Brian K Vaughan: the king of "creator-owned" comics

He rarely speaks about the ethics of working alone as against for Disney or Warner Brothers, but Brian K Vaughan's work speaks volumes about the importance of creative freedom.

It is, perhaps, a sad reflection on the American comics industry that "creator-owned" exists as a subcategory of it, treated as a genre in its own right. So many talented creators spend their lives working on characters and concepts owned by Disney and Warner Brothers (the corporate parents of Marvel and Disney, themselves the owners of the Vertigo and Icon imprints) that readers and publishers alike feel the need to highlight when their favourite writers and artists are doing work which is actually theirs – both in terms of the creative energy going in, and the rewards coming out.

It's an even odder state of affairs when you consider that the serialised, team-produced comic which seems typical of the American comics industry is in fact just a tiny subsection of it. Huge numbers of writers and artists spend their entire lives without ever touching that world, including world-renowned names like Chris Ware, Alison Bechdel and Joe Sacco. Despite, or maybe because, they are so disconnected from the world of super-corporations, capes and iconography, no-one thinks of describing their work as "creator-owned". It just is.

So it may sound like an artificially constrained complement to say that Brian K. Vaughan is probably the king of creator-owned comics, and in a way it is, akin to limiting you discussion of music to bands with two guitarists, a bassist and a drummer. But being the best four-piece rock band is still quite an accolade.

Vaughan's approach to his work is best articulated in contrast to the only other serious contender for his crown, Robert Kirkman, the author of (among other things) The Walking Dead and Invincible. Both men bounced between creator- and corporate-owned comics for a number of years in the early 2000s, before firmly deciding to focus on writing stories they control. Shortly after, Vaughan took a break from comics entirely, working as a writer in Hollywood on Lost, while Kirkman ploughed on with his two key series, pushing each of them over 100 issues.

While Kirkman seems to view working on creator-owned titles as a sort of moral imperative, going so far as to film a "manifesto", his work doesn't veer hugely from what he could do under the wing of a bigger publisher. It's a matter of economic and creative exploitation, and it's paid off: the returns from the phenomenally successful Walking Dead franchise (now including prepaid Visa cards as well as the TV and video game series) have accrued to him and his co-creators.

That's in contrast to Vaughan, who rarely speaks about the ethics of working for large corporations, but whose work says volumes about the importance of creative freedom. From the very first panel of volume one Saga, his current series with artist Fiona Staples, it's clear he values doing what he wants. The book opens with a full-page shot of one of the two protagonists, sweaty and in pain, asking "Am I shitting? It feels like I'm shitting!". Two books in, and the baby born in that scene remains a baby, but the narration never fails to remind us that the book is her story, not her parents. Vaughan is settling in for an epic, and the thought of being cancelled, censored or meddled with is not to be entertained.

(Sadly, even being creator-owned couldn't entirely prevent censorship; Saga was briefly blocked from a digital comic service over a scene involving pornography.)

The second volume of Saga came out this month, and shows a pair settling into working with each other and their characters. The major flaw in Staples' artwork in the first book was a tendency for her sketched-out backgrounds to hint at detail which just wasn't present, leading to disappointment if too much time was spent looking at the double-page spreads; that's disappeared as the action has shifted to new locales, and the book's stronger for it. With a run of well over 15 books planned – but also an ending in sight – the two of them have much more time to settle into each other's contours.

But the best argument for Vaughan maintaining his crown is when he pushes the business of creator-owned comics materially forward. And that's being done, not with Saga, but with his collaboration with Marcos Martin, The Private Eye. The innovation here is as much commercial as artistic: sold on a pay-what-you-will model, as DRM-free PDFs, it's hard to see how Vaughan could even have got the pitch in front of someone who could sign off on it at a major publisher, let alone actually gone ahead with it. But what good luck he did, because the resultant comic, three issues in, is a beautiful, funny and exciting exploration of our own reliance on networks set in a world where society has been forced to give them up. That it's being sold exclusively online (there aren't any plans to print it for the time being) renders the very business model a wry metatextual comment in it's own right.

Ex Machina 50. Credit: Brian K Vaughan and Tony Harris.

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism