This missive is, in part, a reaction to Kim Thompson's most recent Online Editorial ("A Modest Proposal..."), and, in part, something that's been in the back of my mind for some time.

How many times have I heard "mainstream comics are mostly crap," or some equivalent thereof? It's become a background noise in the industry: generally accepted, but at the same time, generally ignored. And, to be frank, it's true, if by "crap" you mean unimaginative formula-based genre narrative accompanied by meek, listless and unoriginal artwork. To agree with Kim, that's really not such a bad thing, provided that this landscape of mediocrity manages to support one or two truly fantastic works. DC wouldn't likely be able to maintain its Paradox Press without the profits of its vast array of superhero schlock and Vertigo phenomena.

Even over in the "alternative" comics field, Fantagraphics needs to publish porn in order to sustain its better titles. Denis Kitchen refused to publish any adventures of Spandex-clad supermen, and that, at least in part, probably contibuted to Kitchen Sink's eventual demise (and, even then, Kitchen Sink was pumping out candy bars to supplement the comic-book income, or lack thereof).

These situations make fiscal sense, if nothing else. What it comes down to is this: without the crap, we wouldn't have the good stuff. It's a flowers-growing-from-shit situation. What I need to ask, then, is why the self-publishing market is equally overflowing with unmitigated crap.

Mini-comics and other self-publishing ventures are a largely undiscovered country in which hitherto unknown wonderful little treasures can be found. The Xeric Foundation is based on this very concept, and the Journal has a long history of trying to illuminate the masses as to what can be found outside the bounds of the big-three, or four, or however many we're up to now. This is, however, a wheat-from-chaff situation. One has to weed through an amazing amount of self-published crap before finding any true diamonds. Don't kid yourself: they're rare gems. I've been pretty lucky so far with the material sent in to Thrown to the Wolves (and yes, I have been reviewing everything that I've received, though the pile of to-be-reviewed is growing), but I've seen a cross-section of the material out there, and, to be frank, it's frightening.

Why is it that so many people have taken their access to Kinko's and Xerox technology as a licence to produce "art'? Who is it that recently referred to Kinko's as the world's largest publisher? The sheer mass of the comics work published by Kinko's is unbearably bad. I only refer to it as "art" to appease those who mindlessly adhere to R.C. Harvey and Scott McCloud's definitions of the medium. Innumerable comics of the self-publishing variety are produced by "creators" incapable of stringing together basic narratives, or of drawing simple consistently-recognizable characters. James Kochalka has written in the Journal on the over-rating of craft, but his comics are nonetheless created with attention to storytelling, carefully rendered visuals, and skill honed over years of practice. He is aware of what goes into making a comic, and he does it well. Even those mainstreamers, while often dull and predictable, understand the fundamentals of comics. Far too many self-publishing doodlers have taken Kochalka's premise to the furthest extreme, believing craft as altogether unnecessary in the creation (and er... publication) of comics.

One might posit that people have every right to publish their work, however miserable. It's that First Amendment thing. (Being Canadian, I hesitate to enter into any discussion of the US Consitution, but, as the saying goes, "He who hesitates is lost.") The problem isn't the ability to do so, though, but the inclination. I fully understand (and heartily encourage) the desire to experiment and improve one's abilities, but what is this instinct that drives fledgling cartoonists to display their experimental learning experiences to the world? There's a reason that shop-owners soap up their windows when remodeling their interiors: so that you can only see their work when they're ready for you to see it. Once you put something out into the world, you can't take it back. There's a reason now-famous cartoonists publish their old sketchbooks after they have acheived some recognition for their abilities. When you invite someone to your house, do you lead them through the back alley, past the garbage cans and refuse, or do you bring them into the rooms you're proud of?

Recently in Seattle's alternative newspaper, The Stranger, in his review of Alexander Theroux's The Enigma of Al Capp (July 1, 1999), Doug Nufer proposed:

The world of comics needs serious criticism from outside the field. In a way, though, the Capp book is the worst kind of lip service, emblematic of an inferiority complex Fantagraphics should repudiate. Let's get a big name author to write a monograph about a famous cartoonist, so we can stake out some critical respectability! When the big shot turns in garbage, do you accept it and pretend everything's fine, or do you hold him to the same standards of quality you enforce for every other person who submits work to you, the standards that made you what you are?

How much good can it possibly do to applaud mere effort ("Hey, at least he's trying," "Hey, leave her alone -- at least she's chosen comics as an art form.")? Yes, let's encourage effort, but let's not confuse effort with artistic strength. When presented with crap, let's not be afraid to call a spade a spade. Let's not be afraid to say, "Back to the drawing board with you; come back when you've got something worth promoting."

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