Endsickness by Sofia Alarcon

    I hesitate to call Sofia Alarcon’s Endsickness a graphic novel. The word ‘novel’ implies to me a certain kind of continuity of characters and settings. Endsickness, however, is more like eight short stories that are thematically connected, all geared towards answering the question of how we continue to live while living in the end times. Each section is pretty short and is distinct in its own way, and one of the great strengths of Alaron’s work is that the art style changes between different sections to tell different stories.

    In the first section, “Positive Thinking,” is a series of affirmations juxtaposed with more ominous imagery (e.g. “All is well in my world” affirms the woman wearing a gas mask to bed). Then she envisions leaving everything behind and going to live in the woods. It’s a quirky art style and the woman has a nonchalant expression—that is, until the reality sets in that she hates bugs and will probably die.

    “Special Delivery” has a vibrant, almost neon pop-art style that depicts the same neighbourhood over and over, with children wearing gas masks and zombies chasing joggers and AK47s in the street and UFOs setting houses ablaze. The section tells its story almost exclusively through images with no text until the punchline—the special delivery is an Amazon package of a Live Laugh Love sign.

    “Patagonia” is a less memorable section about buying a sweater before descending into a despairing meditation on capitalism and forest fires and the need for a shift in perspective, like, for example, to the VIP suite to a house on the hill. Meanwhile, “Adaptation” takes us through the entire history of amoeba to dinosaurs to people and a reflection on the necessity of interdependence between species and their contexts, the unfathomable improbability of the our existence, and the question of whether capitalism will outpace our ability to adapt with its capacity to destroy.

    “Afterlife” strips away the colour and vibrancy of the other pages and provides a black-and-white narrative before returning to a colourful and scraggly-illustrated section called “Lonesome Garry.” It’s about a human man in the zoo being watched by animals, the last human of the species. They observe him mowing grass and engaging in other human rituals, though he fails in his courtship and we see the tragedy of a species dying out forever. The story, I learned from the acknowledgements page, is based on the last Pinta island tortoise and that gives it additional tragic force.

    One of the more memorable sections is “Icarus,” which I thought was nicely stylized for, essentially, a Socratic dialogue in space in which astronauts question the nature of progress. Do we ever really move forward? Or is time just a loop and us humans keep making the same mistakes over and over and over and over? Are we a spiral that slightly progresses? Is reincarnation a thing? I think that section addresses so many of the central questions in a meaningful way while also having some of the most distinct artwork in the text. Even within just a few pages, there’s a more pencil-crayon style that shifts to a largely black-and-white traditional comic style with great pops of colour.

    The final section, “Genesis,” is further exploration of the destructiveness of our consumerism, featuring a replicated Nick Cage pillow.

    Alarcon’s work is a quick read, but examining the images enriches the storytelling. I loved the art style of the comics, and the themes are all worth thinking about and taking action on. What’s troubling is that there’s a sort of haunting resignation throughout the text which I find it difficult to confront; I suppose that’s the reason Endsickness earns its name—how can we come to terms with the global catastrophes confronting us?

    So, uh, happy (?) reading, I guess…

Take the Long Way Home by Jon Claytor

        There seems to be an increasing canon of autobiographical works presented as graphic novels, and Jon Claytor has now added his own entry with the Take the Long Way Home, a story about traveling across the country and back for an artist’s retreat.

The art style is more or less sketchy and unfleshed out in a free and breezy way with some special attention played to the natural world and the view from the dashboard. It’s pretty inviting. The story, also, is pretty sketchy. It’s a series of vignettes that does not really have much of a consistent build towards a climax. It’s a road trip where we stop in various cities, check in with families members and friends, and then move on. The main dramatic tension of the text is Claytor’s struggles with alcoholism and the moments that he thinks he might take a drink or dreams that he has.

As a result, the book is more like a series of loose threads handled with an engaging style but also tact. For instance, Claytor finds out that he has a long lost brother that he has never met; his kids are extremely invested in finding him—but that’s, maybe, the subject of another book. Similarly, he finds out about his parents and a number of “characters” have wild backstories, but he suggests it is not his story to tell.

There’s a kind of beautiful tenderness to the book that is worth noting. Early on, Claytor recounts his challenges with alcoholism and attempted suicide and it gives the pages that follow a heartbreaking kind of quality. The book is, on the whole, pretty uplifting. There are so many personal connections and the book works as a celebration and gift for those special relationships in his life. If there is a climax, I would make the case that it is as Claytor returns home and reflects on the people he has learned from, spread out over six pages with four portraits each interspersed with thoughts from the drive.

The personable nature of the book is really endearing. The phone calls home have a special sincerity and a clear appreciation for quiet moments. In one scene, Claytor calls his children from Kamloops. He calls his children “turkeys” and they call him “pops” and they are “reading about zombies.” Meanwhile, the family dog has a thought bubble as he sleeps that says “I’m a happy dog” (199). It’s really cute, but one of the best things about it is that when he calls he just listened to them turn pages.

I also really liked the interactions between animals that he imagines. There’s a sequence with wolves where one of them confesses to the other that he tried to be a badass lone wolf but the truth is that he’d rather spend time together. It’s a beautiful exchange: “You and me? Together?” / “Forever!” and then a full-page illustration that has the two wolves side by side with the caption, “Now, let’s go fuck shit up! Like the badass wolves we are” (163). There are also interactions with birds, bears, and rabbits, which take on a symbolic significance, as well.

Overall, Take the Long Way Home is a lovely journey full of that introspection and sincerity of expression that makes up for the seeming deficit of plot. I liked it. It felt truly personal and a book built for connection.

Happy reading!