Graphic novels occupy a strange cultural space -- on one hand, they've been championed as "real" books, even (gasp) "literature" for more than 20 years in some circles, and on the other, they're still regarded as "just" comics by many folks (and not just older ones). The 6th edition of Robert DiYanni's gigantic (and ubiquitous?) Literature anthology includes several comic strips and graphic-novel excerpts, careful to explain that "graphic novels" are superior to "just" comics, because they eschew superheroes and the like, making them superior, of course.
This is all pretty much hogwash.
Some graphic novels are about superheroes, and some "just" comics are not. Some comic strips are literary and artistic gems worthy of the same literary consideration as, say, a Basho haiku (I'm looking at you, Bill Watterson!), and some are repetitive, simplistic crap. Some graphic novels get Pulitzers, but more deserve consideration for that kind of honor than get it. Several decades into the genre's maturity, I'm astonished that we're still having trouble figuring out what their cultural role is -- or should be. (Then again, shorter-form comic books have been out for many, many decades, and their cultural role is both disputed and, frequently, unfairly pigeonholed.)
Here's what I think about graphic novels (and related genres): Some of them are wonderful, and some of them are not. Some of them are complex works of visual and literary art, and some of them are not. Just like some poems suck, and some are masterpieces. Just like some short stories exalt us, and some flop.
Kim Dong Hwa's Colors trilogy is wonderful, a complex work of visual and literary art, a masterpiece that exalts us. He is a household name in Korea for his long career in manhwa (the Korean word for comics, analogous to the Japanese word "manga"), but this trilogy has only been available in the U.S. for a couple of years. The translation, by Lauren Na, is graceful; she has chosen to preserve certain Korean words and phrases, identifying these (along with certain colloquialisms) in brief footnotes that, surprisingly, are not at all intrusive.
The trilogy is, essentially, a coming-of-age story, focused on a young girl's romantic and sexual awakening, but it is neither prurient nor sensational. (That said, it is not for children. The subject matter is dealt with tastefully but frankly. If topics like a boy's first wet dream or a girl's discovery of masturbation embarrass you, stay away -- but you'd be missing a beautiful and powerful book. Nothing is graphic.)
OK, "parental advisory" over. This is a remarkable work. I'm more or less late to this bandwagon. Kim's work is roundly praised in North America as well as in his native country, and just flipping through these books will show you why. These three books show how a great artist-writer can use words and pictures as a unique poetry. He tells the story of Ehwa, a young girl growing up in early-20th-century Korea, in a combination of small-panel comic style and whole-page painterly illustrations that manga/manhwa readers have come to expect from the greats. Some of the pictures are so evocative on their own that they are powerful, even taken out context.
The trilogy begins with The Color of Earth. Ehwa and her widowed mother run the local village tavern. Their relationship is close, loving and open. The local men gossip about the beautiful widow and flirt with her, to her daughter's dismay, but she handles both with grace but a no-nonsense attitude. Ehwa, age 7 at the book's opening, grows into a young woman and develops her first crushes. Meanwhile, her mother falls in love with a handsome traveling salesman -- called "the picture man" because of his gift with calligraphy.
In the second book, The Color of Water, Ehwa has become a young woman. With the picture man still roaming into and out of her mother's life, she begins to wonder about her own romantic future. Torn between delight in her developing beauty and the shy awkwardness of teenagehood, Ehwa falls in love herself. As anyone knows, "the course of true love never did run true," and an old lecher's jealousy enforces a separation.
In the third book, The Color of Heaven, Ehwa and her mother pine in their own ways for their own wandering loves, dealing with uncertainty and doubting their choices. It's no spoiler to say that the ending is a happy one, at last.
I know, I know: It sounds banal. Trust me: No mere summary of the plot can truly do justice to the trilogy, because the plot is almost incidental in this lyrical work that is as much a poem as a story. Kim's stated purpose is to honor the strong Korean women of his mother's generation, who faced social limitations with graceful strength. The picture of the society of the time is nostalgic but not utopian; you get a sense of the very real hardships underlying the story's context. None of this intrudes, however.
Ehwa is an appealing touchstone character. As our way into this world and this story, she is refreshingly naive but not stupid. Sometimes immature and selfish, sometimes generous and kind, she is delightful to watch grow up. But my favorite character is her mother. I loved her flashes of temper, her gentle humor, and the great tenderness and honesty in her dealings with her daughter, even on the most sensitive topics. Her love story is the more fascinating to me, and I think I was as happy to see the Picture Man round the gate as she is.
Rating: Enthusiastically recommended
No comments:
Post a Comment