prize-winning Maus (by the aforementioned Spiegelman), Jew Gangster (by the late and beyond-great Kubert), and A Contract With God (by Will Eisner) all help teach that the medium of comics transcends the super power set. And sure, they all hold quite a bit of Jewish lore to them… so allow me to expand beyond Judaica.

Mike Gold himself turned me on to Stagger Lee by Derek McCulloch and Kings in Disguise by Dan E. Burr. They are both amazing reads. And please, don’t get me wrong – comics at this tender age need not be without a twinge of the supernatural. Watchmen might as well be a high school freshman class in and of itself. Frank Miller’s Sin City and or 300 are far better on page than on screen, and on screen they were both pretty amazing.

And let’s not leave Marvel out of this. Kurt Busiek’s Marvels singlehandedly brought me out of a four year freeze of comic book reading. It’s insightful, and a beautiful take on super heroes from the human perspective. And I’ve little column space left to suggest even more here… Empire by Mark Waid and Barry Kitson, Astro City, Batman: Year One, Runaways and Y: The Last Man all spring to mind. But I digress.

Suffice to say, introducing comics to a literature program shouldn’t be that hard to tackle. The fact is the medium itself makes open discussion far easier to instigate. More work to enjoy than watching a movie, without the scariness of endless pages without something beyond words to look at means less barrier to entry. For those learning to read (or who have trouble with it) comics are a gateway drug to amazing new worlds. For those already well versed in literature, comics offer an endless string of independent authors bringing original takes on the world that combine their plots with art that tends to force us to stop and appreciate. Akin to indie films, comics at any age offer more than the commercial world. Thanks to a bit of knowledge gained at this year’s Harvey Awards (thank you, Ross Ritchie), I leave on this thought:

 “The French codified it well: they call it “The Ninth Art.” The first is architecture, the second sculpture. The third painting, the fourth dance, then there’s music, poetry, cinema, and television. And ninth is comic books.”

Now, the question is: if it is indeed the ninth art of our world, comics should not be considered for the classroom. They should be compulsory.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

 

Emily S. Whitten: Hello, My Name Is Entitled Fan. You Ruined My Fandom. Prepare to Die!

I haven’t talked about Deadpool around here for, oh, say, two whole minutes, right? Time to rectify that!

You know why Deadpool’s my favorite character in the whole wide world of comics? Well, actually, there are several reasons, but one of them is that no matter how dark the character gets, there is also levity there. And call me grandiose, comparing the adventures of a wisecracking merc to the daily toil of Real Life, but really – that can be a true reflection of what we experience. In the depths of disaster sometimes we just have to laugh (possibly inappropriately), and in the midst of our merriment, suddenly one little sentence may bring the room down. That’s life – a perfectly imperfect mix of random ups and downs.

What’s important about the often unexpected comical moments is that they remind us that it’s not all doom and gloom out there, even when sometimes it’s been feeling like it is. And if we don’t get enough laughter in our lives, I fear some of us might turn into this guy. As I’m sure everyone knows, Joe Kubert passed away a few days ago. I didn’t know Joe personally, but I know and like some of his work; and I had a nice chat with one of his sons at a con; and I know several artist friends who have gone to his school (in my home state of New Jersey, no less, which makes it extra-cool). All in all, I’ve never had a bad thought about him, and admire him as much as I do any of the other Greats in comics (yes, he most certainly was one of the Greats, with a capital G). But even if for some reason I hadn’t been a fan, or even if I hated his art (which I don’t), I’d never, ever, have posted something like what that supposed fan of comics said; and then failed at properly apologizing for such insensitive and offensive comments.

The comparison that was made is just inexcusable, and Mike Romo has a good discussion of that at the iFanboy link, so I will not rehash it all here. But I will say that as a fan, I am continuously disappointed in other fans who turn their dislike of a piece of creative work into a giant, seething, pulsating ball of wrath and disgust, to be lobbed at creators and fandom and the internet so we can all experience the pus and bile of some fan’s misplaced sense of entitlement as it oozes down our screens.

Okay, that metaphor was disgusting. But then, I feel disgusted when I read shit like that. And it really does all boil down to entitlement – fans who think that their hateful view of whatever-it-is is more important than the fact that they are throwing vile words or accusations at a Real, Live Person who most likely doesn’t deserve them. A person whom they might even have admired at some point (or still do admire). Likening an upstanding and recently deceased comics creator who worked on a comic you don’t think should have been made (Before Watchmen) to a man who failed to report child sexual abuse is an extreme example, of course, but still; this isn’t anywhere near the first time I’ve seen this kind of disproportionate hatred towards someone whose only fault was making a creative work someone else didn’t enjoy.

Look, I’m not saying we can’t critique what we don’t like. I’m a true believer in the importance of free speech and discussion. But that also means that if you’re being an asshole on the internet or in fandom, I have a free speech right to call you out for being an asshole. And calling hardworking people who make their living making comics “known hacks” or “scab artists” because you don’t like their work or work choices is being an asshole. [See also: anyone who’s ever said so-and-so “raped their childhood.” Because using the word “rape” in that context is another form of entitlement; in which the user assumes it is more important to dramatically emphasize their disappointment in Prometheus than to not casually throw around a word that has terrible connotations for over 17.7 million women and 2.78 million men in America alone. Plus, I just hate that phrase.]

But I digress. Neil Gaiman once wrote a fantastic journal entry on entitlement issues which I think every fan ought to read and re-read. In fact, if someone ever wrote a computer program in which that entry popped up every time some entitled asshole was about to hit “post” on a needlessly vitriolic diatribe about creative works and people they hate, I’d be ecstatic. (Seriously, hackers – stop making useless pop-up viruses and get on that.)* But since that’s not the case as yet, I’d also be happier if we all just read that entry, and tried to remember before hitting post that creators are real people with real feelings and families and needs to put food on the table and all of that. And that it’s probably not necessary to wear a t-shirt saying a real person sucks just because you didn’t like a movie about aliens.

Maybe we could also just run a little test in our heads, similar to the one I wish misogynists would use before speaking (“How would you feel if someone said or did that to your mom/sister/favorite female person in the whole world? Or to you?”) in which we think about how we’d feel if someone likened, say, our dad or our best friend to a guy who ignored reports of child molestation. I’m pretty sure for most of us, that would make us remember that it’s not all about us, and hit the delete key before doing something asinine. So maybe we can all give that some thought before posting something so unwarrantedly hostile about what is, as Romo said, “just comics” (and other pop culture).

Or, as the LOLcats would say: we can fan moar better; and then maybe instead of encountering so much petty bitching, we will instead be rewarded with more things that remind us that life is not all doom and gloom – like this and this. (You’re welcome.)

So until next time, Servo Lectio!

* Disclaimer: I am not actually encouraging anyone to hack anything. Please do not go and do this and then say it’s all my fault, hackers. Thank you.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis’ Milestones, part two

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold, Who Do That VooDoo?

 

Mike Gold: Joe Kubert, Personally

One of the hardest questions for me to answer begins with the phrase “What is your favorite…?”

My Top 10 movie list has over 100 movies on it. My Top 10 television shows list must first be categorized: is it fair to compare Rocky and Bullwinkle to The Prisoner? Well, maybe that’s a bad example, but I think you get my point. If you were to ask me to name my favorite musician, I’d go into a fugue state and you’d get scared and leave.

There is one exception. If you were to ask me who my favorite comics creator is – and you were to ask me this question at any time in the past half-century – I would immediately and firmly respond “Joe Kubert.”

As we reported, Joe died Sunday evening. It was one of those moments when time… simply… stopped. For the past decade I’ve been in amazement that Joe was still giving us a graphic novel and a mini-series or special or something every year. Jeez, if I make it to 85 (and I’m nowhere in as good a shape as Joe was) I’m planning on lying there bitching until somebody changes my Depends. Joe was still at it, producing great stuff.

I was fortunate to know both Joe and his wife Muriel (predeceased by four years); Muriel knew the depths of my affection for her husband’s work, Joe knew it as well and was quite gracious but, as to be expected from an artist of his caliber, I could tell he wasn’t connecting with my praise for something he had finished months ago. He already was on to the next thing. Or maybe the one after that.

When I first started working at DC Comics back in 1976, my office was two doors down from Julius Schwartz. Denny O’Neil had the office next to me. Joe Orlando – Joe Orlando! – was a few doors down from that. And, three days a week, there was Joe Kubert. The best of the best.

I was a 26 year-old fanboy and if I wasn’t breathing I would have thought I had gone to heaven.

Kubert had been my favorite comics creator since the day my mother bought me Brave and the Bold #34, cover-dated February-March 1961. It featured the debut of the silver age Hawkman. We were getting on Chicago’s L, headed towards the Loop for my first visit to the eye doctor. I was anxious to read the comic; it looked really cool. Exciting. Different. And new superheroes were few and far between in those days of buggy whips and gas lamps.

Of course, my eye doctor did what eye doctors do: she put those serious drops in my eyes and everything got all blurry and then she exiled me to the outer office while my pupils dilated to the size of manhole covers. I was told to sit there quietly for an hour. I was ten years old; the concept of “sitting quietly” was well beyond my understanding. Certainly, not with that awesome-looking comic book on my lap.

I tried to read it. My mother started to scream about how I’d permanently ruin my eyes. She was supportive of my reading comics, she just had odd theories about how I’d go blind. Being me, I continued to try to read the Hawkman debut but now more defiantly, with purpose and determination – despite the fact that each panel was more blurry than the previous. I went through that book several times, trying my damnedest to understand it. To see it.

The book was astonishingly great – a tribute to writer Gardner Fox and editor Julie Schwartz as well as to Joe. After I finally read the comic in focus, it was clear to me that it was worth all the effort. That’s probably what made me a Joe Kubert fan.

By 1976 I had learned first-hand that a lot of the public figures I admired weren’t really worthy of such tribute on a personal level; if you were going to meet a lot of celebrities, you had to learn how to divorce yourself from the person and remain married to that person’s work. This is a lot less the case in the comics field, I’m happy to report.

And it most certainly was not the case with Joe Kubert. We could be diametrically opposed on certain political and social issues, and we were, but it didn’t matter one bit. Part of that came from Joe’s upbringing in the Talmudic arts where discussion and debate is encouraged and honored. But most of that came from Joe’s simply being a great, great guy.

That’s what I have to say about Joe Kubert. He was a great, great guy.

Here’s what I have to say to Joe Kubert.

Thank you.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

 

Remembering Joe Kubert

  • News
  • August 13, 2012

Joe Kubert’s distinct art style was one of the earliest I recall being able to identify. It seemed such a perfect fit the DC war titles and I was always pleasantly surprised to see the occasional superhero cover during the 1960s. I didn’t really get a sense of his lengthy tenure in comics until he was spotlighted in an issue of DC Special.

Then came Tarzan. I knew of the character but had not then read Burroughs or the Gold Key comics so this was an eye-popping revelation. It was my first sustained exposure to the jungle lord and Kubert’s artwork seemed an ideal fit. Thanks to DC’s expanded reprint program through the 1970s, I was exposed to more and more of his work and recognized a true artist.

In the summer of 1980, I was briefly on staff at DC prior to beginning my career at Starlog Press and I wound up spending a lot of time in Ross Andru’s office. It was small and cramped, but he sat at his drawing board working up covers or layout covers for others. At the same, all cover art was passed under his nose and it was through his tutelage that I grasped how carefully Kubert constructed his covers and he drew for color, something I had never considered before. At first I would see the artwork and wonder where the blacks were to give the cover weight but then I would see the color guide and it suddenly made sense and worked wonderfully.

Joe and I became nodding acquaintances when I finally joined DC in 1984 and he contributed pages to Who’s Who but we never did more work together and remained friendly enough. At some point, Ðìçk Giordano asked me and Mike Gold to reread the five issues that Joe had completed of The Redeemer, a project DC ballyhooed in 1983 before yanking the project for various reasons. It was a rare treat to see stuff that no one else had. Unfortunately, the conclusion was that the time for such a work had passed and it was quietly canceled and the rights returned to Joe.

I admired and respected his work and the school, which by then was feeding the comics companies’ voracious need for talent. I then learned he was doing work for overseas publishers and I really wanted to see them. Thankfully, several, such as Abraham Stone made it over here and I distinctly recall one San Diego show, I actually waited on line for something like an hour or longer to buy a copy and have the blank first page graced with a Kubert sketch. I watched as Joe made small talk with the fan as he knocked off a flawless head shot of Sgt. Rock or one of his other characters. When it was my turn, he perfunctorily opened the book, said hi and asked what I wanted then looked up. Recognizing me, he broke into a big grin and was very pleased I had waited in line. The patience was rewarded with a wonderful full figure Tarzan.

We’d see one another at cons through the years, chatting ever so briefly since he was usually surrounded by fans, friends, and other professionals he had worked with through the years. As a result, I was delighted to hear we would both be at the Grenada Convention in 2010. For several days, we would share meals and conversation, with Joe talking to me about the early days of comics and chatted with Deb about the general world. He was good natured, usually sketching when he wasn’t eating, explaining he couldn’t help himself. Despite the language barrier, he expressed his appreciation and enthusiasm for the work of artists, shyly showing the master their portfolios.

We last saw one another, the usual handshake, smile and quick “how are you?” at Baltimore Comic-Con last fall. I was looking forward to seeing him again at the show next month. And then I received the word that he had shockingly, unexpectedly, passed away yesterday after a brief illness.

Joe broke in at the beginning of his teenage years. He worked his way up, improving his craft with every passing year. Long after he retired from editing at DC and then as the work from the majors dried up, he continued to write and draw graphic novels that essentially took over from where Will Eisner left off. Look at his output over the last 20 years and it’s an incredible achievement for any creator let alone the final chapter of one man’s career. Works like Yossel and Fax from Sarajevo are must read volumes. There’s still a bunch of work out there that needs to be translated and brought here so we can enjoy fresh Kubert for a little while longer.

He rarely had a cross word for anyone, always smiling and being as encouraging as possible. His legacy is certainly one of the broadest of any creator thanks to not only the generations of graduates but his own kids, Adam and Andy, who continue to push artistic boundaries.

The likes of Joe Kubert won’t be seen again and we’re all the poorer for it.

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Joe Kubert, 1926 – 2012

Joe Kubert, one of the greatest masters of the comics art form, died today after a short illness, three weeks short of his 86th birthday.

Best known as the artist of the long-running war feature Sgt. Rock, Joe was almost equally well-known for his work on both the golden age and silver age Hawkman and on such features as Enemy Ace, Tarzan, Firehair, Tor (which he created for St. John’s comics in the 1950s and owned and returned to throughout his life), the Tales of the Green Beret newspaper strip, and numerous other features and countless covers. In his later years he wrote and drew a great many graphic novels, both original creations (Jew Gangster, Fax from Sarajevo, Yossel) and based upon his well-established Tor and Sgt. Rock characters. DC is currently publishing his work as an inker on Before Watchman: Nite Owl, pencilled by his son Andy. He also served as an editor at DC Comics in the 1970s.

Over the years Joe received numerous awards, including the Harvey Awards’ Jack Kirby Hall of Fame and the Will Eisner Comic Book Hall of Fame. These honors are dwarfed by his legion of respecting collaborators, fans, students, and medium fellows.

Perhaps his greatest and most enduring contribution to the medium was his establishment in 1976 of The Joe Kubert School of Cartoon and Graphic Art in Dover, New Jersey, which teaches the craft of comics and boasts such graduates as Timothy Truman, “Rags” Morales, Amanda Conner, Shane Davis, Tom Mandrake, Stephen Bissette, Jan Duursema, Rick Veitch, Matt Hollingsworth, Karl Kesel, Scott Kolins, Steve Lieber, Dave Dorman, Eric Shanower, Alex Maleev, and Bart Sears. His sons, Andy and Adam, received special live-long training from their gifted father.

Joe’s wife Muriel had served as a model — intentionally and, one strongly suspects, unintentionally — lending her image to many of Kubert’s female characters. Muriel passed away in 2008. Their marriage ran an incredible 57 years.

In addition to Andy and Adam, the Kubert family also consisted of sons David and Danny and daughter Lisa Zangara, as well as numerous grandchildren.

A man whose broad smile triggered an enormously infectious laugh, Joe Kubert was one of those artists who looked like he had drawn himself into creation. A fast artist, he often amazed convention-goers by producing a fully-formed intricate Hawkman image in ink within minutes after starting with a couple simple lines drawn on paper. Much of his original art reveals he often did not produce finished pencils, relying upon sketchy blue-lined (non-reproducing) layouts before going on to final inks.

Much can — and will — be said about this pillar of American comics history. For now, we report his passing and our most profound condolences to his family, friends, and students.

Mike Gold: Cold Ennui

Here’s a sucky way to spend one’s birthday: voiceless with a serious summer head cold. Bitch, bitch; moan, moan. Okay, I had a great day-before-my-birthday in Manhattan lunching with Danny Fingeroth and dinnering with fellow ComicMixer Martha Thomases. Nine hours of fantastic conversation in the best thing in life with your clothes on.

Sadly, as the overly-breaded but otherwise tasty General Tzu’s was being presented to me at our Greenwich Village dungeon of culinary delight, I was starting to sound like a frog in a blender. By the time I was on the subway back to Grand Central Terminal, I was grateful somebody bothered to invent texting. The gifted Miss Adriane picked me up and dragged me home. That was birthday-eve.

On birthday day, we first had to ransom my car back from the shop – I can’t complain; 100,000 miles on one battery is pretty damn good and I guess you really do need functioning breaks. After a quick stop at Walgreens to clean them out of toxic chemicals and chocolate Twizzlers, we returned home. As Miss Adriane procured the prerequisite chicken soup, I retired to celebrate the anniversary of my mother’s major inconvenience in a time-honored way: I picked up my stack of comic books (e-comics; I’m nothing if not hip and trendy in my dotage) and commenced to read.

As luck would have it, there wasn’t a winner in the bunch. Only one or two sucked; the rest were poignantly mediocre. This is not to say that I hadn’t read some worthy stuff while on the train to Manhattan – I consumed all the good stuff as a matter of fate and ill-planning. But you’d think that out of a dozen or so hand-picked titles, there’d be at least one that reaffirmed my fannish enthusiasm. Let us remember: I was under the weather, and my cockles needed to be warmed.

There were three New 52 titles in the electronic pile. All 12th issues. None motivated me to pick up the 13th, two months hence. There are a number of New 52ers I really enjoy: Batgirl, Batwoman, All-Star Western, and everything with the words “written by James Robinson” on the credits page. These weren’t them. The most enjoyable of the DC books was, oddly, the only Before Watchman mini I’m reading: Night Owl, and that’s because I’d read prescription warning labels if Joe Kubert drew them. Reading Kubert, for me, is a lot like drinking chicken soup. You might have to be Ashkenazi to fully grok that.

The Marvel titles were okay; slightly better in that none chased me away. But, damn, why is it that each and every good Marvel “event” series has four times as many issues as necessary? Okay, we know the answer to that one. Still, the Avengers Vs. X-Men series was established to put Marvel on a somewhat different course for a while and it’s doing its job. It’s not a reboot, it’s just your standard dramatic shuffling of the Marvel deck. But it should have been over by now.

The so-called indies were all over the map as they are supposed to be, so my luck of the draw was simply a bad hand. No, not bad. Just mediocre. Too many unnecessary middle-issues in overly long story arcs. I regret the day publishers decided to put six solid pages of story in each 24-page issue, and I look forward to our next GrimJack series to once again prove you can actually put 28 pages of story into a 24-page issue… without being Stan Freberg, and, yes, that was just to see if Mark Evanier’s paying attention.

Okay, all that sucked. On the other side of the scale, I got more than 200 emails and Facebook shout-outs from friends old and new. That’s great anytime, but after a speechless day of aches and not-breathing and a dozen mediocre comics, all that made be feel on top of the world. And not in the Cody Jarrett sense, either. To one and all, my deepest thanks.

Daughter Adriane and I finished the day watching Paul, a genuinely funny and essentially heartwarming movie written by and starring Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. I’m a sucker for anything with Jane Lynch that doesn’t involve high schoolers spontaneously combusting into song, and Pegg and Frost have never disappointed me.

Moral of the story: when you’re feeling low, reach for something positive and funny. Tomorrow is… another day.

Thursday: Dennis O’Neil… Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing?

 

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