In what is now the third month of the year, I’m going to review three comics by three artists I was previously unfamiliar with before I read these works. You’ve heard of deuces wild, but have you ever played triples wild? Triples makes it safe. Triples is best. Will it be a triumvirate victory or a three-way tie for last? I’ll be the judge!
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A tangle of 10 long earthworms tumbles down a city street until it reaches the window display of Tony’s TV Heaven. Muffin unwinds from the gross sphere and finds their creepy-crawly self staring at a procession of television sets showing Julia Child. After expressing how much better the rich, warm soil is compared to the soup du jour, the program changes to a Jane Fonda workout. That’s where we, as readers, are witness to a six-pack on a torqued-up doe-eyed worm. Muffin quickly leads some other worms in aerobics, then—I think I’m interpreting this right—dies from unmitigated ecstasy and ascends to heaven where a supermodel-esque angel sits on a couch of clouds while watching Ghost and sipping Zima. The end. Sort of. In actuality, the zine concludes with seven pages of mostly unrelated illustrations that are printed too small and slightly faded. I would have loved to see a different comic or another Muffin Tale fill that page count instead, but that’s neither here nor there.
If you ever needed a reminder, like I did, to never judge a zine by its cover, Dirt. has you covered. All that’s presented is a purple fish head on a sauté pan along with the title and Echikson’s name in delicate washed-out pencil lines. From the cover, I assumed this story was going to fall into what I see as a small but growing class (in more ways than one) of detached, decorative fashion comics coming out today. They are not my cup of tea, to say the least, but are made by artists who I’m sure could draw a beautifully rendered cup of tea. I’m happy to report this wasn’t the case for Dirt. Far from it. I commend Eileen Echikson for using such lush watercolors in service of silliness. How can you put a price on novelty? How many pages and how many hours should an artist devote to a jokey playful premise such as a worm sprouting a juicy ass and shooting off into the afterlife? We may never know, but I’m glad Echikson tested the limits with gusto. Maybe everything in this world wouldn’t seem so frivolous all the time if we all committed to frivolousness with as much care and craftsmanship.
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Here’s a new one from jolly ol’ Englandtown, and to be certain: Molly Stocks has an understated banger on her hands. Keep in mind that I’m the perfect audience for Convoy, a book of pencil gray-toned grasses and exquisite trees, because I’m something of a rolling meadows stan. I’ve read a lot of Steinbeck recently and might even consider myself a little bucolic boy. I also have kids of my own not unlike the two characters here. Sam collects snails around his family’s countryside home and, we are made to assume as readers, has a deep, meaningful connection with them. He names them, gives them bits of flair, and keeps them safe in a trusty tin box. With his younger sister, they even line the snails up in a convoy formation, which they know because they share a sibling bond and fascination with the 1978 Kris Kristofferson vehicle. The children are drawn delightfully with wide, rounded features and big orbed noses. They really reminded me of people who might have been drawn by Raymond Briggs, an underappreciated comics missing link if there ever was one. But don’t mistake Convoy’s pastoral nature with gentleness.
I’ve taken to getting up around 4:00 AM each day. I’m not a grindset bro - it’s just when I can get some time to read, stretch my hammies, and attune my emotions before the family wakes up. With all its sincerity and the unique depths it plumbs, Convoy is a perfect 4:00-in-the-morning read. Here’s what’s next: Sam has to make a pit stop inside and is forced to leave the lineup of treasured snails with his sister. It is left somewhat unclear, but she either lets them all go or, more likely, stomps on them. Stocks gives us hints, but we are spared the gory, goopy details. But Sam isn’t. Throughout the comic I was impressed with the transitions from bottom-right panel to top-left panel in a spread, and when we transition from bottom-right to top-left when the page is turned. Stocks isn’t going for quick-flip shock value or juxtaposition, just employing pleasant, solid storytelling mechanics. With the exception of a few early pages of cat drawings that I couldn’t figure out (Is this a thing in indie comics now? Just add a handful of illustrations to pad out the page count?), Stocks spends this time illuminating the casual helplessness and pedestrian grief of a particular kind of childhood where these things mount and mount until you’re grown, an adolescence where days of complete freedom can turn into utter loneliness with the crack of a shell. When I’m feeling wistful—and I’m always feeling wistful—I’ll continue to come back to this one, ideally before the sun comes up.
Babsy and Maude: MFL Misfortune by Molly Dwyer
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Here’s a comic that’s sure grimy and splendid. The two title anthropomorphic characters / roommates / sweethearts are catching a late-night ride on the Market-Frankford line and navigating their “blissfully ignorant belligerence” while subway station chaos ensues. Babsy is sinewy with long, sad ears and is in a constant state of breakdown. Maude is chain smoking and swaggering, with cat-eye glasses and a charmingly domineering disposition. It’s hard to say how their relationship is going to hold up in the long run, but they make a great comedy team. These two encounter a disturbed pup and a daisy-headed leerer while they wait and Dwyer ends it by digging into the Muppets playbook (“It all ends in two ways: either someone gets eaten or something blows up.”) by violently slicing Babsy in two with the train door. Don’t worry, she’s sewn back together on the concluding page. Whew!
Dwyer is one of those cartoonists who’s great at drawing dilapidated dreck. Tears ooze out of eyeballs and puddle on top of feet, cigarette butts litter the ground, rats shoot heroin. There’s a shame-and-caution-be-damned elation to this work, a Gen Z boozy slapstick (Babsy takes a nail gun to the head in panel four) that feels absolutely fresh, but steeped in a long cartooning lineage. I never thought I’d be reading an elite debut comic in 2024 whose most obvious influence (to me) is Milton Knight. This shit is exciting! Ok, let’s talk about some panel structure and pacing. There’s a panel where Babsy steps on an aluminum can. In the next panel Maude has already caught her. For an artist like Dwyer, who is seemingly trying to pack in as much humor and physical expression as she can, you’d think she would want to play up that fall for laughs instead of having the reader infer what a great, big cartoony pratfall looks like in their heads. There are several instances in this comic where characters have their backs to the reader. These choices don’t make sense to me, especially since Dwyer is so gifted at over-the-top kinetic expressions. But, but, but, there’s also something to go completely bonkers for on each page, so I gratefully accept the lows for the highs here. It’s too early to tell—this comic is only eight pages after all!—but Molly Dwyer is one of my picks to click. She could be a great one, and if you’re reading this column you know that I’m very rarely wrong.
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There you go. Three artists making challenging work that is totally and completely different from each other. That’s what "Arrivals and Departures" is supposed to be all about. I believe, if you give them the chance, you'll get as much out of these comics as I did. Or not - that’s fine too, because the challenge itself is the good part. Thanks for reading and see you next month, I hope.
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Questions, love letters and submissions to this column can be directed to @rjcaseywrites on Instagram.
