The ‘Best American’ series of books has been around for a while, compiling and cataloguing the best WHATEVERS from the previous year - poetry, fiction, nonfiction, ‘science writing’, mysteries, random assortments of things, and graphic verbal depictions of why every one of my relationships has failed. It’s not that the series is being unnecessarily exclusive by limiting itself to ‘American’ output, but the amount of beautiful creativity expressed by the world at large just wouldn’t fit into a singular, annual volume - so we focus on the local crowd.

It’s only been since 2006 that there’s a volume dedicated exclusively to comics, and it’s a definitely sign that graphic storytelling is being taken seriously. In this, I take a personal pride. I was SO there, like, fifteen years ago. This second volume, focusing on stories collected in 2007, is a full-color, 341-page, 2.5 pound, hardcover testament to comics as art.

The collection of stories bridges all forms of indie comics, omitting the standard superhero fare from DC and Marvel - which can almost always be found in reprint editions anyhow. It’s a bit of an elitist omission, but I’ll deal with it. Not even a page from Ultimate Avengers? Fine.

Many of the comics herein are small autobiographical tales, a good handful are bizarrely fictional, and there’s that whole middle section where things just go completely hallucinogenic, best read (as I did) with a low fever. Even a quick flip through the pages will break down any notions that a new comic reader might have about what a ‘comic’ is. Here’s the new definition : just about anything that you make and choose to call a ‘comic’.

More than half of these comics don’t display any kind of traditional artistic skill, just a desire to tell a visual story, and actually seem to pursue more of an ‘outsider’, untrained and uncensored approach. While I’m a fan of comics of all types, one can expect that the narratives in these will fall apart entirely and follow the strange mental machinations of a 5-year old, along with the same explosive enthusiasm and unbridled use of color and line. Skim through the works of Paper Rad, and the artist known only as ‘C. F’, who makes liberal use of ball point pens and stencils. Unusual and childlike as they are, they’re all carefully calculated. They can’t NOT be. These demonstrate the ideas that a comic doesn’t even have to be narrative anymore, and collections of surreal pictures are just as valid. Is it charming that these are being made by 30-year old men, or is it kinda creepy and effortlessly cheap? They have their place, and exist in their own bizarre section of the book. Gary Panter, best known for his design work on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, is probably the strangest (and least kid-friendly) of all.

The only disadvantage to this collection is that it pulls a lot of work from the ‘Mome’ series of comics, which are small collections of work in themselves. Because I’m a reader of these, roughly 20% of the book is old news and already in my collection. Also, the inclusion of Aline Crumb in any collection of ‘best’ comics is an automatic disqualification from total greatness. For those readers who are unaware, Sophie Crumb is the daughter of legendary ‘indie’ comic artist Robert Crumb, who revolutionized and advanced the art form more than we can ever credit him for. Still, just because your dad is a rocket engineer, it does NOT automatically qualify you to work at NASA and fly the big spaceship (which is a comparison that I did not come up with on my own). Sophie Crumb’s derivative, obnoxious comics are perpetuated on the basis of her last name alone. Fortunately, there’s only one page of her, and unfortunately, that’s enough to make me go on a prolonged rant.

Most of these comics here weren’t even created in 2007, but have been culled from the last two decades. I was more interested in recent evolutions in the artform when I picked up the book, so the title remains misleading, but I guess there’s a lot of catching up to do after so many years of ignoring the artform. Chris Ware, a stellar artist himself, edits the collection and manages to arrange the stories in such a way that it’s like reading one enormous story that spans the book. None of Ware’s comics are included, though, which is another glaring omission. No James Kochalka (but a little Jeffrey Brown), and no Paul Hornschemeier, but it still finds a place alongside McSweeney’s #13 and An Anthology of Graphic Fiction as big, heavy books that I can show people when they start talkin’ smack about comics.

And if they still don’t believe me, it’s probably heavy enough to do some cranial damage.

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This past weekend was a significant one for New York comic nerds of all ilks, from those exclusively into spandex and punching to those collectors who prefer their comics brooding and embarrassingly autobiographical. Not only was the seven millionth annual Big Apple Comic Con happening across the street from Madison Square Garden in the decrepit Hotel Pennsylvania, but the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art was having their amazing annual Festival. It would seem that I had a big weekend ahead of me.

On Saturday, June 23rd, I attended the MOCCA Festival, located at the Puck Building (in the ridiculously trendy NoHo / SoHo area of NYC). The Puck Building, or at least the areas that we were allowed to access, was comprised of a series of large, interconnected ballrooms. In each one, artists and small publishers had set up simple 6-foot folding tables to display their works. There was no ridiculous fanfare, no corvettes decked out with TVs and people blasting out Guitar Hero tunes, no Marvel Comics shilling their latest galaxy-spanning, glossy-covered saga. The deceptively subtle, unadorned ballrooms were the perfect quiet atmosphere for artists to practice their art and explore each others’ works, without the constraints of ‘the industry’ telling them what was and was not appropriate. It would seem that a large portion of the overhead lighting wasn’t completely functional, but no one seemed to mind too much.

‘DIY’ or ‘do-it-yourself’ culture has recently found a significant foothold among the 30-and-younger crowd, as evidenced by such sites as Etsy and the vast collection of artists who choose self-publishing as a viable option for dispersing their artworks to the world. Xeroxed copies of small, hand-stapled books weren’t an uncommon sight, whereas that kind of presentation would have once been viewed as unprofessional. Now, the xerox machine has become an integral part of ‘zine and comic culture, as it’s become abundantly clear that the insights that you find in a professionally published book are the same insights that can be found in a cheaply mass-produced work. DIY, at least in a material sense, sprung out of the need for economy, after all - the trendiness was just a coincidence that came along later.

Because of this, the variety of artists and approaches covered the entire scope of the comic industry. From artists who had a few small piles of photocopies, artists who’d handmade books on a printing press, artists who had books professionally bound and printed in color or black and white, and even artists who took the ‘comic’ format and stretched it to its limits by presenting piles of individual panels in small boxes, packaged with 45s, and even as original paintings. Some were published by indie labels, while others were simply there to share their own amateur (and often impressive) creations.

I had my own mission, though, and that was to once again get my Bizarro Comics book signed by Tom Hart, Nick Bertozzi and Jessica Abel, to add to my collection of artist signatures I’ve been accumulating since 2002. By the end of the convention, I’d found everyone but the elusive Tom Hart, and even had a great conversation with Mr. Bertozzi about Jack Kirby and the recent release of the second volume of the DC Archive Edition of Kamandi. With my recent appreciation of Jack Kirby just being explored in earnest, it was enlightening to see the invisible barrier between ‘hero’ comics and ‘indie’ comics being broken down, as they often exist in two very different worlds, and are not always at ease with each other. He signed my Bizarro book right next to his own drawing of Kamandi.

Jessica Abel didn’t seem quite as receptive to my appreciations, but added the seventh signature to my Bizarro book anyhow.

Other attendees included Gary Panter, who was recently profiled in Juxtapoz Magazine for his influence on current ‘pop surrealist’ art culture, as well as his role as designer on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse (which was integral in my mental development, probably to no surprise). On the other end of his row of tables was the seven year old daughter of Denis Kitchen (founder of the notable Kitchen Sink Press), Alexa, perhaps with the most elaborate display of all, including a banner heralding her arrival and title of ‘the youngest artist in comics!’, with stacks of pink books overwhelming the table around her, while she continued to draw and her mother looked on proudly. All of this convinced me to come home to my own seven year old niece, make her a pot of coffee and let her burn through a ream of printer paper at high speeds… though this is something that she does fairly regularly anyhow without the aid of caffeine or goading. Coffee would probably blur her to a white-hot light speed from which we’d never recover.

Interestingly, there were a few artists who normally attend the Big Apple Comic Con who opted to lend their support to the MOCCA Fest instead this year, since odd planning had both events on the same days. I can see this as an active support towards the ‘art’ side of things over the ‘industry’ side, so Kyle Baker and Evan Dorkin be praised. You guys made the right choice.

Also of note was Dr. Cube from Kaiju Big Battel, a being of unspeakable evil and megalomania. From behind his table, he grasped at my friend’s complimentary Wizard Magazine and tore it open in order to sign it. When he handed it back to my friend, it read ‘Wizard Magazine is for sucker MCs! Dr. Cube!’. Shortly after that, he snatched someone’s water bottle and wrote ‘WATER!’ on it, and it all became clear. Dr. Cube and Los Plantanos were the only costumed folks at MOCCA. This was a good thing.

The MOCCA Fest spread through four or five ballrooms on the first floor, as well as a large room on the seventh floor. Table spacing was fair, and allowed foot traffic easy passage, which was a bonus as I have limited patience for crowded convention floors. As the day wore on a bit, the ballrooms filled up to ‘crowded’ levels, but the mood remained calm and unfrustrated - which is not something that can be said for the purely ‘BUY AND SELL’ atmosphere of the traditional comic convention.

Another added bonus? Art chicks are HOT. Unfailingly. So… there’s that, too.

By the end of the day, I’d spend $200 in limited edition, small run books, original paintings and records. As I purchased them, I had the opportunity to talk to an inspiring collection of genuine artists, half of whom seemed a bit surprised that I wanted them to sign their works for me, unpretentious and unassuming as most of them were. Stay tuned for an exploration of just what $200 in small press books looks like.