"The art of the people": how comics got political

"I think ideas are the real villains in politics and the world generally."

It was fitting that the strand of events centered on comics at the Edinburgh Book Festival opened with a political statement. Speaking on his worries as comics moved further into the realm of literary accolades and academic study, the critically acclaimed Chris Ware told his audience that comics are “a working class art form”, and the “art of the people”, with the caveat that he didn’t intend to sound strident.

One of the historical roots of modern comics is of course the political cartooning of the early newspapers; the mechanical reproduction of images finally allowing art to be consumed by the masses rather than the privileged few, with cartoonists leaping at the chance to communicate complex political situations via their deceptively simple form. 

The idea of comics as a political tool is not without its controversies, from grumbles amongst novelists to riots over religious icon portrayals. Any fan of superhero comics can tell you that comics don’t have to be overtly political, but the recent insistence by creator Todd McFarlane that historically no comic book that has worked has been “trying to get across a message” was largely met by the rolling of eyes.

As Stripped celebrates comics and graphic novels in all their forms, I wondered what a few of the guests had to say about how they incorporate their own politics into their work, and how the medium of comics helps or hinders their message.

Stephen Collins, winner of the 2010 Observer/Cape/Comica Graphic short story prize and creator of The Gigantic Beard That Was Evil (Jonathan Cape, 2013), is well known for his comic strips that appear in both the Guardian and Prospect, frequently tackling topical issues.

“In terms of newspaper cartoons,” Collins says, “I tend to go for something that makes me laugh first, rather than a political angle. And even when that does turn out to be political, I try not to draw politicians too much. Partly because it dates the comic quickly, partly because it’s so much a ‘part of the game’ that politicians will just ask to buy the cartoons for their toilet wall as an ego-boost, which is annoying.

“But also I am more interested in political ideas, and how they get used and abused by politicians and the rest of us, than in specific politicians. I think ideas are the real villains in politics and the world generally, so I try to get at that for 'satire' if I can, rather than draw Michael Gove every week. 

“Technology-driven individualism is a good source of jokes for instance, and it’s a very political idea which is underneath a lot of modern life, but I just think it turns out better if I do a sketch about somebody using a smartphone rather than criticizing a specific government policy.”

It’s interesting to note that in our media savvy times, politicians are clearly as aware of satirical cartoons as the intended audience – Collins is surely not alone in wincing at the idea of his artwork adorning the lavatory walls of The Man.

So is Collins’ cartooning done as commentary alone or is he trying to win hearts and minds? “Commentary, really,” he answers. “I think it’s a bit weird when people claim they’re trying to change people’s minds with political cartoons. I think longer, more subtle comics can do that – Joe Sacco or Rutu Modan for instance – because they give you a proper insight into someone else’s experience of a political issue. But I think if you’re doing a short gag you can forget about changing minds. You’re there to make a joke first and foremost, which can be perspective-changing within limits… but I’m not likely to blow open a Daily Mail reader’s mindset by doing a comic strip in the Guardian. The moral high ground some satirists assume can be a right turn-off for me sometimes if I'm honest.”

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Sacco, creator of Palestine, Safe Area Goražde, and Journalism amongst others, is highly acclaimed for his documentary journalism in the comics medium. The cartoonist was keen to stress to his audience at the second Stripped event the differences between his subjective journalism and so-called objective journalism, saying that the former was far more honest – all reporters and journalists have their own preconceived notions that dictate how and what they report. While journalists reporting only the cold hard facts left gaps in the story, Sacco mused that, “I don’t know if there should be more outrage for the sake of outrage,” and pointed out that their choice of story was often telling enough.

“My sympathies are clear at least by what I’m reporting on,” he said, adding that by portraying himself within his stories he was indicating that this work was filtered through his own viewpoint. Sacco also spoke of the tension between the idea of journalism, representing the facts and the truth, and drawing, which he said was subjective by its very nature, filtered by the artist and the choices they make on the page.

But does his work record history or does it actually influence people? Sacco personally went from the US media created illusion that all Palestinians were terrorists to being able to show the bigger picture. “For whatever it’s worth,” he said, “this is when I can do something about that situation. This is when their voices can have some agency.”

Sacco, like Chris Ware, has won numerous literary awards as well as the more traditional comics prizes, and his upcoming panoramic wordless take on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, The Great War (Jonathan Cape, 2013), is sure to be a huge success. While graphic novels have a steadily soaring audience size, one can’t discount the superheroes and other monthly publications that dominate our popular culture.

One writer who openly embraces political issues in his mainstream work is Paul Cornell, writer for DC, Marvel and Doctor Who, as well as numerous novels including London Falling (Tor, 2013). Cornell is known not only for including great women characters in his comics, but also for spotlighting issues including LGBT and immigration as almost a byproduct of his plots.

Cornell caused a storm of controversy last year by directly addressing the lack of women guests at many comics conventions. "Panel Parity" was his vow that he would not appear on panels that were not fairly balanced, thus keeping the issue at the forefront of convention organisers (and fans) minds.

I wondered whether Cornell had experienced difficulties due to wearing his politics so openly on his sleeve.

“I think there's a lot more resistance from certain elements in the fandoms than there is inside the companies,” Cornell answered. “Certainly, Marvel have got behind Panel Parity, putting my wonderful Wolverine editor, Jeanine Schaefer, on their Comic Con panel (editors appearing on panels is a surprisingly rare thing), and emphasising their female-led books and female talent. 

“In the past, comics companies have tended to suggest diversity should 'happen naturally', as if when you leave a comic book open overnight gay men might grow in the pages like mustard and cress, so it's great that Marvel are now championing it, doing it deliberately. Because that's the only way it can be done. Jeanine's a force for change. And there are a number of prominent female editors now who are altering the face of pro comics culture pretty swiftly. 

“Online comics fandom, meanwhile, if you judge solely by the comics message boards, remains conservative and behind the times. The action is to be found on Tumblr, where the Carol Corps lives."

Tumblr is indeed the place to be for many younger comics fans who have been horrified at those same conservative internet forums. Here burgeoning communities of like-minded souls can be found, with a sense of real enthusiasm in the air. 

I ask if Cornell’s stance on panel parity, which he began with the acknowledgement that it was most likely a rod for his own back, has caused him trouble.

“It's horrified various convention organisers,” Cornell says, “who find themselves having to jump through hoops. I don't mind that negative reaction so much, they're having to deal with the results of patriarchy, it's not their fault it exists. I've been quietly dropped from a few conventions I'd previously been invited to. The worst thing is when it's treated as something laughable.

“One World Science Fiction Convention actually tried to lessen the number of female panelists on one panel I was on, joking that they were trying to create 'parity' across the board. For them, and for some great big chunks of SF fandom in general, it'll always be 1974. But various others events (such as the wonderful CONvergence in Minnesota) found that they had a woman on every panel I was on anyway. (My rule these days has been reduced to 'I don't do all male panels' rather than a need for 50/50, because I wanted to speed up the rate of change.)

“It's bashing at the wrong end of the problem, but it's created some good outcomes. The women who get to appear on panels when they formerly wouldn't have have universally been great, never a token, because there's a huge untapped resource of women panelists sitting in front rows at every convention.  Women set themselves harder standards of expertise before they'll think of themselves as panelist material, while men tend to think 'I'll have a go' whether or not they know anything about the subject.“ 

But for some creators it’s not so easy to put your politics out there, particularly if you are prone to reinventing yourself, changing your stance, or not visibly engaged with the online world. Cornell’s stance is hugely admirable, as is his willingness to speak out on issues that have caused problems for many fans. As a woman who has experienced her fair share of abuse for speaking out about issues around sexism in comics, I’d like to think I’d do the same. 

The beauty of comics as a medium though, and following on directly from that shared heritage with political cartooning, is that you can let your work do the speaking for you. What Cornell does quite wonderfully is have his politics intertwined in the story in a way that doesn’t slap the reader in the face.

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One writer in particular has often found himself portrayed as an unwilling spokesperson after sharing his own opinions. Grant Morrison has been heralded as the dispenser of justice and penance on all manner of subjects, from the treatment of early comic creators (Supergods, Vintage, 2012), and his pedestal as a counter culture icon, to his acceptance of an MBE (or interpretation of an Alan Moore comic!). Is it easier just to stay quiet and put your own thoughts out more subtly in comic form?

“As a writer, I think comics, stories, metaphors and symbols are much better vehicles for my personal opinions than interviews, certainly,” Morrison says. “In a story, characters can adopt various viewpoints and present a given issue from multiple, seemingly contradictory, or 'Cubist' angles. In a live interview, unless it’s a subject I’m interested in, I’m working off zero research and vague feelings of outrage or conviction inspired by the last article I read on a given topic, the last knee-jerk response I experienced. I’m wary of anyone who advocates big simple solutions to complex and elaborate problems and personally, I prefer to work out my thoughts on the page and to challenge my own certainties by creating characters who disagree with me.  

“That’s not to say that stories can’t or shouldn’t be vehicles for personal convictions and beliefs but readers can usually smell a tract coming down the hall and are rightly suspicious of work that pushes a singular agenda.”

Morrison’s rejection of “isms” has led to some Wonder Woman fans worrying how the writer will tackle their favourite superhero in his upcoming Wonder Woman: The Trial of Diana Prince. However, in a recent interview with USA Today, Morrison revealed that his research into the history of feminism had resulted in him getting angry and “a little bit militant”, retuning him to his alternative roots. With anything Morrison says on the subject of the holy trinity (Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman) making headlines across the world, does he feel the need to be guarded during interviews when things get into political territory?

“Pretty much,” he replies. “I feel I have to be guarded because my opinions can shift radically from day to day and moment to moment and I’d hate for any impressionable young person who likes what I have to say about Batman or Chaos Magic to take seriously my disinterested and ill-considered thoughts on the subject of, say, New Tory, UKIP, Scottish Independence, Europe or apish party politics in general.

“To ally myself to political movements or causes would seem as absurd and reductive to me as supporting a football team or attending a church. I don’t believe one single 'ism' can hope to explain things, represent everyone or correct all of society’s faults so I wouldn’t be comfortable presenting myself as a spokesperson for any of them. I’m against coercion and for creativity. I think we should all try as hard as we can to be kinder to ourselves, other people and other living things. Beyond that, I’m unwilling to wear anyone’s flag.

“Fiction allows me to take politics out for a walk without me or anyone else being bitten to death by them; which is to say I prefer to see ideas arguing on the page rather than fighting in the streets.”

Showing ideas and issues dueling it out on the page is something that all these artists and writers strive to create, their well-read sandboxes where ideas can be tested and stretched. The earliest cartoonists could perhaps never have imagined the caped crusaders and documentary journalists of today, not least the literary accolades and acclaim, but it’s heartening to see that comics, at their heart, are still capable of being the art of the people.

The Edinburgh Book Festival has long made sure it always has at least one guest from the world of comics, but with the new Stripped programme boasting 41 events, as well as a two day mini comics fair with over 30 exhibitors, comics have rarely felt seen such respect at a literary event. Many events are yet to come, with tickets available via the Festival website.

Captain America #175, 1974. Photograph: Marvel Comics

Laura Sneddon is a freelance journalist. Find more of her work at comicbookgrrrl.com

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When faith found its Article 50: exploring the theology of Martin Luther

New books by Lyndal Roper and Diarmaid MacCulloch reveal the scatalogy and theology of one of history's best known theologians.

Protestantism was the first great Eurosceptic thing, the setting up of local power bases against a shared wisdom. Almost five centuries have passed since Martin Luther nailed (or glued? – there seems to be some doubt about the matter) his Ninety-Five Theses to the castle door in Wittenberg in 1517. Luther himself never mentioned the event.

In the year before the anniversary of that momentous act by a firebrand Augustinian friar at the age of 33, two of our finest historians have given us food for thought. Diarmaid MacCulloch, whose Reformation: Europe’s House Divided (2003) has achieved classic status, gives us a powerful set of essays, chiefly concerned with the effects of the Reformation in England. He revisits some of the main figures of the period – Cranmer, Byrd, Hooker (an especially good profile) – and gives insightful readings of the changing historiography of the Reformation phenomenon. Lyndal Roper, Regius Professor of History at Oxford, has retold the life of Luther. Hers is the bigger book. MacCulloch has wise things to say about the Book of Common Prayer, the King James Bible and the religion of the Tudor monarchs. But no one on the English scene can quite match the figure of that crazed Wittenberg friar. Indeed, there would not have been an English Reformation at all, had it not already begun in Germany.

Nor would Luther have been so famous, had not Johann Gutenberg (circa 1398-1468) invented printing, and had Luther’s inflammatory tracts – and even more so the anti-Catholic woodcuts to accompany them – not spread like wildfire, the Latin writings among the whole European intelligentsia, the illustrated ones in German among a semi-literate peasantry. At Wartburg Castle today, guides will show you the splodge on the wall where Luther supposedly threw an inkpot at the Devil. Lyndal Roper says this is a misinterpretation of Luther’s claim that he would fight Satan with ink (meaning “with printer’s ink”).

The single feeling I took away from these two inspirational books is that the Reformation was a series of political events, driven by secular concerns, in Germany by the power games of the nobility – above all of Friedrich III, “the Wise”, Elector of Saxony – and in England by the sordid politicking of Henry VIII. Until the Reformation happened, it had been perfectly possible to excoriate abuse in the Church (as when Chaucer mocked the Pardoner) without invoking Article 50.

This tolerance changed when the Holy Roman emperor Charles V convened the Diet of Worms. The assembly was intended to reassert twin bulwarks: the emperor’s personal power over huge tracts of Europe and, more specifically, the maintenance of the Catholic faith against the rumblings of the new teaching. Luther was summoned to appear before it in order either to reaffirm his views or to recant.

There was a crowd of over 2,000 people waiting to see him when he arrived in Worms, in the Rhineland, on 16 April 1521, paraded in an open wagon. The choice of vehicle was deliberate; Luther, and his followers, wanted him to be seen. This austere, still tonsured friar, with his huge, bony face divided by a long, asymmetrical nose, with dark, electrifying eyes and curling, ­satirical lips, was a figure who had become a celebrity, almost in the modern sense.

In the Germany of the 1520s, so superbly evoked in Roper’s book, people knew something “seismic” was happening. Worms is the place where Luther did, or did not, say: “Here I stand. I can do no other.” MacCulloch tells us that these are words that Luther probably never spoke, “but he ought to have said them, because they sum up a little of what it is like being a Protestant”.

Roper’s account of the diet and of ­Luther’s appearance before it is one of the most remarkable passages in her magnificent book. On the late afternoon of 17 April, he found himself standing before John Eck, the imperial orator. The papal nuncio Jerome Alexander had warned against giving Luther such publicity. Even as the titles of his many books were read out, they demonstrated, in Roper’s words, “the depth and range of Luther’s attack on the papacy and the established Church”. In reply to Eck’s questions, Luther spoke quietly, saying he was more used to the cells of monks than to courts. It was his fanbase that reported, or invented, the celebrated words.

Luther, standing alone before that assembly, is a type of what makes Protestantism so alluring. We do not need intermediaries, whether popes or priests or emperors, on our journey towards Truth; our inward conscience is king. Luther can be seen as the archetypical dissident, the instigator of what eventually became Democracy and Romanticism. But Roper’s Luther is deeply rooted in the 16th century, and in his own appalling ego. (When he was a monk, he would spend six hours making his confession.)

A large part of her story is the sheer coarseness of his language, the deranged coprology that fed his many hatreds, in particular of the Jews and of the popes. The “Devil has . . . emptied his stomach again and again, that is a true relic, which the Jews and those who want to be a Jew, kiss, eat and drink and worship . . .” he wrote. “He stuffs and squirts them so full that it overflows and swims out of every place, pure Devil’s filth, yes it tastes so good to their hearts, and they guzzle it like sows.”

The pope, likewise, was castigated by Luther as a sodomite and a transvestite – “the holy virgin, Madame Pope, St Paula III”. In his virulent text “Against the Roman Papacy, an Institution of the Devil” (1545), Luther had him say, “Come here, Satan! And if you had more worlds than this, I would accept them all, and not only worship you, but also lick your behind.” He ended his diatribe: “All of this is sealed with the Devil’s own
dirt, and written with the ass-pope’s farts.”

When you think of a world without proper plumbing, the wonder is that all of our forebears were not faecally obsessed. Luther, however, was a special case. His cloacal and theological preoccupations were inextricably linked. One of the many enemies he made in life – and most of his academic colleagues and religious allies at Wittenberg finally fell into this category – was Simon Lemnius, a pupil of Luther’s sometime ally Philippus Melanchthon. Luther said he would no longer preach in Wittenberg until Lemnius was executed, and in time he was. But not before Lemnius had written a poem that went:

 

You suffer yourself from dysentery and you scream when you shit, and that which you wished on others you now suffer yourself. You called others shitters, now you have become a shitter and are richly blessed with shit. Earlier anger opened your crooked mouth, now your arse opens the load of your stomach. Your anger didn’t just come out of your mouth – now it flows from your backside.

 

It was indelicate but true. After he escaped from Worms in disguise, Luther sometimes went for up to six days without passing a motion. The “Lord strikes me in my posterior with serious pain”, he wrote. “Now I sit in pain like a woman in childbirth, ripped up, bloody and I will have little rest tonight.” And with the constipation came visitations from the Devil. “I have many evil and astute demons with me,” he wrote at this time, surely accurately.

The man’s very name has lavatorial connotations. As he told his table companions in 1532, his “Reformation moment”, his central theological idea – that the just shall live by faith alone – came upon him “like a thunderbolt”, in the privy tower of the monastery at Wittenberg. Thereafter, Luder, which was his father’s surname, became known as “the Freed One” (in Greek “Eleutherios”, in modern German “Luther”). Conversion was a laxative.

Roper argues that “we probably know more about his inner life than about any other 16th-century individual”. As a husband (which he became when he abandoned his Augustinian vows and married Katharina von Bora, a Cistercian nun 15 years his junior), he could be genial and loving. His household was clearly a place of hospitality. And yet, even by the standards of the age, he was harsh. When his nephew Florian took a knife from one of Luther’s sons, he wrote to the boys’ schoolmaster asking him to beat Florian every day for three days until the blood ran: “If the [arse-]licker were still here, I’d teach him to lie and steal!”

On the larger, national scale his political activity makes for painful reading. Without the patronage of Friedrich III he would never have got anywhere. The agricultural workers who heeded his rallying cries did so because of the absenteeism of the Saxon bishops and priests. Yet when the Peasants’ War broke out, inspired mainly by Luther, he accused them of doing the Devil’s work. After thousands had been put to the sword, his comment was that “one must kill a mad dog”. The Magdeburg preachers rightly called him a “flatterer of princes”.

And yet, as Roper leads us through the unfolding of the Reformation by way of the psychological experiences of this monster/master thinker, there is something thrilling going on here. No one has ever equalled Luther in the extent to which he teased out the radicalism of Christianity: Paul’s theology filtered through Augustine, but honed to its existential extreme in the German preacher. “I do not wish to be given free will!” he exclaimed. He anticipated the determinisms of Darwin, Marx and Freud.

His starting point was the sheer irrelevance of either human will or human reason in the grand scheme of things. Other Reformation figures took as their starting point the ineluctable sinfulness of all human action, the impossibility of our earning salvation or working for grace. None expressed himself with quite Luther’s vigour and, yes, poetic force.

Roper reminds us that his translation of the New Testament from the Greek, which was accomplished at top speed, was “a work of genius. Luther’s New Testament reshaped the German language itself . . .” And it is no surprise, she notes, that the Faust legend began to locate the scholar-egomaniac’s journey in Wittenberg. No surprise, either, that Hamlet studied there. This is the place, for good or ill, where the individual consciousness stood up against the group. No sooner had it done so than private judgement, paradoxically, began to debunk the freedom of the will. Luther’s
response to a hundred years of humanist wisdom and the revival of Greek learning was to distrust the “damned whore, Reason”. In this, and in his pathological anti-Semitism, he was sowing teeth that would spring up in later centuries as dragons.

Many would regard the end of monastic life as the greatest tragedy of the Reformation. Civilisations need men and women who retreat from the conventional burdens of property and carnality to find something else, whether they are Pythagoreans eschewing beans or Buddhist monks wandering the Indian countryside with begging bowls. The ruined British monasteries remind us of what was lost from our philistine land (not least, women’s education). Diarmaid MacCulloch, in a fine essay on Henry VIII, says that “at no time” during the eight years when most of the religious houses in Britain were destroyed “did the government officially condemn the practice of the monastic life”. Surely that makes it more, not less, painful. They were eliminated merely for money. At least Luther, in his angry way, did object to the monastic life on principle. He came to oppose the thing that most of us would think religious houses were for, namely their quietness. One of the most fascinating things in Roper’s biography is the discussion of the concept of Gelassenheit, or calm, letting go.

MacCulloch finds this beautiful quality in the Church of England, and concludes an essay on “The Making of the English Prayer Book” with a sense of the “gentle . . . understated hospitality” of Anglican worship, and its feeling, conveyed in George Herbert’s “Love bade me welcome” of . . . well, of Gelassenheit.

No modern pope would dispute Luther’s view that it was wrong to sell indulgences. Most of the abuses of the Catholic Church to which he objected were swept away by the Church itself. Both of these books will divide us. Some readers will finish them with a sense that the Reformation was a spiritual laxative by which constipated Luder became the liberated Eleutherios, thereby loosening and releasing the Inner Farage of northern Europe. Other readers will be ­sorry that the Catholic humanists such as Erasmus and More did not win the day. For such readers as this, Luther and pals must seem like brutal wreckers of a cultural cohesion that we still miss.

A N Wilson is most recently the author of “The Book of the People: How to Read the Bible” (Atlantic Books)

Martin Luther: Renegade and Prophet by Lyndal Roper is published by The Bodley Head (577pp, £30)

All Things Made New: Writings on the Reformation by Diarmaid MacCulloch is published by Allen Lane (450pp, £25)

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue