Abstraction and Comics

Bande dessinée et
abstraction
(volume I)

Sous la direction de / edited by

Aarnoud Rommens
avec la collaboration de / with the collaboration of
Benoît Crucifix, Björn-Olav Dozo, Erwin Dejasse & Pablo Turnes

Ce livre est le quatrième volume de la

Collection ACME
Contents

Volume I

O arco da noite branca | Diniz Conefrey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6

Introduction | Aarnoud Rommens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Renaud Thomas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Archeologies | Archéologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Peut-on parler d’abstraction dans les premières bandes dessinées (Cham, Nadar, Doré) ? |
Jacques Dürrenmatt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Cliff Sterrett’s Jazz Age Abstractions  | Katherine Roeder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Des chemins vers l’abstraction : la bande dessinée abstraite selon Ibn Al Rabin et Andrei
Molotiu | Jean-Charles Andrieu de Levis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Practices | Pratiques . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
What would Paul Klee say? | Kym Tabulo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Abstract Sequential Art: An Artist’s Insight | Kym Tabulo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
The Drift of Impure Thoughts | Kym Tabulo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
A propos de deux possibilités de bandes dessinées abstraites | Jessie Bi . . . . . . . . . . 179
Experiments in Comics: Kafka’s Aphorisms | Martha Kuhlman . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
Notes on Time and Poetry Comics | Bianca Stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
Narration | Narration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231
C’est fini. Ça commence. Notes sur WREK d’Olivier Deprez, Miles O’Shea et Marine
Penhouët | Jan Baetens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
Abstracted Narration and Narrative Abstraction: Forms of Interplay between Narration
and Abstraction in Comics | Kai Mikkonen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
Adding up to What? Degrees of Narration and Abstraction in Wordless Comics |
Barbara Postema . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
Tangram | Berliac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
Abstract Panels and Sequences in Narrative Comics | Pascal Lefèvre . . . . . . . . . . . 313
The Possibility of a Ligne Claire Abstraction: From Jochen Gerner and Siemon Allen to
Floc’h, Pierre Le-Tan and Patrick Caulfield | Hugo Frey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 329
Significations | Significations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
Abstraction and Non-Sequitur | Jakob F. Dittmar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Tic Tac Comic | Tomás Arguello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356
Abstraction and Comics from a Semiotic Point of View | Fred Andersson . . . . . . . . 371
Comics Machine | Gene Kannenberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 398
L’Image bande dessinée, entre figuration et abstraction. Le paradoxe qui fascine |
Jean-Louis Tilleuil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 417
Volume II
Epistemologies | épistémologies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6
The Epistemology of the Drawn Line: Abstract Dimensions of Narrative Comics |
Lukas R.A. Wilde . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Sequence | Tim Gaze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Abstraction and the Interpersonal in Graphic Narrative | Paul Fisher Davies . . . . . . . 45
Achieving Recognition: Affect and Imagining in the Work of Andrei Molotiu
and Carlos Nine | Simon Grennan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
The Golden Age of Comics According to Masotta | Un Faulduo . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Opacities | Opacités . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Oceano ardente | Jochen Gerner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Les Bandes dessinées opaques de Pascal Leyder | Erwin Dejasse . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Comix Covers | Pascal Leyder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Comics, Scissors, Paper: The bandes collées of Pascal Matthey and diceindustries |
Pedro Moura . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
4365 | Pascal Matthey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
Cátia Serrão . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Artwork by Francie Shaw with poems by Laura Elrick, Alan Bernheimer and Kit
Robinson, Charles Bernstein, Bob Perelman, Lyn Hejinian, and Rae Armantrout . . 172
Here Comes Kitty: A Comic Opera | Richard Kraft . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
Support The Revolution | Richard Kraft . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
Brut | Brut . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
202
Integral Mechanics | Mariano Grassi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
Ojo Mutante | Frank Vega . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218
La del mundo | Lautaro Fiszman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
Variations | Variations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
Abstract gram pic et pic et pictogramme : OuBaPo, abstraction et Nouvelle Pornographie |
Chris Reyns-Chikuma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Mere Details? Abstraction in the Comics of Ephameron and Olivier Schrauwen |
Benoît Crucifix and Gert Meesters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
L’Abstrait et le figural dans les bandes dessinées d’Alberto Breccia | Laura Caraballo . . 281
Jack Kirby: In-Between the Abstract and the Psychedelic | Roberto Bartual . . . . . . . 301
The Kirby ‘Krackle’: A Graphic Lexicon for Cosmic Superheroes | Amadeo Gandolfo . 321
Parallels | Parallèles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 336
Figures et détails : notes et détours comparés sur l’abstraction en bande dessinée |
Denis Mellier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
Les Deux côtés d’un mur | Ilan Manouach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364
La Valse des théorèmes : essai | Lukas Etter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
Social Abstraction: Toward Exhibiting Comics as Comics | Erin La Cour . . . . . . . . . 401
Emotional Intelligence Service | Ezequiel García . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 418
Notes on Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 432
O arco da noite branca
Diniz Conefrey
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Introduction
Aarnoud Rommens

This is not a book about abstract comics. The conjunction and in

Comics and Abstraction is key, as it signals our intent to explore the
in-between by combining the seemingly heterogeneous: comics with
markedly different aesthetics, texts informed by decidedly different
perspectives. The and is a means of encounter, and in this case, it
points to an interaction between comics and abstraction so that both
may be mutually refigured. This montage principle is intended to open
up both the concept of ‘abstraction’ and that of ‘comics’ and loosen the
grip of their respective canonical understanding, with—very broadly
speaking—abstraction standing for the non-mimetic (in art historical
discourse) and the conceptual movement of particularity to universal-
ity, while comics are most generally seen as a sequential visual-verbal
medium of storytelling. By refracting abstraction through comics and
vice versa, a multiplicity of other terms enters the picture, so that
both are in turn inflected by additional operative distinctions. Ideally,
Comics and Abstraction would thus occasion an engagement with the
in-between of other distinctions such as high and low art; art history
and comics studies; literature, poetry, drawing and writing; institu-
tional and minor art; highbrow, lowbrow, nobrow, and so on.
And so on… In the present volume, the logic of the ‘is’—of identi-
ty-thinking, of taxonomy and classification—makes way for the
“inclusive disjunction” (Mullarkey 2007, 17) of the etcetera which
eludes strict protocols of definition as well as genre and media bound-
aries. In doing so, we follow the injunction to “substitute the AND for
IS. A and B,” where the “AND (…) makes relations shoot outside their
terms and outside the set of their terms, and outside everything which
could be determined as Being, One, or Whole. (…) [T]he AND gives
relations another direction (…) Thinking with AND, instead of think-
ing IS, instead of thinking for IS” (Deleuze and Parnet 2007, 57).
Too often, comics scholarship has been preoccupied with establish-
ing a rigorous definition of its object of study. Structures, taxonomies,
and genre boundaries have been erected in conjunction with the le-
gitimation of comics as a valuable cultural form and a concomitant Olivier De-
process of canon formation taking literature as its model (Beaty & prez, fragments
Woo 2016; Worden 2015). This institutional process effects a reifica- from WREK
tion of comics: rather than descriptive, definitions become prescriptive Les indigènes
in the production of artefacts in accordance with the ‘law’ of the me- de l’abstraction,
dium whose inner workings (the ‘structure of comics’) it supposedly forthcoming
with Frémok

25
‘objectively’ describes. Comics theory in a sense perpetuates the kinds
of comics that are produced and accepted academically. The ‘is’ be-
comes an ‘ought’: this is what a ‘comic’ should look like to be worthy
of analysis.
Against the association of comics with literature to garner cultural le-
gitimacy as ‘graphic novels,’ a similar process of legitimation through
proximity has taken place. Against literature, the genre of ‘abstract com-
ics’ has been aligned with art historical discourse and the undisputed
status of abstract art as one of the greatest Modernist achievements
in visual arts, whose initial radicality has long since been exhausted
through its museal consecration. The ‘aura’ of the avant-garde seems
to have been passed onto these mainly non-figural comics, while at
the same time revealing the supposed essence of the medium itself.
Exemplars of comics at their purest, abstract comics ostensibly disclose
the “formal mechanisms that underlie all comics, such as the graphic
dynamism that leads the eye (and the mind) from panel to panel, or
the aesthetically rich interplay between sequentiality and page layout”
(Molotiu 2009, “Introduction,” n.p.). In this conception of abstrac-
tion as reduction to purity—echoing Clement Greenberg’s negative
theology of painting as pure opticality and Flat Form—the essence of
comics is revealed ex negativo: abstract comics are non-figurative and
non-narrative, while at the same time only occupied with themselves,
in an exclusively formal self-reflexivity.
In counterpoint, this book approaches abstraction as a way of affirm-
ing ‘the outside,’ as a means towards heterodoxy. Indifferent to its
specificity, the medium is now an occasion for inventing other spaces
that “push art forms beyond and beside themselves, causing their very
languages, as though possessed with the force of other things, to start
stuttering ‘and ... and ... and ...’” (Rajchman 1998, 60-61). Comics
are not a ‘system’ with a ‘code’: rather, it names a material poetic/tech-
nic that is instantiated in correlation with socio-political variables, in
which narrative comics (or its non-narrative nemesis, abstract comics)
are but one possibility amongst many. The comics published in this
book certainly speak to (stutter towards?) this constitutive outside:
instead of formal purification, they evince an anarchic engagement
with other media, with the political, with the past and present, with
whatever at hand; odds and ends are assembled into a more or less con-
tinuous segment making abstraction palpable as dirty, lived, concrete.
We have no quarrel with definitions per se. If nothing else,
they are useful: after all, they are there to be refunctioned, the matter
for joyful détournement, an occasion for unlearning. What holds for
reading Kafka equally holds for reading some of the comics in this

27
collection: “Reading Kafka demands a great effort of abstraction—not
of learning more (the proper interpretive horizon of understanding his
work), but of unlearning the standard interpretive references—so that
we become able to open up to the raw force of Kafka’s writing” (Žižek
2006, 114). Abstraction is a kind of loosening up, of letting definitions
go to make room for something unanticipated. This ‘lightening up’
chimes with abstraction’s etymology, i.e., its derivation from the Latin
abstrahere: to withdraw. Abstraction then becomes a kind of ‘tactical
retreat’ from dominant logics (cf. Lind 2011; 2013, 10-25).
With respect to comics, this withdrawal can take the form of a dis-
engagement from the medium’s usual mode of production and
institutional frameworks as well as from its circuits of circulation and
reception. This is evident in the autonomist ethos of the WREK col-
lective for example, in its production of fanzines made from woodcut
prints in workshop sessions open to the public. These woodcuts are
then reused for making so-called cinégravures, digital clips made from
a hybrid recombination of woodcuts, film and image post-processing,
which are then posted on the web. As a form of media archaeology, the
process combines ‘low’ and ‘high’ tech to explore utopian technolog-
ical possibilities in the creation of alternate media ecologies, pointing
to more sustainable ways of production.
A similar distantiation is palpable in the work of Ilan Manouach, whose
contribution to this volume is informed by a deskilling of the labour of
drawing. The clumsy, inelegant, (re)drawing of figures infringes upon
the grownup laws of perspective and narrative, and perhaps simulate
a child’s ‘apprenticeship’ into today’s world through an aesthetic edu-
cation which starts from making imperfect copies on tracing paper of
professionally produced comics and photographs. In this new world
disorder, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles live side by side with the Ku
Klux Klan: the work is an allegory of its own fragmentation presenting
a dystopian, black and grey, ragged counter-mashup to the ever-color-
ful, participatory convergence culture and our supposedly ‘democratic’
prosumerist regime. Deskilling reaches a climax in the work of Pascal
Leyder, who interprets, redraws and remediates pre-existing art to im-
pose his own idiosyncratic style. The originals—drawings by Hokusai,
Jack Kirby, Olivier Schrauwen, Alberto Breccia and many others—be-
come all but unrecognizable, their ‘signature’ panels cannibalized and
ultimately erased in Leyder’s heuristic practice.
Frank Vega embraces the wild wisdom of punk with a DIY attitude
of militant withdrawal. Made by simple blue bic ballpoint, the draw-
ings refuse to give away the logic behind their sequencing. The result
is a kind of mutant anti-comic that hijacks and distorts the direct,

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unambiguous political thrust and aesthetic of underground comix,
and mixes it with the disordering principle of surrealist collage novels.
What we end up with is a grotesque phantasmagoria which seems to
offer a political parable without a clear moral.
This underscores that the combination of heterogenous elements fol-
lowing the logic of the ‘and’ is not just a formal exercise but demands
thought; among the other methods adopted by the artists featured in
this book, collage is another tactic for disclaiming authorship and ab-
sorbing the ‘outside’ in comics, putting pressure on narrative—not to
mention aesthetic—coherence, while withdrawing from the strict dis-
tinction between the abstract and the figurative. Furthermore, it acts as
a cypher for the interruption of the smooth flow of narrative, advertise-
ment, and communicative capitalism as such, and gives us a glimpse
of the everyday violence and precarity subtending the incessant, algo-
rithmic flow of data that is replicated rather than communicated. The
arbitrariness of relations is encoded into the very fabric of collage—ab-
surdity is its surface effect.
Francie Shaw’s poem-collages—poetry being a different ‘outside’ to
the medium of comics—made in collaboration with writers Laura
Elrick, Alan Bernheimer, Kit Robinson, Charles Bernstein, Bob Perel-
man, Lyn Hejinian, and Rae Armantrout play upon this disconnect
between the visible and the sayable as a tactic of opaquing that “chal-
lenges the enlightenment paradigm based on transparency” (Lind
2011, 31). Starting from the Polish, pre-perestroika comics series Kap-
itan Kloss, which followed the exploits of a secret agent infiltrating the
Nazi forces, Richard Kraft cuts and pastes other images, punctuated
by text fragments by author Danielle Dutton. Pascal Matthey’s contri-
bution, a kind of epilogue to his book-long 978, seems to correspond
perfectly to the formal requirements of an ‘abstract comic’; however,
seeing it only as an example of the ‘abstract’ in its narrow sense is to
dull its critical edge. In this case, abstraction is the result of the disfig-
uration of a mass of publicity material of major European publishers.
It not only comments on editorial politics, but also on overproduc-
tion, hyper-commercialization and the wastefulness in an epoch where
‘paperless’ was touted as the inevitable, utopian effect of digitization.

Rather than promoting openness, direct democracy and communica-
tion, the sheer speed and excess of data dissemination has generated
an “information delirium” whose censoring effect is perhaps more suc-
cessful than the traditional mode of concealing information (cf. Lind
2011). Mariano Grassi’s comic figures the complicated nexus between
technology, precarity, and the digital, and how ‘noise’—or absurdity—

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is no longer distinguishable from information within contemporary
cognitive capitalism. Disguised in the sober aesthetic of a narrative
comic, the story unravels, only to sink deeper and deeper into the
swamp of idiocy of informational delirium.
It is against this framework that the visual contributions by Cátia Ser-
rão and Jochen Gerner take on a more definite outline. Both artists use
‘found objects’: Serrão uses Brazilian editions of Disney and superhero
comics, while Gerner uses panels from an Italian version of a Flash Gor-
don comic published in the sixties. By covering parts of the originals
in black ink or through pencil erasure, the work bestows ‘dignity’ onto
secondary details—scenery, props, backgrounds—that initially would
have been overlooked by readers with eyes for narrative only. These
are “additive subtractions” (Jasper Johns qtd. in Cage 1967, 75), para-
doxical negative operations that are simultaneously productive in that
they create new paths towards meaning. Such gestures of withdrawal
also critique the rule of intellectual property by making popular cul-
ture available again through disfiguration, an act that suggests that the
commons are subject to constraints that have made it partly unrecog-
nizable or simply inaccessible. Tomás Arguello’s comic goes furthest
in this direction by turning the visualization of information into the
work’s formal principle. It is a radically pedagogical collage of tables,
statistics, and other non-artistic, informational images ending in an
unambiguous moral. It disengages from the (hand-drawn) aesthetic of
comics altogether, instead giving us something like a PowerPoint mo-
rality play in sequential images, warning of the impending ecological
disaster at the close of the Anthropocene.
What connects all these comics is the foregrounding of image-making
(be it drawing, collage, colouring, etc.) as art, as a type of technology,
of tekhnē. As such, they complicate the notion of ‘style,’ ‘signature’
or “graphiation” (Marion 1993) in comics scholarship, which is still
surrounded by a certain mystique. The concept of graphiation refers
to the plastic-narrative enunciation of comics, comprising the draw-
ings, colouring, lettering, page layout, etc., which all contribute to the
reader’s construction of an imaginary graphiator. The latter is closely
linked to an artisanal, rather anachronistic image of production. This
concern with direct physical touch, reminiscent of Henri Focillon’s
nostalgia for the hand (cf. Focillon 1987), as somehow a guarantor of
authenticity in a mass-produced artefact safeguarding the ‘uniqueness’
of comics, poses the danger of aestheticizing such supposed immedi-
acy, barring an analysis which takes the mediation of immediacy—its
political economy—as a starting point. If anything, the comics in this
volume withdraw from this commonplace, to show how ‘graphiation’

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is itself a historically circumscribed concept that has been canonized in
comics scholarship and involves the same threat as the logic of the ‘is’,
i.e., it can become prescriptive. Ironically, as a medium taking off in
the age of mechanical reproducibility, comics would be the last vestige
of ‘aura’ in narrative art, since “alone of all of the narrative arts born at
the end of the nineteenth century, the sequential comic has not effaced
the line of the artist, the handprint of the storyteller. This fact is central
to what makes the comic form unique” (Gardner 2011, 56). However,
as Gardner repeatedly points out, graphiation is itself imprinted by
technology: it is embodied yet always already under erasure by me-
chanical reproduction and printing, while the drawing and lettering
hand cannot but anticipate and accommodate itself to the constraint
of print technology. From a media archaeological perspective, comics
are historical traces of an alternate future in which the artisanal and
mechanical are supplements rather than antinomies.
What is at stake today is not mechanical reproducibility however, but
digital mutability. Of course, this is not to claim that print culture is
receding, quite the contrary. Rather, what the comics in this volume
attest to is the paradigm shift toward algorithmic variability, which
is now subordinating the paradigm of mechanical reproducibility in
which cultural production is approached in terms of a perceived loss
of authorial embodiment and the erasure of the presence of the story-
teller. Like in literature and various other non-natively digital media,
‘network aesthetics’ (cf. Jagoda 2016) become operative in comics,
wherein the infinite malleability of digitality is approximated analogi-
cally. Graphiation then becomes a double articulation in which comics
can be read in terms of recursivity and embodiment, algorithmic vari-
ation and authorship, manipulation (of a prior work) and invention,
and so on. Either term in the reproducibility-mutability nexus can take
precedence: Against Serrão and Gerner’s simulation of ‘impersonal’
operations through the embodied craft of additive erasure resulting in
a kind of (anti-)signature style, Un Faulduo’s work pits the radical ne-
gation of authorial graphiation. As a ‘glitch comic,’ the latter radically
negates any trace of nostalgia for the authenticity of craft-knowledge
by making mechanical reproducibility explicitly visible through an er-
ror in digitisation.
The majority of comics in this collection allude to the relay between
the analogue and digital, showing how the hand is implicated in a long
chain, going from drawing, cutting, pasting, to carving the wood, to
printing, to digital post-processing, to writing, to filming, and so on.
These processes can produce new technologies, new ways of making
one’s mark, new-old machines that graphiate without there having to

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be a drawing hand. In some of the comics, post-production is clearly
visible, as for instance in the use of Photoshop filters which make digi-
tal, algorithmic manipulation of the ‘original’ hand-drawn pages quite
conspicuous. On the other hand, the intentional deskilling of some of
the comics included—through re-drawing of existing images, collage
as not requiring professional skill as draughtsman, or the glitch art of
Un Faulduo for instance—effect the demystification of graphiation.
Furthermore, since some of the works came about collectively, it makes
little sense to speak of a single body at the origin of the work. Not
only is graphiation mediated through digital-analogue technologies,
it is a process crystallizing the activity of multiple bodies. It engenders
an anonymous graphiating instance, a kind of analogue algorithm, a
strange type of human-machine hybrid as the title of Gene Kannen-
berg’s selection of comics implies: a Comics Machine.
The digital-machinic graphiator is productive of a critical network
aesthetics in which panels, pages and larger units are indifferent to
sequentiality and narrative: abstraction is another name for this prin-
cipled indifference. This indicates that the model of reading comics as
a system is too ‘disciplinary’ in that it positions the reader as a kind of
hermeneutic labourer expected to put things together into an overall
semiotic commodity by following a sequence of discrete steps. Against
this ‘Fordist’ model, abstraction in terms of seriality, repetition, recom-
bination and recursivity foregrounds the artificiality of the sequence by
operating on an illogic that forecloses the usual habitus of reading and
viewing. Opacity, refusal and withdrawal are the true content of such
works, and make abstraction concrete as foreclosure. Sequentiality is a
specific regime of abstraction animated by the fantasy of the regulated
flow of information, with an overall meaning as its final ‘product’ –
you get something out of it, the investment of time has paid off. The
comics in this volume make legibility and connectedness precisely the
issue, perhaps evoking an enigmatic field of socio-political antagonism
which contemporary, high-tech digital technologies of representation
are incapable of making visible. For example, from this perspective we
could recast graphiation, in its contemporary form as analogue-digi-
tal hybrid gesture, as a modus operandi that encodes, through cryptic
mimicry, the information overproduction and precarity of contem-
porary semiocapitalism. The quirkiness of the hand is superimposed
onto algorithmic operations such as subtraction, addition, and sub-
stitution (Gerner, Serrão, …); infinite variation and recombination of
basic forms (Kannenberg, …); the frenetic redrawing of pre-existing
material as if applying a radically disfiguring photo filter (Leyder, …);
the precarity of ‘analogue’ material processed through collage and/or

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digital post-processing (Matthey, Kraft, WREK, …); the substitution
of panel sequencing with anarchic panel-combinatorics to effect in-
formation entropy instead of closure or tressage (Manouach, Fiszman,
Vega, …); and so on (not to mention the precariousness of comics art-
ists as surplus labour force in ‘creative capitalism’). As such, the works
evince a counter-poetic to ‘allegories of control’ (cf. Galloway 2012),
showing that, rather than just a matter of aesthetics, graphiation is an
index of the communal.
This communality is clearly visible in the détournement of readymade
drawings, found objects and other images that had already been en-
dowed with the ‘aura’ of the hand. The fact that pages from Mickey
Mouse, Flash Gordon, or Bushmiller’s Nancy, or figures like Kasimir
Malevich, Ad Reinhardt, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and others
appear in contemporary comics reminds us that culture belongs to
everyone. Drawing is not necessarily a matter of the expression of the
artist whose trace is preserved in print, but of productive reception.
In manga culture for instance, graphiation functions as a form of so-
cially mediated reception-production and reading is the occasion for
more drawing, since the latter is not restricted by “the idea that the
hand-drawn graphic line ‘brings us back to the embodied author.’”
Rather, “in manga the agency of the reader often counts more than
that of the creator as ‘author,’” while the notion of ‘visual language’
“refers, above all, to the existence of specific communities that value
less a single work’s aesthetic or ideological qualities than its facilitating
relationships and support of reader participation, from empathy and
immersion to fan art/fiction and Cosplay” (Berndt 2013, 365).
Authorship is multiple, a more ‘machinic’ operation removed from the
idea of the unique (bodily) presence of the auteur with his/her signa-
ture style. Abstraction as withdrawal from authority (as enshrined in
copyright, intellectual property and so on) entails the redistribution
of authorship, or at least a poetic of counter-control informed by an
image of authorship as always already collective, and not in the more
trivial sense of the studio system as collective, with its clear division
of labour and overinvestment in licensing and copyright. Against the
‘paywalling’ of the general intellect, and the disciplining of the me-
dium of comics, Comics and Abstraction pits a set of practices that show
that intellectual property is the hang-over from exiting the epoch of
print, of “linear thinking” (cf. Flusser 2007), associated with alphanu-
merical culture and mechanical reproducibility.
Finally, a word on the organisation of this book. This collection is ar-
ranged in constellations, around which a number of texts and comics
are clustered, i.e., Archaeologies, Practices, Narration, Brut, Significa-

39
tions, Epistemologies, Opacities, Variations and Parallels. As operative
principle, abstraction counters the logic of the example, of one thing
being an instantiation of something more general. Abstraction is not
only a means to let the outside alter the makeup of genres and media,
it equally generates a space of contradiction. This means that the essays
and images stand in a relation of tension; a number of texts are more
historically-oriented, some take a decidedly semiotic approach, while
others are more concerned with formal features, and so. The art works
commissioned for this volume do not necessarily ‘obey’—‘illustrate’—
the theoretical frames of the essays, quite the contrary. It is this clash
that makes demands of the reader, and this also explains why this in-
troduction refuses to provide a convenient précis of the essays: it is to
allow the comics to ‘talk back’ to the essays, of allowing their eloquent
irreverence to withdraw from the discursive claims and contradict the
(more or less) academic textual erudition and respond with their own.
They have the last word.

Introduction
Aarnoud Rommens

Ceci n’est pas un livre sur la bande dessinée abstraite. La conjonction et

dans Bande dessinée et abstraction est fondamentale. Elle signale notre in-
tention d’explorer l’entre-deux en combinant ce qui d’emblée pourrait
sembler hétérogène : des bandes dessinées aux esthétiques nettement
différentes, des textes usant de perspectives clairement distinctes. Le et
est un moyen de rencontre et, dans ce cas, il désigne une interaction
entre bande dessinée et abstraction de telle façon que les deux en sortent
mutuellement refigurés. Ce principe de montage entend ouvrir à la fois
le concept d’« abstraction » et celui de « bande dessinée » en desserrant
l’étau de leurs définitions canoniques qui, globalement, calquent l’abs-
traction sur le non-mimétique (en histoire de l’art) ou l’utilisent pour
désigner un mouvement conceptuel allant du particulier à l’universel,
alors que la bande dessinée est, elle, généralement perçue comme un
médium texte-image de narration séquentielle. En réfractant l’abstrac-
tion à travers la bande dessinée et vice versa, une multiplicité d’autres Olivier Deprez,
termes se trouvent ainsi convoqués d’une telle manière que les deux extrait du livre
termes sont infléchis par des distinctions opératoires supplémentaires. WREK Les
Idéalement, Bande dessinée et abstraction cherche donc à offrir un lieu indigènes de
de rencontre entre culture savante et populaire ; histoire de l’art et re- l’abstraction, à
cherche en bande dessinée ; littérature, poésie, dessin et écriture ; art paraître
majeur et art mineur ; highbrow, lowbrow, nobrow, etc. prochainement
au Frémok.

41
Etcetera… Dans ce volume, la logique du « être » – la logique de
l’identification, de la taxonomie et de la classification – donne place à
la « disjonction inclusive » (Mullarkey 2007, 17) du etcetera qui élude
les protocoles stricts de définition ainsi que les frontières entre genres
et médias. Ce faisant, nous suivons l’injonction à « substituer le et
au est. A et B. Le et (...) fait filer les relations hors de leurs termes et
hors de l’ensemble de leurs termes, et hors de tout ce qui pourrait être
déterminé comme Etre, Un ou Tout. (...) Le et donne une autre direc-
tion aux relations (...) Penser avec et, au lieu de penser est » (Deleuze
et Parnet 1996, 71). La recherche en bande dessinée a trop souvent
cherché à établir une définition rigoureuse de son objet d’étude, en
érigeant des structures, des taxonomies, des frontières pour délimiter
celui-ci. Tout en même temps, cette pulsion définitionnelle s’est faite
en conjonction à la légitimation de la bande dessinée en tant que forme
culturelle reconnue, un développement concomitant à un mécanisme
de canonisation qui, du moins dans le monde anglo-saxon, a pris la
littérature pour modèle (Beaty & Woo 2016 ; Worden 2015). Ce pro-
cessus d’institutionnalisation réifie la bande dessinée : au lieu d’être
descriptives, les définitions deviennent prescriptives et produisent des
artefacts en fonction des « lois » du médium dont elles sont censées
décrire objectivement les rouages internes (la « structure » de la bande
dessinée). D’une certaine manière, les théories de la bande dessinée
perpétuent une acception de certaines formes de bande dessinée par
l’université. Le « est » devient un « devrait être » : voici ce à quoi une
« bande dessinée » devrait ressembler pour être digne d’attention.
Prenant le contre-pas de la recherche de légitimité culturelle par
l’association de la bande dessinée à la littérature à travers le « roman
graphique », la bande dessinée abstraite rejoue parfois un processus
similaire de légitimation par approximation. Contre la littérature, le
genre des abstract comics s’est vu aligné sur le discours de l’histoire de
l’art et le statut incontesté de l’art abstrait comme grand succès du
Modernisme dans les arts visuels, et dont la radicalité initiale est depuis
longtemps épuisée par sa consécration muséale. L’« aura » de l’avant-
garde semble donc être transférée à des bandes dessinées avant tout
non-figuratives qui, en même temps, sont supposées révéler l’essence
du médium lui-même. Exemplifiant la bande dessinée sous sa forme la
plus pure, la bande dessinée abstraite manifestent de façon ostentatoire
les « mécanismes formels qui régissent toute bande dessinée, comme le
dynamisme graphique qui mène l’œil (et l’esprit) de case en case, ou les
riches interactions esthétiques entre séquence et mise en page » (Molo-
tiu 2009, « Introduction », n.p.). Dans cette conception de l’abstraction
comme réduction à une pureté – qui fait écho à Clement Greenberg

43
et sa théologie négative de la peinture comme optique pure et surface
plane – l’essence de la bande dessinée y est révélée ex negativo : la bande
dessinée abstraite est non-figurative et non-narrative, tout en étant pré-
occupée par elles-mêmes dans une forme exclusivement auto-réflexive.
Par contraste, ce livre entend l’abstraction comme une façon d’affir-
mer l’« extérieur », un moyen d’appréhender l’hétérodoxe. Indifférent à
sa spécificité, le médium devient une occasion pour inventer d’autres
espaces qui « poussent les formes artistiques au-delà et à côté d’elles-
mêmes, provoquant un bégaiement de leur langage propre, comme
si possédé par la force de choses autres : “et… et… et…” » (Rajch-
man 1998, 60-61). La bande dessinée n’est pas un « système » avec un
« code » : plutôt, elle désigne une poétique/technique matérielle qui se
concrétise avec des variables socio-politiques, dans lesquelles la bande
dessinée narrative (ou sa nemesis non-narrative, la bande dessinée abs-
traite) n’est qu’une des nombreuses possibilités. Les bandes dessinées
publiées dans ce livre aborde cet « en-dehors » constitutif : plutôt qu’une
purification par la forme, elles ouvrent un dialogue anarchique avec
d’autres médias, avec le politique, avec le passé et le présent, avec tout
ce qui est à portée de main ; des bribes et des morceaux sont assemblés
en segments plus ou moins continus, rendant l’abstraction tangible,
vivante, impropre, concrète.
Ce ne sont pas les définitions en elle-même qui nous posent problème.
Tout au mieux, elles sont utiles : après tout, elles sont là pour être ré-
visées, devenir l’objet de détournements ludiques, elles offrent autant
d’occasions au désapprentissage. Ce qui vaut pour la lecture de Kafka
vaut tout autant pour la lecture des bandes dessinées de ce volume :
« Lire Kafka demande un grand effort d’abstraction : il ne s’agit pas
d’acquérir plus de connaissances (sur le cadre interprétatif adéquat
nécessaire à la compréhension de son œuvre), mais de désapprendre les
références interprétatives classiques, en sorte d’être capable de s’ouvrir
à la force brute de son écriture » (Žižek 2008, 157). L’abstraction est
une manière de laisser faire, d’abandonner les définitions pour faire
place à quelque chose d’inattendu. Cette légèreté résonne avec l’étymo-
logie même du mot et de sa dérivation du latin abstrahere : se retirer.
L’abstraction devient alors une forme de « retraite tactique » hors des
logiques dominantes (cf. Lind 2011 ; 2013, 10-25).
En bande dessinée, ce retrait peut prendre la forme d’un désinvestisse-
ment de ses modes usuels de production, de ses cadres institutionnels,
de ses circuits de circulation et de réception. L’ethos autonomiste
du collectif WREK en fait la démonstration, avec sa production de
fanzines fabriqués à partir de gravures sur bois réalisées dans le cadre
d’ateliers ouverts au public. Ces gravures sont ensuite réemployées

45
pour façonner ce que le collectif nomme des cinégravures : de courts
clips numériques issus d’une hybride combinaison de gravures, de
film et d’images retouchées, qui sont ensuite mis en ligne. Pratiquant
une forme d’archéologie des médias, ce processus combine le high tech
avec le low tech pour explorer les possibilités technologiques utopiques
d’une création d’écologies médiatiques alternatives, appelant à des mé-
thodes de production plus durables.
Une distanciation similaire est tangible dans le travail d’Ilan
Manouach, dont la contribution au volume se base sur une déqua-
lification du travail du dessin. Le (re)dessin maladroit, peu élégant
des figures enfreint les règles adultes de la perspective et du récit,
et simule peut-être l’« apprentissage » d’un enfant dont l’éducation
esthétique commence par la réalisation sur papier calque de copies
imparfaites de bandes dessinées et de photographies professionnelles.
Dans ce nouveau désordre mondial, les Tortues Ninjas côtoient le Ku
Klux Klan : l’œuvre est une allégorie de sa propre fragmentation qui
présente un counter-mashup dystopique, un contrepoint « noir et gris »
à la culture « colorée » de la convergence et à son régime « démocra-
tique » de prosumers. Cette déqualification trouve son acmé dans le
travail de Pascal Leyder, qui interprète, redessine et remédiatise des
planches préexistantes en y imposant sa propre marque stylistique. Les
originaux – des dessins de Hokusai, Jack Kirby, Olivier Schrauwen,
Alberto Breccia et bien d’autres – deviennent tout sauf reconnaissables,
leurs « signatures » se retrouvant cannibalisées et finalement effacées par
la pratique heuristique de Leyder.
Frank Vega adopte la sagesse sauvage du punk avec une attitude DIY de
désengagement militant. Réalisés avec un simple Bic bleu, ses dessins
refusent toute logique de séquençage. Le résultat est une sorte d’an-
ti-bande dessinée mutante qui détourne la force politique et esthétique
directe des comix underground en la mélangeant au principe de dé-
sordre des romans surréalistes en collage. On se retrouve ainsi avec une
grotesque fantasmagorie, une parabole politique sans morale claire.
Ceci démontre que la combinaison d’éléments hétérogènes, suivant la
logique du « et », n’est pas qu’un exercice formel mais porte à réflexion ;
parmi les autres méthodes adoptées par les artistes dans ce livre, le
collage fonctionne comme une autre tactique pour renoncer à l’auc-
torialité et absorber ce qui est « extérieur » à la bande dessinée, faisant
pression sur la cohérence narrative et esthétique tout en se retirant
d’une distinction stricte entre l’abstrait et le figuratif. Le collage sert
également de grain de sable dans la mécanique du récit, de la publicité,
et du capitalisme de la communication ; il rend compte de la violence
quotidienne et la précarité qui sous-tendent le flux incessant des don-

47
nées algorithmiques, répliqué plutôt que communiqué. L’arbitraire des
relations est encodé dans la fabrique même du collage – l’absurdité,
son effet de surface.
Les collages-poèmes de Francie Shaw – la poésie étant un des autres
« extérieurs » au médium de la bande dessinée – réalisés en collabora-
tion avec les écrivain·e·s Laura Elrick, Alan Bernheimer, Kit Robinson,
Charles Bernstein, Bob Perelman, Lyn Heijnian, et Rae Armantrout
jouent sur la distension entre le visible et le dicible comme tactique
d’opacification qui « interroge le paradigme des Lumières basé sur la
transparence » (Lind 2011, 31). En se basant sur la série de bande
dessinée polonaise Kapitan Kloss, d’avant la perestroïka, qui narre les
exploits d’un agent secret infiltré au sein des forces nazies, Richard
Kraft découpe et y colle d’autres images, ponctuées de fragments
de texte par l’auteure Danielle Dutton. La contribution de Pascal
Matthey, une sorte d’épilogue à son livre 978, semble correspondre
parfaitement aux canons formels de la « bande dessinée abstraite » ; on
se rend cependant très vite compte à quel point l’entendre uniquement
comme un exemple de l’« abstrait » émousse son tranchant critique.
Dans ce cas, l’abstraction résulte d’un processus de défiguration d’une
masse matérielle de publicité émise par les éditeurs européens de bande
dessinée. En creux, on y trouve donc non seulement un commentaire
sur les politiques éditoriales, mais aussi sur la surproduction, l’hy-
per-commercialisation et la production de déchets à une époque où la
« dématérialisation » est prônée comme un effet utopique et inévitable
de la numérisation.
Plutôt que de promouvoir l’ouverture, la démocratie directe et la com-
munication, la rapidité et l’excès de dissémination des données a généré
un « délire informationnel » dont l’effet de censure est peut-être encore
plus efficace que les modes traditionnels de dissimulation de l’informa-
tion (Lind 2011). La bande dessinée de Mariano Grassi représente ce
nexus complexe entre technologie, précarité et numérique, et plus spé-
cifiquement la manière dont le « bruit » – ou l’absurdité – fait un avec
l’information dans le capitalisme cognitif contemporain. Déguisé sous
les traits sobres d’une bande dessinée narrative, le récit se déroule mais
seulement pour plonger de plus en plus profondément dans l’idiotie de
ce délire informationnel.
C’est dans ce même contexte que les contributions graphiques de Cátia
Serrão et Jochen Gerner définissent leurs contours. Les deux artistes
travaillent sur des « objets trouvés » : Serrão s’empare des éditions
brésiliennes de Disney et de récits de superhéros, tandis que Gerner
s’approprie une version italienne de Flash Gordon datant des années
1960. En recouvrant des parties des originaux avec de l’encre noir ou

49
par raturage, ces œuvres accordent une « dignité » à des détails secon-
daires – certains éléments de décor, arrière-plans, accessoires – qui
auraient autrement échappé à l’attention du lecteur concentré sur le
récit. Ces « soustractions additives » (Jasper Johns, in Cage 1967, 75)
sont des opérations paradoxalement négatives et productives, en ce
qu’elles ouvrent de nouvelles pistes à l’interprétation. Ces gestes de re-
trait tracent aussi une critique de la loi sur la propriété intellectuelle en
ce qu’ils rendent une culture populaire à nouveau accessible par la défi-
guration, un acte qui assujettit cette culture partagée à des contraintes
qui la rendent partiellement opaque ou simplement inaccessible. La
bande dessinée de Tomás Arguello va encore plus loin dans ce sens
en transformant la visualisation de données en principe formel de
son œuvre. Son travail présente un collage radicalement pédagogique
de tableaux, statistiques et autres images non-artistiques, à vocation
informationnelle et terminant sur une morale sans équivoque. Il se dé-
sengage de l’esthétique graphique de la bande dessinée, offrant quelque
chose qui ressemble plus à une moralité sous PowerPoint et en images
séquentiels, avertissant ses lecteurs au désastre écologique imminent à
l’orée de l’anthropocène.
Toutes ces bandes dessinées mettent ainsi en lumière la fabrique même
de l’image – qu’il s’agisse d’un dessin, d’un collage, etc. – en tant
qu’art, c’est-à-dire comme un type de technologie, une tekhnē. Ainsi,
ils compliquent les notions de « style », de « signature » et de « graphia-
tion » (Marion 1993) fondamentales aux théories de la bande dessinée
et qui restent aujourd’hui encore chargées d’une certaine mystique. Le
concept de graphiation renvoie à l’énonciation plastico-narrative de la
bande dessinée, englobant le dessin, les couleurs, le lettrage, la mise
en page, etc. – autant d’aspects qui contribuent à diriger le lecteur
dans sa construction mentale d’un graphiateur. Ce dernier est de fait
intimement lié à un mode de production graphique artisanal, plutôt
anachronique. Cette préoccupation pour la touche physique directe,
qui rappelle la nostalgie d’Henri Focillon (1987) et qui sert de garant
d’authenticité pour un artefact produit en masse, sauvant ainsi d’un
même geste la « spécificité » de la bande dessinée, porte en soi le pro-
blème d’une esthétisation de cette immédiateté et de son économie
politique.
Les bandes dessinées de ce volume se retirent de ce lieu com-
mun et dévoilent la « graphiation » comme étant elle-même un concept
historiquement circonscris, canonique au sein des théories de la bande
dessinée et répliquant cette même menace du « est », c’est-à-dire risquant
toujours de devenir prescriptif. Il est ironique qu’un medium qui s’est
établi avec l’époque de la reproductibilité technique serait justement le

51
dernier vestige de l’« aura » dans l’art narratif, puisque « parmi tous les
arts narratifs nés à la fin du dix-neuvième siècle, seule la bande dessinée
séquentielle n’a pas effacé la ligne de l’artiste, l’empreinte du narrateur.
Ce fait est au centre de ce qui rend la bande dessinée unique » (Gardner
2011, 56). Pourtant, Gardner souligne en même temps à quel point
la graphiation est elle-même marquée par la technologie : elle est cor-
porelle et en même temps cette corporalité est toujours effacée par la
reproduction mécanique et l’impression, tout autant que le dessin et
le lettrage ne peuvent qu’anticiper et s’adapter aux contraintes posées
par les technologies d’impression. Dans une archéologie des médias, la
bande dessinée offrirait alors des traces historiques d’un futur parallèle,
dans lequel l’artisanal et le mécanique forment des suppléments plutôt
que des antinomies.
L’enjeu d’aujourd’hui n’est cependant pas la reproductibilité méca-
nique, mais bien la mutabilité numérique. Non pas que la culture de
l’imprimé soit en voie de disparition, bien au contraire ; mais les bandes
dessinées de cette collection témoignent du changement paradigma-
tique vers la variabilité algorithmique, qui est en train de subordonner
le paradigme de la reproductibilité technique et la perception d’une
perte de présence auctoriale et narrative dans la production culturelle.
Tout comme la littérature et d’autres médias pré-datant le numérique,
une « esthétique réticulaire » (cf. Jagoda 2016) devient opératoire en
bande dessinée, qui mimique de manière analogique la malléabilité
infinie du numérique. La graphiation devient alors une double articu-
lation suivant laquelle la bande dessinée peut être lue à la fois comme
répétition et incarnation, variation algorithmique et auctorialité, mani-
pulation (d’œuvres précédentes) et invention, etc. Chacun des termes
de cette connexion entre reproductibilité et mutabilité peut prendre le
premier pas. Contre la simulation d’opérations « impersonnelles » par
l’artisanat corporel d’un effacement additif, qui résult chez Serrão et
Gerner en une sorte de style (anti-)personnel, l’œuvre d’Un Faulduo
propose une négation radicale de la graphiation auteurisante. Un glitch
comic, il se refuse radicalement à toute trace de nostalgie pour l’authen-
ticité d’un savoir-faire en rendant visible la reproduction mécanique
par le biais d’une erreur de numérisation.
La plupart des bandes dessinées de cette collection font appel au relais
entre l’analogue et le numérique, resituant la « main » au cœur d’une
longue chaine allant du dessin, découpage, collage, gravure à l’im-
pression, la retouche, l’édition, la capture filmique, etc. Ces processus
peuvent donner lieu à de nouvelles technologiques, de nouvelles façons
de laisser sa marque, des machines à la fois innovatrices et obsolètes qui
« graphient » sans avoir recours à la main du dessinateur. Certaines des

53
bandes dessinées rendent la postproduction particulièrement visible
par l’usage de filtres Photoshop qui mettent en évidence la manipula-
tion numérique et algorithme de pages ‘originales’, dessinées à la main.
D’un autre côté, cette déqualification intentionnelle – telle qu’on la
retrouve par exemple par le redessin d’images existantes, le collage qui
ne demande pas l’habileté professionnelle d’un artisan, ou le glitch art
de Un Faulduo – entraînent une démystification de la graphiation.
D’autant plus, plusieurs bandes dessinées sont issues d’un processus
collectif de création, ce qui rend l’appréhension d’un « corps » unique
comme origine de l’œuvre encore plus problématique. Non seulement
la graphiation est médiatisée par le biais de technologiques analo-
gues-digitales, il s’agit en plus d’un processus qui cristallise l’activité
d’une série de corps actants. Cela engendre une instance graphiatrice
anonyme, une sorte d’algorithme analogue, un étrange hybride entre
homme et machine tel qu’imaginé par Gene Kannenberg avec sa sélec-
tion de planches regroupées sous le titre Comics Machine.
Ce graphiateur numérique-machinique produit une esthétique réticu-
laire selon laquelle les cases, pages et autres unités sont indifférentes à
la séquence et au récit : l’abstraction est un autre nom de cette indif-
férence principielle. Cela indique à quel point lire la bande dessinée
comme système est « disciplinaire », en mettant le lecteur dans une
position d’ouvrier herméneutique, dont on attend à ce qu’elle as-
semble, par une séquence de mouvements orchestrés, les fragments
ensemble pour fabriquer une marchandise sémiotique cohérente.
Contre ce modèle « Fordiste », l’abstraction – en tant que sérialité,
répétition, recombinaison et récursivité – met en relief l’artificialité
de cette séquence en suivant une raison illogique qui détourne notre
habitus de lecture. L’opacité, le refus et le retrait sont en soi le véri-
table contenu de telles œuvres, et rendent concrète la « saisie » opérée
sur nos habitudes de lecture par l’abstraction. La séquentialité est un
régime spécifique d’abstraction, investi du fantasme de la circulation
régulée du flux d’information, avec un sens cohérent comme produit
« fini » : le lecteur obtient quelque chose, l’investissement de temps est
rentable. Les bandes dessinées de ce volume critiquent justement cette
lisibilité et cette connectivité, évoquant peut-être un champ énigma-
tique d’antagonisme socio-politique que les technologies numériques
contemporaines de la représentation n’arrivent pas à rendre visible.
Par exemple, cette perspective reformule l’idée de graphiation, dans
sa présente forme comme geste hybride entre analogue et numérique,
et l’adopte comme un modus operandi qui encode, par un mimétisme
crypté, la surproduction d’information et la précarité du sémio-capi-
talisme contemporain. L’excentricité de la main est alors surimposée à

55
des opérations algorithmiques telles que la soustraction, l’addition et
la substitution (Gerner, Serrão, …) ; la variation et la recombinaison
infinie de formes basiques (Kannenberg, …) ; le redessin de matières
préexistantes à travers un filtre radicalement défigurant (Leyder, …) ;
la précarité d’une matière « analogue » faisant l’objet d’un collage et/
ou d’une postproduction numérique (Matthey, Kraft, WREK, …) ; la
substitution de séquence de cases par une combinatoire anarchique de
cases débouchant sur une entropie d’information plutôt qu’un proces-
sus de clôture ou de tressage (Manouach, Fiszman, Vega, …) ; etcetera
(sans mentionner la précarité des auteurs de bande dessinée comme
force de travail en surplus dans un contexte de « capitalisme créatif »).
Ces œuvres fonctionnent alors comme des contre-poétiques aux « allé-
gories du contrôle » (cf. Galloway 2012) et montrent qu’au-delà d’une
question d’esthétique, la graphiation peut devenir la trace du collectif.
Cette collectivité est rendue parfaitement visible par le détournement
de dessins, d’objets trouvés et d’autres images qui avaient déjà été ha-
bités par l’« aura » d’une main. Le simple fait que les pages de Mickey
Mouse, Flash Gordon et Nancy, ou des figures comme Kazimir Malé-
vich, Ad Reinhardt ou les Tortues Ninja, soient reprises au sein de la
bande dessinée contemporaine nous rappelle que la culture appartient
à tout le monde.
Dessiner n’est pas seulement l’expression d’un artiste dont la trace est
préservée par l’imprimée, mais implique également un acte produc-
tif de réception. Dans la culture manga, par exemple, la graphiation
opère un processus social-médiatique de réception-production où la
lecture est inséparable du dessin, puisque ce dernier ne se restreint pas
à « l’idée que la ligne graphique tracée à la main ‘nous ramène au corps
de l’auteur’ ». Plutôt, « en manga, l’agentivité du lecteur importe sou-
vent plus que celui du créateur en tant qu’‘auteur’ », alors que la notion
de ‘langage visuel’ « renvoie, avant tout, à l’existence de communautés
spécifiques qui trouvent moins de valeur dans les qualités esthétiques
ou idéologiques d’une œuvre que dans sa façon de faciliter des relations
et de soutenir l’implication participative des lecteurs, de l’empathie
à l’immersion à des pratiques de fan art, fan fiction, ou de cosplay »
(Berndt 2013, 365).
L’auctorialité est alors démultipliée, une opération plus « machinique »
et loin de l’idée d’une présence corporelle unique de l’auteur et de son
style personnel. L’abstraction offre un retrait de l’autorité-auctorialité
(telle qu’elle est consacrée par le copyright, la propriété intellectuelle,
etc.) qui implique sa redistribution, ou qui se base du moins sur une
poétique de contre-contrôle et une image d’auctorialité comme tou-
jours déjà collective, et pas au sens trivial du système de studio qui

57
reste investit dans un système de propriété. Prenant le contre-pas de la
privatisation de l’intellect collectif, et la disciplinarisation de la bande
dessinée, Bande dessinée et Abstraction met en valeur une série de pra-
tiques qui entendent la propriété intellectuelle comme un résidu de
l’époque de l’imprimé, de la « pensée linéaire » (Flusser 2007), associée
à une culture alphanumérique et à la reproductibilité technique.
Un mot de fin sur l’organisation du livre. Cette collection est organi-
sée en constellations agglutinant différentes séries d’essais et de bandes
dessinées : Archéologies, Pratiques, Narration, Brut, Significations,
Épistémologies, Opacités, Variations et Parallèles. Comme principe
opératoire, l’abstraction contre la logique de l’exemple, par laquelle
un objet devient représentatif de quelque chose de plus général. L’abs-
traction n’est pas seulement un moyen de laisser l’« extérieur » changer
la constitution des genres et des médias, elle génère aussi un espace de
contradiction. Ceci implique que les essais et les images entrent ici en
tension ; une série de textes sont plus historiques, d’autres prennent
une approche résolument sémiotique, d’autres encore se concentrent
sur des caractéristiques formelles, etc. Les œuvres réunies dans cet ou-
vrage n’illustrent ni n’obéissent aux cadres théoriques des essais, au
contraire. Ce clash demande une exigence du lecteur, ce qui explique
également pourquoi cette introduction refuse d’offrir un utile résumé
des essais : il s’agit de permettre aux bandes dessinées de « répondre »,
talk back, aux essais, de leur accorder leur droit à se retirer, avec leur
éloquence irrévérente, des discours théoriques et à contredire l’érudi-
tion textuelle académique en répondant avec leur propre voix. Ce sont
elles qui ont le dernier mot.

Références
Beaty, Bart et Benjamin Woo. 2016. The Greatest Comic Book of All Time:
Symbolic Capital and the Field of American Comic Books. New York :
Palgrave.
Berndt, Jaqueline. 2013. “Ghostly: ‘Asian Graphic Narratives,’ Nonnonba,
and Manga: On ‘Asian Graphic Narratives.’” In From Comic Strips
to Graphic Novels, dir. Daniel Stein and Jan-Noël Thon, 363–84.
Berlin : de Gruyter.
Cage, John. 1967. A Year from Monday: New Lectures and Writings. Middle-
town, CT : Wesleyan University Press.
Deleuze, Gilles et Claire Parnet. 1996. Dialogues. Paris : Flammarion, coll.
« champs ».
Flusser, Vilém. 2007. “Crisis of Linearity.” Traduit par Mers Adeleheid. Boot-
print 1 (1): 19–21.

59
Focillon, Henri. 1989. The Life of Forms in Art. New York : Zone Books.
Galloway, Alexander R. 2012. The Interface Effect. Cambridge : Polity.
Gardner, Jared. 2011. “Storylines.” SubStance 40 (1) : 53–69.
Jagoda, Patrick. 2016. Network Aesthetics. Chicago : University Of Chicago
Press.
Lind, Maria, ed. 2011. Abstract Possible: The Tamayo Take. Mexico City : Mu-
seo Tamayo.
———, ed. 2013. Abstraction. Cambridge, MA : MIT Press.
Marion, Philippe. 1993. Traces en cases : Travail graphique, figuration narrative
et participation du lecteur. Louvain-la-Neuve : Academia.
Molotiu, Andrei, dir. 2009. Abstract Comics: The Anthology, 1967-2009. Se-
attle, WA : Fantagraphics.
Mullarkey, John. 2007. Post-Continental Philosophy: An Outline. London :
Bloomsbury Academic.
Rajchman, John. 1998. Constructions. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Worden, Daniel. 2015. “The Politics of Comics: Popular Modernism, Ab-
straction, and Experimentation.” Literature Compass 12 (2) : 59–71.
Žižek, Slavoj. 2008. La Parallaxe. Paris : Fayard.
———, 2006. The Parallax View. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

61
Renaud Thomas
63
64
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70
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 Archeologies

74
Archéologies

75
76
Peut-on parler d’abstraction dans les
premières bandes dessinées (Cham, Nadar,
Doré) ?
Jacques Dürrenmatt

Abstraction ou abstractions ?
Quand, dans Zabriskie Point (1970), Antonioni introduit une sé-
quence représentant l’explosion d’une maison luxueuse avec, dans un
long ralenti aux couleurs somptueuses, des débris qui flottent comme
autant de symboles de la société américaine des années 60 à laquelle
les personnages veulent s’arracher, la critique parle d’irruption de
l’abstraction dans un film qui semblait jusque-là se cantonner à la nar-
ration d’une histoire d’amour hippie somme toute assez banale dans
le désert californien. Le régime scopique du spectateur change bruta-
lement, passant de la consommation presque immédiate des images
dans la construction avide d’une continuité à l’obligée contemplation
de formes soudainement déliées de toute nécessité discursive (plus rien
ne se raconte vraiment) pour proposer le plaisir (pur ?) d’une harmonie
inattendue de formes et de couleurs à travers la destruction du conti-
nuum fonctionnaliste qui caractérise le décor social. Quand Cham
utilise le même type d’image dans la version redessinée en 1846 pour
l’éditeur Dubochet du Monsieur Cryptogame de Töpffer, en va-t-il de
même ?

Figure 1 Töpffer &

Cham, Monsieur
Cryptogame, page
Bien évidemment, non ! L’image s’insère dans une série sans imposer de 38, case 1. BnF.

77
changement de mode d’appréhension : c’est la visée narrative qui continue à primer, de
sorte que la confusion apparente du dessin, constitué de fragments qui semblent auto-
nomes et inharmonieusement associés, reste immédiatement interprétable. L’utilisation
de l’adverbe aussi dans la légende pointe le lien avec ce qui précède tandis que le texte
de la case suivante débute par le connecteur et et comporte un lui-même qui signale le
lien entre le mouvement circulaire des objets sur le pont et celui du bateau en entier,
dans un rapport métonymique étroit. Philippe Willems avance que :
l’intérêt de Cham pour le minimalisme et la subjectivité a déterminé sa contribution
majeure à l’art séquentiel : les variations de cadrage et de perspectives que le cinéma
aurait à redécouvrir par lui-même un demi-siècle plus tard. Dès Monsieur Lamélasse, il
s’est écarté de la norme du plan de demi-ensemble et du plan moyen qui régnait depuis
toujours dans l’image narrative pour inclure des plans rapprochés, des gros et très gros
plans, et des plans de détail. Même si le cadrage serré du portrait remonte à l’antiquité,
comme le montrent certains portraits funéraires de l’Egypte romaine datant du 1er siè-
cle avant Jésus-Christ, la séquence octroie au gros plan une dynamique inconnue dans
l’image isolée. Ainsi, les tableaux minimalistes de Cham – un coin de table dressée, une
chandelle éteinte encore fumante, un vêtement, une main peignant une image ou tour-
nant une clé dans une serrure, des pieds flirtant sous une table – explorent des variations
rendues possibles par la multiplicité d’images (Willems 2014, 22).
De fait, la pratique du détail corporel isolé au sein d’une case le plus souvent blanche
semble contraster violemment avec les habitudes de représentation et relever là encore
d’une pratique moderniste que Willems qualifie de « minimaliste » mais qu’on pourrait
aussi envisager comme « abstraite » en ce qu’elle radicalise la pratique de simplification
de la figuration. Daniel Arasse a montré comment le célèbre tableau de Géricault in-
titulé Fragments anatomiques (1819)1 rompait avec la pratique des images constitués
d’accumulations de détails corporels (mains notamment) qui servaient jusque-là, le plus
souvent sous forme de dessins, à exhiber la virtuosité de l’artiste. Il s’agit, en effet, d’im-
poser cette fois « une peinture sans sujet » en « évacuant le corps lui-même » pour aller
vers une forme de « déraison de la peinture » (Arasse 1992, 176).
Dans la bande dessinée, le détail est, selon Willems, favorisé par la séquentialité nar-
rative. On est loin, en effet, chez Cham tant de la démonstration de virtuosité que de
l’évacuation revendiquée du sujet : la présence dans la case d’un fragment corporel est
toujours justifiée par le contexte narratif et s’inscrit dans une conception spécifique du
point de vue. N’est montré que ce qui est visible par un observateur réduit à des capa-
cités banales dans la mesure où le reste du corps est recouvert d’une matière qui le rend
invisible ou en partie dissimulé par des obstacles à la vue. L’idée est qu’il est, chaque fois,
facile de suppléer le manque, comme l’a théorisé Töpffer, et donc de saisir la totalité
du corps via sa partie par métonymie visuelle. On peut aussi penser, par ailleurs, que
l’autonomisation du détail relève de la mise à nu ironique par un art supposément naïf
des pratiques d’atelier. Comme le rappelle, en effet, Daniel Arasse, « au niveau le plus
élémentaire, l’élève [qui entre dans l’atelier d’un maître pour y apprendre à peindre]
copie des gravures représentant des traits particuliers du corps humain et son travail

1  Montpellier, musée Fabre.

78
est organisé selon une progression systématique. Il commence par une
série de nez, d’yeux et de lèvres dessinés séparément ; puis il passe à une
série combinant ces trois éléments » (Arasse 1992, 116).
Il en va différemment dans une bande dessinée peu connue de Na-
dar de 1848 intitulée « Vie politique et littéraire de Vipérin » : le récit
s’achève par deux cases centrées, pour la première, sur un pied chaussé
écrasant une vipère et, pour la seconde, sur une main tirant un rideau.

Il n’est pas question cette fois de reconstituer par l’imagination le reste

du corps : pied et main fonctionnent comme de purs vecteurs d’ac-
tion dans un cadre clairement moral et s’apparentent ainsi à certaines
images pieuses. Les légendes ne laissent pas d’ambiguïté : 1) « Conclu-
sion pleine de moralité » ; 2) « Et sur combien de choses avons-nous dû
tirer le voile de la pudeur !!! ».
On notera, de fait, que, dans le premier cas, le pied d’homme botté et
guêtré qui écrase le serpent, représentation symbolique de l’immonde
politique Vipérin, ne peut que faire penser le lecteur de 1848 à l’« ap-
parition miraculeuse de la Vierge Marie à Catherine rue du Bac » qui a
été publicisée quatre mois après les journées révolutionnaires de 1830
pour déclencher un violent renouveau de ferveur dans la capitale et
a donné lieu à des séries d’iconicisations sous la forme de médailles,
essentiellement, mais aussi de gravures, tableaux, sculptures et autres
produits dérivés. Ce qui frappe, en effet, Catherine en premier, c’est
le serpent que la nouvelle Eve en majesté écrase sous ses pieds. En
empruntant à une iconographie pareillement chargée dans le contexte
d’une nouvelle révolution nettement plus critique encore à l’égard du Figure 2 Nadar, « Vie
rôle politique joué par l’Église que la précédente, Nadar pointe-t-il la politique et littéraire
de Vipérin », La Revue
récupération qui menace déjà ou substitue-t-il une morale politique comique novembre
moderne à une autre religieuse et datée qui s’est montrée incapable 1848-avril 1849,
Dumineray, p. 92. BnF.

79
d’empêcher les exactions des puissants ? On est bien loin de Cham et plutôt du côté de
Baudelaire dans ce travail complexe d’allégorisation du trivial moderne.
Quant au topos de la pudeur et du voile, c’est un lieu commun de la caricature inspiré
de pratiques picturales bien connues et anciennes : une forme de comble en est donné
par l’Américain Raphaelle Peale avec sa Venus Rising from the Sea : A Deception (After the
Bath) en 1822.2 Le tableau s’inscrit dans la mode des trompe-l’œil et représente un drap
qui semble dissimuler une Vénus dont on ne voit que les mains levées et les pieds, mais
qui recouvre en réalité un tableau. Dans l’Amérique du début du dix-neuvième siècle
corsetée par les interdits religieux, le tableau manifeste le début d’un mouvement oc-
cidental de retrait devant les licences prêtées aux siècles précédents. Portes fermées qui
dissimulent une intimité que l’on ne peut qu’imaginer, sauf dans les livres pornogra-
phiques illustrés que Charles Philippon publie dans les mêmes années, sans mention de
la maison Aubert qu’il dirige,3 ces cases blanches qui manifestent le refus de représenter
et rideaux tendus n’ont rien à voir avec minimalisme ou abstraction mais jouent le plus
souvent avec les limites éthiques de la figuration, qu’il s’agisse d’obéir directement à la
doxa ou d’en dénoncer le caractère décevant, voire trompeur (deceptive possède les deux
sens) : quand Doré reprend le principe de la case blanche dans son Histoire de la Sainte
Russie, c’est pour signaler qu’il n’a rien à dire, dénonçant peut-être du coup ce que le
procédé peut avoir de facile chez ses confrères.
Dans tous les cas, les images valent indépendamment de tout statut narratif comme
des icônes : il ne s’agit pas d’un travail d’abstraction mais plutôt de symbolisation. De
ce point de vue, on s’inscrit dans la lignée des jeux excentriques de Sterne dans Tris-
tram Shandy (1759), qui fait se succéder, intercalées à l’intérieur du texte imprimé,
pages noires, marbrées et enfin blanches. En s’appuyant sur L’Analyse de la beauté du
peintre Hogarth, traité bien connu de Sterne, et sur ce que le narrateur dit lui-même
de la nécessité de lire attentivement ces pages particulières, Jean-Claude Dupas propose
de considérer qu’il s’agit d’épreuves successives d’images qui cherchent à émerger de
l’obscurité, « comme l’équivalent pictural de cette « rhapsodisation » par quoi [Sterne]
définit son livre et son écriture » (1994, 161), mais qui est aussi, de fait, au fondement de
la bande dessinée telle qu’elle s’invite sous l’égide amplement revendiquée de Hogarth.
Les cases blanches de Cham ou de Doré ne sont pas plus des monochromes à la Male-
vitch que les tableaux noirs dont se gaussent les caricatures de Salons (Yang 2011).
Perdu au cœur d’un cadre exubérant, le tableau entièrement noir que Raymond Pelez
introduit dans sa Première impression du Salon de 1843 est légendé par « Effet de nuit qui
n’est pas clair… de lune, acheté subito par Mr Robertson fabricant de cirage ».

2  Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City.

3  Dans la série de « lithographies à transformations » Portes et fenêtres, portes, rideaux et fe-
nêtres d’images en apparence banales constituent autant de volets découpés que l’on peut
soulever pour découvrir des scènes pornographiques.

80
Sous l’influence du traité de Burke sur le sublime, vantant les mérites
des effets de nuit, les paysages n’ont eu de cesse de s’assombrir : « une
judicieuse obscurité répandue sur quelques parties du tableau contri-
bue à son effet : parce que les images de la peinture sont exactement
semblables à celles de la nature ; et, dans la nature, les images sombres,
confuses, incertaines, ont plus de pouvoir sur l’imagination pour for-
mer les grandes passions, que n’en ont celles qui sont plus claires et
plus déterminées » (1803, 112). La légende rabat l’effet de représenta-
tion sur la matérialité de la peinture mais de façon dégradée à travers
l’idée de « cirage ».4

Figure 3 Le Charivari,
4  On notera que le fabricant de cirage Robertson a bien existé et a pignon sur 19 mars 1843. BnF.
rue à Paris dans les années 1840.

81
Doré reprend l’idée du paysage noir mais en s’en jouant autrement dans son Salon de
1848. Cette fois, le tableau se compose d’un bas noir taché d’une longue ligne blanche
verticale et zébrée qui figure le reflet d’une lune dont on ne voit que l’extrémité su-
périeure, blanche elle aussi sur fond noir. La légende, « Lever de lune sur mer (fiat
lux !) », pointe ironiquement l’effet de lumière comme sujet principal de la représen-
tation, préfigurant le travail futur d’un artiste qui privilégiera, tant dans ses peintures
que ses illustrations, le travail du clair-obscur au point de pousser Zola, grand amateur
pourtant des effets violents de contrastes, à le critiquer vertement bien plus tard dans
ses commentaires sur le Salon de 1875 :
Le tableau le plus vaste de l’exposition paraît être celui que Gustave Doré a baptisé Dante
et Virgile visitant la septième enceinte. Il n’a pas moins de dix mètres de longueur et
quatre de largeur, les mêmes dimensions que Les Noces de Cana de Véronèse. Imaginez
un gouffre noir, au-dessus duquel flotte de la fumée et où grouille un tas de corps nus
de couleur terreuse. Les pécheurs roulent par terre, leurs membres enlacés de serpents
gigantesques. Et ainsi pour l’éternité, et à part cela rien, à l’exclusion des tristes silhou-
ettes de Dante et de Virgile, perdues parmi tous ces corps. On dirait une caricature de
Michel-Ange. Et le pis est que Gustave Doré a un talent artistique des plus originaux. Il
a dessiné d’excellentes illustrations pour de nombreux livres (Zola, 1875).
La caricature de Doré montre aussi combien les effets de recouvrement par le brouillard
ou la fumée sont devenus des lieux communs de la peinture romantique : « Un effet
de brouillard fort bien rendu ». Plus intéressantes apparaissent deux autres charges :
la première vise, sous le titre d’« une imagination poëtique », une vue des pyramides
presque entièrement réduite à un ensemble strict de figures géométriques (horizontales

82
et triangles) ; la seconde, une efflorescence de virgules plus ou moins
longues et épaisses et de hachures qui semblent vaguement représenter
de la végétation et est intitulée « Œuvre d’un savant coloriste ». Dans
les deux cas, il s’agit de représentations qu’on pourrait qualifier d’abs-
traites : l’une par réduction stricte des moyens pour atteindre à une
sorte d’essence des formes empruntées à une réalité par ailleurs bien
connue à travers les innombrables gravures qui en circulent, l’autre par
abandon presque entier de la figuration au bénéfice d’effets supposés
de couleurs, invisibles bien évidemment puisque la gravure est en noir
et blanc, et donc surtout d’une liberté totale du trait. On aurait bien
du mal à trouver quoi que ce soit qui aille vraiment dans l’un ou l’autre
de ces deux sens chez Cham ou Nadar.5 Doré, lui-même, fournit en
revanche de beaux exemples dans sa production bédéique.
Si le terme de « poétique » pour une représentation qui semble à pre-
mière vue simpliste et stéréotypée d’un paysage trop connu peut paraître
ironique, on peut aussi se demander s’il ne révèle pas un secret désir.
Réduire au maximum les moyens utilisés pour une lisibilité parfaite-
ment efficace est un des objectifs de Töpffer, dans une perspective de
prime abord pédagogique. Dans la plupart de ses albums, Doré oscille
de son côté entre une profusion dans le détail, qui montre une maestria
de dessinateur dont Töpffer n’est évidemment pas capable, et une sim-
plification naïve, voire régressive qui semble faire écho aux caricatures
de Perez entre « Vue basse de Bretagne » que l’on croirait dessinée par
un enfant de 7 ans et « Entrée triomphale des Français dans Constan-
tine » réduite à un quadrillage de remparts surmonté d’une série de
traits obliques pour figurer les baïonnettes. Cette dernière manière
d’abstraire les batailles héroïques en quelques lignes plus lisibles que
visibles se retrouve tant dans l’Histoire de la Sainte Russie que dans ses
premiers tableaux d’histoire. Elle sera ensuite abandonnée mais laisse le
sentiment qu’une voie était possible, qui restera longtemps en attente.
Dans Un génie incompris (Mr Barnabé Gogo), Cham va, de son côté,
très loin dans l’exploitation du dessin d’enfant : nombres de vignettes
représentent en effet les productions maladroites du sieur Gogo, qui
ne s’améliorent jamais malgré tous les efforts de ses professeurs de
dessin. Règle-t-il ses comptes avec les préceptes de son maître ? Gogo
lui-même finit par ressembler à ses propres productions anguleuses et

5  Cham s’en approche avec les lignes d’arbres de la page 7 de ses Impressions
de voyage de Mr. Boniface (1844) mais ce qui peut apparaître comme un pre-
mier pas vers l’itération iconique qui fera les beaux jours de la bande dessinée
dite minimaliste s’inspire directement des plans utilisés alors par les paysa- Figure 4 Gustave
gistes et le génie civil qui privilégient l’information sur l’esthétique : si geste Doré, « Salon de
poétique il y a, il s’agit donc plutôt d’emprunter à des formes non artistiques 1848 », Journal
pour interroger les hiérarchies, une des constantes de l’œuvre de Cham, y pour rire n°9, 25
compris dans son rapport à la littérature (cf. Dürrenmatt 2013). mars 1848.

83
ne cesse de grandir au point de ne plus pouvoir rentrer dans les cases avant de mourir en
regrettant de le faire comme Monsieur Lamélasse, personnage principal de l’album très
töpfférien que Cham a publié deux ans plus tôt chez le même éditeur. Gogo ne trouve
un peu de reconnaissance qu’en devenant caricaturiste, ce qui conduit David Kunzle
(2015) à voir dans l’album une composante semi-autobiographique, mais cette dernière
carrière tourne aussi court de sorte que ce qui se dégage de l’ensemble est une volonté de
régler ses comptes avec tous les milieux tant artistiques qu’éditoriaux, le dessin enfantin
n’étant en aucune façon revendiqué comme une possibilité positive.
Quant à la fascination pour les formes géométriques pures ou le trait libre, elle se re-
trouve dans nombre de petites vignettes bien connues de Des-agréments d’un voyage
d’agrément et de l’Histoire, qui prennent uniquement sens par leurs légendes, mais aussi
dans d’autres albums moins connus.
Dans ses très influents discours académiques prononcés à la fin du XVIIIe siècle, Rey-
nolds commente la méthode du peintre anglais Gainsborough en ces termes :
Il est certain que tous ces traits bizarres et toutes ces hachures qui sont si remarquables
dans les tableaux de Gainsborough, quand on les examine de près, et qui, même à des
peintres consommés dans leur art, semblent être plutôt le résultat du hasard que de la
volonté de l’artiste ; ce chaos, dis-je, cette apparence informe et grossière, prend, par
une espèce de magie, à une certaine distance une forme régulière, et toutes les parties
semblent aller se ranger aux places qui leur conviennent : de sorte qu’on ne peut refu-
ser de reconnaître, pour ainsi dire, tout le résultat de l’application et de l’art dans ce
qui ne paraît d’abord que l’effet d’un cas fortuit ou d’une négligence précipitée. Que
Gainsborough regardait lui-même cette singularité de sa manière, et la surprise qui en
résultait, comme une beauté dans ses ouvrages, peut se conclure, selon moi, du désir
qu’il a toujours montré, comme nous le savons, que ses tableaux fussent placés, à nos
expositions, de manière à pouvoir être vus de près, aussi bien qu’à une certaine distance.
(…) Son faire ou sa manière de coucher les couleurs ; ou, en d’autres mots, la méthode
qu’il employait pour produire de l’effet, ressemblait beaucoup à l’ouvrage d’un artiste
qui n’aurait jamais appris d’un autre la pratique ordinaire et régulière de l’art ; mais, en
homme qui possédait une forte perception intuitive de ce qui était nécessaire, il trouva
par lui-même le moyen d’atteindre son but (Reynolds 1806, 25-26).
L’importance donné à la hachure, à la tache, visibles de près, fondues de loin, pointe
la naissance d’un art nouveau : Titien ou Rembrandt ne demandaient pas, pour autant
qu’on le sache, comme Gainsborough, que l’on s’approche du tableau pour voir le
morcellement, l’effervescence de la maculation, qui vaut autant que la forme harmo-
nisée et proprement figurative, une fois placé à distance. Chez Töpffer, les hachures
sont limitées à leur utilisation indispensable pour créer ombres et relatif relief ; elles
n’ont donc pas d’intérêt autre que fonctionnel. Doré, en revanche, en fait un usage
neuf et ce dès Les Travaux d’Hercule, que d’aucuns considèrent pourtant comme un
travail de commande peu inventif au regard des albums qui ont suivi. Dans la troisième
planche, la première case montre à qui veut s’y arrêter une extraordinaire virtuosité

84
dans le dessin de la végétation : le trait à la plume prend notamment la
forme, à l’extrémité gauche, d’une arabesque extrêmement serrée qui
exhibe immédiatement la violence du geste sans reprise qui l’origine,
l’engagement entier, à travers la main, du corps du dessinateur dans la
nécessité de ce que certains pourraient considérer comme un simple
griffonnage.

On pense à la remarque de Barthes qui, parlant d’écriture manus-

crite, rêve que « [s]a main aille aussi vite que [s]a langue, [s]es yeux,
[s]a mémoire vivante : rêve démiurgique ; toute la littérature, toute la
culture, toute la « psychologie » seraient différentes si la main n’était
pas plus lente que l’intérieur de la tête » (Barthes 2003, 337). Or cette
arabesque devient le centre de la case qui suit en se changeant en spi-
rale, tourbillon, toupie : le dessin se préparait ainsi à l’autonomisation
du mouvement du trait pour lui-même. S’il y a évidemment récupé-
ration comique à travers la légende très distanciée, le geste de Doré
en affirmant le pur plaisir graphique comme possiblement auto-suffi-
sant ouvre un espace particulier de l’abstraction en bande dessinée en
tant que mise en spectacle du geste de création, dans lequel pourraient
s’inscrire nombre d’exemples fournis par Franquin, voire Uderzo. Le
procédé est repris dans la vingt-sixième planche.

Figure 5 Gustave
Doré, Les Travaux
d’Hercule, Aubert,
1847, p. 3. BnF.

Figure 6 Gustave
Doré, Les Travaux
d’Hercule, Aubert,
1847, p. 26. BnF.

85
Cette fois-ci, c’est la chevelure d’Hercule dessinée en longs traits parallèles à peine ondu-
lés qui semble s’autonomiser en une étonnante figure hachurée, transcription abstraite
là encore d’un mouvement violent (« L’attelage acquiert une vitesse incroyable. »). Der-
nier exemple : l’extraordinaire transformation d’Hercule à la sortie des écuries d’Augias
dans la planche 33.

L’encre semble littéralement dégouliner sur la page et la figure quasi méconnaissable est
avant tout prétexte à un étonnant travail du noir.
C’est ce même noir d’encre qui tendra à recouvrir le texte imprimé, du fait d’un encrier
renversé, dans l’Histoire, obligeant à regarder le texte historique dans sa matérialité

86
fragile, ou qui permet une vignette d’une puissante poésie dans Les
Vacances du collégien, le noir envahissant le dessin sous toutes sortes
de formes (lignes, hachures, large aplat) pour ne laisser visibles que les
jambes de l’enfant au-dessus de cette étonnante légende : « Épuisé par
tant de travaux, le jeune Achille s’endort sur ses foins pour 15 jours et
15 nuits. » (Doré 1852, 5).
Cette tendance à montrer le dessin pour lui-même se retrouve dans la
reprise d’un motif de quadrillage dans Trois Artistes incompris et mé-
contens. Un des artistes se dissimule derrière une grille pour voir le
spectacle sans être vu : Doré en profite pour travailler au fusain les
effets de surface et de profondeur. Une fois de plus ce qui l’intéresse,
c’est la possibilité de préparer, grâce à la séquence, l’image finale qui ne
représente plus que le grillage tandis que la légende signale l’incapacité
du narrateur à narrer : « Sombremine a quitté sa loge, on ne sait quel
conseil son désespoir lui a donné. »6 Travail de la forme géométrique
que reprendra beaucoup plus tard, sans doute sans connaître l’album
de Doré, Larcenet dans Dallas cowboy.

Figure 7 Gustave
Doré, Les Travaux
La fascination de Doré pour le point d’exclamation auquel il donne d’Hercule, Aubert,
1847, p. 33. BnF.
une autonomie à l’intérieur de la vignette tant à la fin de l’Histoire qu’à
celle des Trois artistes en travaillant les effets de relief manifeste non Figure 8 Gustave Doré,
seulement sa compréhension de la bande dessinée comme art de la vi- Trois artistes incompris
lisibilité mais aussi sa perception du dessin comme pouvant aller dans et mécontens, Aubert,
1851, p. 10. BnF.
le sens de l’écriture et donc de l’abstraction. L’un et l’autre pouvant
se percevoir simultanément dans leur matérialité de procédés mis en Figure 9 Gustave Doré,
œuvre et de vecteurs de représentation. Trois artistes incompris
et mécontens, Aubert,
6  On goûtera le jeu de mots sur le nom même du personnage, la « sombre 1851, p. 25. BnF.
mine » renvoyant autant à son apparence qu’à l’instrument qui le dessine.

87
Cette vision approfondit ce qui est en germe chez Töpffer et dépasse largement les
tentatives plus ludiques que réellement intellectualisées de Cham ; elle ne se retrouve
pas chez Nadar, chez qui la nécessité symbolique et idéologique est trop forte pour lui
laisser assez d’espace. Tant dans ses illustrations, trop nettement inscrites dans l’édition
de luxe, que dans ses tableaux, qui visent très vite la « grande peinture », Doré renonce à
cette voie, qui sera celle de Manet et de nombre d’autres peintres, mais que le neuvième
art mettra du temps à emprunter.
Trois conditions apparaissent de fait, pour conclure, essentielles à l’émergence d’une
bande dessinée abstraite :
Accepter de penser qu’une composante idéologique puisse aussi passer à travers le tra-
vail plastique (cf. Manet) ;
Reconnaître que le texte n’est pas un concurrent au dessin mais une forme parallèle et
complémentaire d’abstraction (cf. Redon) ;
Penser autrement que de façon simplement narrative la séquentialité en tant que mode
de résonance visuelle (cf. Redon).
C’est aux États-Unis avec McCay et Herriman que s’opérera l’ouverture.

Références
Arasse, Daniel. 1992. Le Détail. Pour une histoire rapprochée de la peinture. Paris : Flammarion.
Burke, Edmund. 1803. Recherches philosophiques sur l’origine de nos idées du sublime et du beau.
Traduit par Lagentie de Lavaïsse. Paris : Pichon & Depierreux.
Cham. 1841. Un génie incompris (Mr Barnabé Gogo). Paris : Aubert.
Cham. 1844. Impressions de voyage de Mr. Boniface. Paris : Aubert.
Doré, Gustave. 1847. Les Travaux d’Hercule. Paris : Aubert.
Doré, Gustave. 1848. « Salon de 1848 ». Journal pour rire 9, 25 mars 1848.
Doré, Gustave. 1851. Trois artistes incompris et mécontens. Paris : Aubert.
Dupas, Jean-Pierre. 1994. « Sterne et Hogarth, la ligne serpentine : chimère ou récit ? ». Dans

88
 Récits/tableaux. Sous la direction de Jean-Piere Guillerm, 151-62.
Lille : Septentrion.
Dürrenmatt, Jacques. 2013. Bande dessinée et littérature. Paris : Classiques
Garnier.
Gombrich, Ernst. 1996. L’Art et l’illusion. Psychologie de la représentation pic-
turale. Traduit par Guy Durand. Paris : Gallimard.
Kunzle, David, dir. 2015. Gustave Doré: Twelve Comic Strips. Jackson : Uni-
versity Press of Mississippi.
Nadar. 1848-1849. « Vie politique et littéraire de Vipérin ». La Revue comique,
novembre 1848-avril 1849, 92.
Reynolds, Joshua. 1806. « Quatorzième discours académique ». Dans Œuvres
complètes, tome II, 25-26. Paris : Arthus-Bertrand.
Willems, Philippe. 2014. « Rhétorique texte/image, minimalisme et jeux de
perspective : l’héritage de Cham ». Comicalités. 18 avril.
Yang, Yin-Hsuan. 2011. « Les premiers Salons caricaturaux au XIXe siècle ».
Dans L’Art de la carcicature. Sous la direction de Ségolène Le Men,
73-86. Paris : Presses universitaires de Paris Ouest.
Zola, Émile. 1875. « Lettres de Paris ». Le Messager de l’Europe, juin.
90
Cliff Sterrett’s Jazz Age Abstractions 
Katherine Roeder

Cliff Sterrett’s body of work, though repeatedly praised by cartoonists

ranging from R. Crumb to Chris Ware, has not received the level of
critical attention afforded to several of his noteworthy contemporar-
ies, Winsor McCay and George Herriman among them. Polly and her
Pals, the career-defining comic strip by Sterrett, peaked in its invoca-
tion of modernism, by way of its colourful, syncopated abstraction, in
the nineteen twenties and thirties. This robust decade of experimen-
tation has been linked to Sterrett’s association with an artist’s colony
in Ogunquit, Maine, and with a six-month hiatus taken by the artist
in 1925, during which time he travelled to Europe. Of further note in
tracing the trajectory of Sterrett’s abstract compositions are the ways in
which the artist absorbed mass cultural influences, from photography
and film, as well as popular music and advertising. Sterrett co-mingled
these references into a comic strip that casually inoculated audiences to
modernist ideas by using a mass media vernacular.

Early Career
Born in Fergus, Minnesota, to a Scandinavian druggist, Sterrett’s
mother died when he was two years old. Cliff’s father left him and his
brother in the care of his aunt and grandparents, while the elder Sterrett
went west in search of work. It has been noted that the extended and
multigenerational family unit that raised Cliff and his brother loosely
resemble the extended family of aunts and cousins, not to mention
Maw and Paw Perkins, who populate Polly and her Pals (Heer 2010,
7). Sterrett was not an avid student, but had a propensity for drawing
anywhere and everywhere. With the backing of a local minister, he
left Minnesota at eighteen in order to study at the Chase Art School
in New York. After two years of art school he was hired as a staff art
assistant at the New York Herald.
At the New York Herald, Sterrett counted Winsor McCay among his
colleagues. McCay’s influence is persistent in his work, as particularly
evidenced by his attention to full-page design. While the artists were
stylistically dissimilar, several points of commonality are clear. The
heroine of Polly and her Pals, as in McCay’s Little Nemo in Slumber-
land, is the comic’s least interesting character. In both series, the titular
characters serve primarily as ciphers or strawmen for other, more bois-
terous characters to riff off of within the comic. Sterrett’s respect for

91
McCay’s artistry and work ethic is apparent in the caricature he drew of McCay at the
drawing table, published in the New York Telegram on January 8, 1907. The picture
demonstrates Sterrett’s familiarity with McCay’s career by alluding to two of McCay’s
creations; the dull care valise in the background refers to the protagonist’s unshakeable
burden in his comic A Pilgrim’s Progress, while the steaming tureen at the artist’s feet
suggests the popular melted cheese dish referenced in the title Dream of a Rarebit Fiend.
Sterrett details McCay’s notoriously snappy dressing style, complete with a prominently
featured diamond tie pin, but also his propensity for spending hours upon hours at
the drawing table, as indicated by the shaggy hair and five o’clock shadow. McCay’s
work ethic was well known in the Herald art department, and certainly had a formative
impact on Sterrett as a young artist. In the caricature, McCay’s hand and drawing im-
plement form a singular line, as though the pen was an extension of the hand, while the
smoke emanating from his cigarette transforms into a devilish face, suggesting a fiend-
ish artistic inspiration (Figure 1). The resulting image implies that comic art genius
stems from equal parts hard work and creative vision, an approach that clearly meshed
with Sterrett’s own pragmatic sensibility.

One final similarity in the work of McCay and Sterrett concerns their conception of
young, female characters. Both McCay’s Princess and Sterrett’s Polly are differentiated
from the other characters in the comic in terms of their style of drawing. The Princess
of Slumberland, who is regularly shown in profile, has a very stylized appearance, rem-
iniscent of the commercial advertisements of Alphonse Mucha, and devoid of any of
exaggerated features common to other characters like Flip, Impie and Dr. Pill. Simi-
larly, Polly and her acquaintances are drawn in a style reminiscent of fashion illustration
and advertising, which creates a contrast with the cartoonish exaggerations of her fam-
ily and their friends. This strategy is apparent in the work of George McManus and
Frank King as well. A blogger has referred to this phenomenon of stylistically distinct

92
characters as “visual aliens” (Jones 2010), noting that it functions as
both a way to differentiate particular characters and to showcase the
artist’s creative range and virtuosity. However, in examining Sterrett
and McCay’s embrace of visual aliens, there is a distinctly gendered
aspect of their usage as well. In both cases, the artists sketched their
young, female characters through the filter of commercial and fashion
advertising. In this way, each character becomes a literal embodiment
of female consumption, a veritable walking fashion plate. Just as the
popularity of Mucha’s art nouveau designs were supplanted by the an-
gular, art deco styling of the nineteen twenties, so did the female form
evolve to reflect the commercial tastes of each respective period. Jeet
Heer (2010,10) positions Polly as the missing link between the Gibson
Girl and John Held’s flappers. At the same time, the rise of women as
consumers in the nineteenth century was accompanied by a wider cul-
tural backlash against young women for excessive interest in fashion.
Polly and the Princess are generally distanced from the humour and
pratfalls of the comic, but are instead rendered as living fashion adver-
tisements; they reflect an idea of womanhood that is one-dimensional
but also deeply enmeshed in the visual culture of advertising and mass
media.

Cosmopolitanism versus Provincialism

Polly and her Pals debuted as Positive Polly on December 4, 1912, in
William Randolph Hearst’s New York Journal. The name change to
Polly and her Pals allowed Sterrett to expand his focus to incorporate
Polly’s friends and relations into the mix. Indeed, it was Polly’s par-
ents, Sam (Paw) Perkins and Suzie (Maw) Perkins, who provided much
of the comedic action within the strip. Polly remained the picture of
grace and elegance, in contrast to her relations who were drawn as
caricatures prone to buffoonery, Paw Perkins most of all. The stylized
and exaggerated line work used for these characters devolves into racist
caricature in the form of the African-American cook, Liza, and Cocoa
the handyman, and, to a far lesser extent, the Japanese-American serv-
ant Neewah. Racial stereotyping was intended to flatter and reassure
the intended readership, just as Paw’s clownish antics did, by placing
the viewer in a position to look down on the mistakes and mishaps of
others.
Sterrett, along with George McManus, whose comic Bringing up Father
began in 1913, was at the forefront of a wave of domestic comedy-ori- Figure 1 Cliff
Sterrett, Portrait
ented strips. The trend would inspire Sidney Smith’s The Gumps, Frank of Winsor McCay,
King’s Gasoline Alley and Chic Young’s Blondie among others. Both New York Telegram,
January 8, 1907.

93
McManus and Sterrett focused on the conflict between traditionalism and the quickly
changing social order. By the early 1910s, factors including urbanization and the rise of
the automobile, led to concerns over the family unit’s ability to retain its influence on
the younger generation. In 1913, Dorothy Dix observed:
So many changes in the conditions of life and point of view in the last twenty years that
the parent of today is absolutely unfitted to decide the problems of life for the young
man and woman of today. This is particularly the case with women because the whole
economic and social position of women has been revolutionized since mother was a girl.
(Dix 1913, 12)
Women had increased their presence in the workforce by nearly 5% in the years be-
tween 1900 and 1910, further increasing their autonomy (McGovern 1968, 320). Yet,
tensions arose over these changing roles and the resulting intergenerational strife. Ster-
rett’s comic presents Polly as a new woman, whose independence and modernity cause
no end of consternation to her parents. Indeed, promotional material for the comic
focus on how modern Polly is, proclaiming:
Well, Polly is just an American girl of NOW. One chap says that she’s ‘the prettiest,
provokingest pippin that ever looked out from a newspaper’…’Pa’–he’s the Father that
always has been and that always will be possibly, especially in America. But POLLY–she’s
TODAY’S girl. No girl who feels the call of TODAY–no girl who pulses with the vitality
of this generation of bubbling goof humor–fails to find in POLLY something of herself.
(The Daily Telegram, November 17, 1914)
Significantly, Polly’s modernity is tied to her identity as a consumer of fashion, as yet
another advertisement posits: “Do you know Polly? Of course you do; but perhaps you
are unaware that she is the most up-to-date girl in America. The last word on fashions.
Dressed to the minute. Coiffed to the hour. Gloved and booted to the day…The Daily
Fashion Plate in the next Sunday Republic” (Heer 2010, 10). Polly is described first
and foremost in terms of her shopping habits and ability to remain current. Sterrett was
fairly progressive in terms of his views on women’s skills. He treated his wife, Natalie
Bronwell Cocks, as a collaborator, saying that she “made his success possible by acting
as censor, proofreader and idea-giver.”1 Yet the social messages in Polly and her Pals are
decidedly mixed, positioning Polly’s cosmopolitanism and progressiveness against the
provincial and conservative Paw. While Paw is the butt of many a joke, he is also a char-
acter that audiences are intended to sympathize with. Paw Perkins, otherwise known as
Sam Perkins, shares a name with the artist, whose legal name was Samuel Clifford Ster-
rett. Sterrett would have been acutely aware of regional differences, as he encountered
them first hand upon leaving small town Minnesota for New York. After his marriage,
Sterrett moved to Garden City, Long Island (then a sleepy village) to escape the hustle
and bustle of the city. It is possible that Sterrett channelled some of his own anxieties
about social change and urbanization into the character of Sam Perkins. It is equally
likely that Sterrett was actively trying to cultivate a broad, national audience by giving
voice to common tensions. The rise of national syndication on a large scale in the 1910s
was accompanied by a push towards safer, more bourgeois content. Sterrett described
1 “Polly,” The Literary Digest, Volume 117, Part 2, 75.

94
the changeover himself, claiming that until 1912 cartoonists had the
ability to tailor content to local audiences, but by 1915 he was com-
pelled to generalize his allusions:
We couldn’t mention Florida without getting rebuffs from Califor-
nians. We couldn’t mention the Fourth of July without hearing from
our Canadian readers. What else could we do but follow a middle-of-
the road attitude? (qtd. in Westbrook 1999)
The quote exposes the impact that syndication had on creators, in terms
of shaping content for an expanded and geographically diverse audi-
ence. And yet, despite the conservatism of the comic’s subject matter,
its visual style and embrace of abstract elements suggest a willingness
to push the audience in new directions, artistically if not socially. As
Coulton Waugh pointed out in 1947, “Another very interesting point
about his work is that it has definite abstract art value, and the value
appeared in ‘Polly’ long before modern art was accepted by American
art critics. This is one of the conspicuous cases in which the hum-
ble little ‘funny papers’ often forecast important later developments”
(Waugh [1947] 1991, 42). Indeed, perhaps the folksiness of the hu-
mour was part of a deliberate strategy to put viewers at ease while at
the same time Sterrett’s abstract visual language took significant risks.

Abstraction for the Masses

Critical to understanding the drift toward abstraction surfacing in
Sterrett’s work in late 1925 was his involvement with an artists’ colony
in Maine from 1924 onward. The word colony is a bit of a misnomer,
as Bruce Canwell (2013, 8) makes clear in his introduction to the Li-
brary of American Comics collection on Sterrett. Located in Ogunquit,
Maine, the close-knit group of artists living there were a vital part of
the larger town that included fishermen and an active, dynamic theatre
community.2 Among the artists Sterrett associated with in Ogunquit
were modernists Bernard Karfiol and Yasuo Kuniyoshi. The colony was
founded by a Boston-based art teacher named Charles Herbert Wood-
bury who had discovered the charms and light effects of the fishing
village in 1888. In 1898, Woodbury bought five acres of land, which
he converted into studio space, and began offering a six-week summer
art course that continued until his death in 1940 (Canwell 2013, 9).
Other art schools would crop up in the years that followed, including

2  The Ogunquit Playhouse, established by Walter and Maude Hartwig as part

of the Little Theatre Movement of the twenties and thirties, was part of the Straw
Hat Circuit, also known as Summer Stock. It featured Bette Davis, Myrna Loy,
William Powell and Ethel Barrymore among its temporary players; see Daphne
Winslow Merrill’s A Salute to Maine (1983, 61).

95
the Summer School of Graphic Arts, established in 1911 by Hamilton Easter Field,
with the intention of introducing modern art to Ogunquit’s summer visitors. Sterrett
bought a property in Ogunquit in 1932, but he had been visiting the area for years
prior, having been introduced to the town by his friend and golf partner, cartoonist
Rudolph Dirks. Like Sterrett, Dirks was interested in contemporary art. In addition
to helping to popularize the grid-form of sequential images with his wildly successful
comic, The Katzenjammer Kids, Dirks also painted in his free time, favouring a style
reminiscent of the Ashcan school. The community of creators that Sterrett found in
Ogunquit was unbound by medium or high art prejudices.
Part of Sterrett’s appeal lay in his ability to marry both high and low references in
his comic page, remixing film, photography, and cubist painting, to create his own
distinctive visual language. Signature motifs include the use of silhouettes, checker-
board patterns, expressionist, biomorphic amoebas, stylized flowers, as well as repetitive
patterns of checks and dots. References to cubism, art deco, surrealism, and German
expressionism abound in his large-scale Sunday drawings.3 Artistic allusions to Giorgio
de Chirico and Fernand Léger share the page with nods to Krazy Kat. The lonely streets,
repeating, cryptic architectural features in Sterrett’s work are reminiscent of de Chirico’s
metaphysical paintings of the 1910s, while the crooked rows of gable front houses, the
menacing shadows cast by staircase railings and window frames all suggest the set de-
signs of the German expressionist masterpiece, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (Figure 2).

As in the aforementioned works, Sterrett’s use of checkerboard patterns anticipates

these same motifs in a 1944 work titled The Upper Side of the Sky by surrealist Kay Sage.
Fernand Léger juxtaposed patterns in a similar way, playing off Picasso’s use of collage
3  Sterrett’s original drawings on Bristol board were quite large, often measuring at 24 x 17 inch-
es in size, allowing the space for his line work to flourish.

96
to explore form as a signifier, as in his Still Life with a Beer Mug from
1921-2, which reads as a jazzy riff on Picasso’s Still Life with Chair
Caning (1912). Léger’s colour palette of the twenties favoured black
and the primary colours, as well as bold pattern combinations, and
art deco streamlining, all elements that appear in Sterrett’s work as
well. Léger, however, favoured hard edges and geometric forms while
Sterrett favoured an organic, biomorphic line more reminiscent of the
surrealist compositions of Joan Miró. References to cubism, surreal-
ism and German expressionist film appear on the page, demonstrating
Sterrett’s facility for combining visual references and remixing them to
create a visual language that was distinctly his own.

The Rhythm of the Page

Sterrett’s musical interest manifests itself in his page design, which finds
him playing with the grid and primary colours in syncopation, in a
manner reminiscent of Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie, yet infused
with greater liveliness and vitality. Sterrett understood the musicality
and rhythms of page design better than any of his contemporaries.
Thierry Groensteen describes reading comics as a “rhythmic operation
of crossing from one frame to the next (…). Each new panel propels
the narrative forward and, simultaneously, contains it. The frame is the
agent of this double maneuver of progression/retention” (2007, 45).
Duration is essential to understanding Sterrett’s work; his interest in
intervals, timing, harmony, and dissonance all play out within the grid
of the comic. “The multiframe is, then, an instrument for converting
space into time, into duration. It is entirely appropriate to describe it
in terms of rhythm” (Groensteen 2013, 138). Music was important to
the Sterrett family, as references abound to Sterrett and his wife playing
music together in their home: Sterrett played half a dozen instruments,
and would perform on the bass fiddle at annual revues put on by the
Society of Illustrators and the Dutch Treat Club.4 This musicality, in
his life and on the page, connects the artist to Chris Ware, a ragtime
aficionado and banjo player, who similarly imbues his page design
with a dynamic verve, and who credits Sterrett as a formative influence
(Raeburn 2004, 24). R. Crumb has a similar long-established con-
nection to the music of the nineteen twenties and thirties, evidenced
by his compilation of graphic biographies and accompanying CD, R.
Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Country (Crumb 2006).5
4  “Cliff Sterrett, Cartoonist, Dead; Creator of ‘Polly and Her Pals’: Comic Strip Figure 2 Film still from
Was Published in Over 200 Newspapers and in 12 Languages,” New York The Cabinet of Dr.
Times, 30 Dec 1964: 21. Caligari, directed by
5  Another great resource for exploring the connections between comics and Robert Wiene, 1920.
jazz can be found in “Brilliant Corners: Approaches to Jazz and Comics,” a

97
Chronophotography: The Interval and the Frame

Sterrett’s interest in the multiframe as a sequential series depicting units of time is on

full display in a January 30, 1927 episode of Polly and her Pals, which showcases the
influence of chronophotography on Sterrett by way of Muybridge and A. B. Frost.
Muybridge had famously photographed animal and human locomotion at the Uni-
versity of Pennsylvania in the 1880s. Arthur Burdett Frost, illustrator and comic strip
progenitor, was living in Philadelphia at the time and studying at the Pennsylvania
Academy of Fine Arts under Thomas Eakins. Eakins was fascinated with Muybridge’s
work, and undertook his own experiments with chronophotography at the time, and
undoubtedly played a role in introducing the photographer’s work to Frost, who ref-
erenced it directly in his 1884 work, Stuff and Nonsense. Thierry Smolderen (2014,
123) takes this relationship a step further, postulating that Frost derived the comic
strip grid from Muybridge’s chronophotographs, thus establishing the importance of
the interval for generations of cartoonists that followed. The influence of Muybridge,
and his French counterpart, Étienne-Jules Marey, who recorded movement within a
special collection of The Comics Grid: Journal of Comics Scholarship, edited by Nicolas Pillai and
Ernesto Priego. http://www.comicsgrid.com/collections/special/brilliant-corners/

98
single exposure, inform Sterrett’s comic strip, which silently depicts
the mass exodus of a series of tuxedoed men to the water fountain
during a concert intermission (Figure 3). The identical-looking men
ascend the stairs in unison, queue for water and descend en masse, with
their synchronized movements recalling both chronophotographs and
Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 (1912), the painting,
inspired in turn by Marey’s work, which sparked controversy and press
attention when it was exhibited in New York as part of the Armory
Show in 1913.6

At the Movies
The popular narrative surrounding Sterrett is that after he took a
sabbatical in 1925 he returned to work with a new enthusiasm for
abstraction. Certainly, this argument can be made: Sterrett took more
chances and pushed his visual vocabulary further towards abstraction
upon his return. And yet it could be argued that elements of his new
style were present from the beginning of his career and are merely
amplified in the latter half of the twenties. For instance, on August
8, 1926, Sterrett experimented with wordless comics, employing the
broad physical gestures popularized by the silent comedies of the era
(Russell 2010, 5). The scene is set underwater, with a black band across
the top of the panels, masking the head and shoulders of the charac-
ters, cutting the viewer off from dialogue and facial expressions. And
yet, this was not Sterrett’s first attempt at this unusual point of view.
A Polly and her Pals comic dating back more than a decade earlier,
appearing on August 8, 1913, depicts a scene set entirely underwater,
with black bars indicating the surface above. While both comics were
coincidentally printed on the same date, the first appearance was in a
single strip comic in a Friday edition, whereas the 1926 version was a
full-page colour comic in the Sunday supplement. I would argue that
Sterrett’s propensity for experimentation was there all along, from the
beginning of his career. As he entered his second decade as a cartoonist
he may have taken greater risks and hit his creative stride, but his style
was growing and evolving over time and was not merely the result of
his stay in Ogunquit or abroad.
Sterrett used black as a consistent design element, particularly in the
Sunday comic spreads where it works as a contrasting element to his
primary colour palette of reds, yellows and blues. The black helps to
visually bridge scenes in different parts of the house, for instance by Figure 3 Cliff Sterrett,
“Polly and her Pals,”
6  Among the most famous of the Armory Show cartoons was J. F. Griswold’s New York Journal,
parody of the painting, captioned The Rude descending a staircase (Rush-Hour January 30, 1927.
at the Subway), published in The New York Evening Sun, March 20, 1913.

99
using the curving black staircase railing as a backdrop in a panel taking place on the
ground floor, as the scene shifts upstairs we see a glimpse of the top of the staircase,
which now connects to the black mullions of a nearby window. Thus, the home’s black
architectural features structure our movement through its space as much as the physical
movements of the characters. This becomes especially important in soundless comics,
as in an episode dated October 23, 1927 (Figure 4), which begins with a panel showing
the family cat perched upon the mantelpiece. The face on the mantel clock points to
two, no other numbers are present on the clock, for added emphasis on the lateness of
the hour. The cat knocks a vase off the mantle, sending Paw and Ashur down the stairs
to search for the source of the ruckus, with neither aware that the other is also inves-
tigating the noise. The two figures meet in the doorway, mirror images of one another
(anticipating the Marx brothers mirror scene from the 1933 film Duck Soup). The ori-
gin of the bit dates back to a Chaplin sequence in a 1916 movie called The Floorwalker.7
While the Marx brothers were clearly indebted to Chaplin’s routine, they also seemed
to pick up elements from Sterrett in terms of setting and costuming, in that both scenes
feature men in their pyjamas, encountering each other in the threshold between two
rooms. It is finally determined that the cat was the source of the noise, and he receives
the boot, with this final panel serving as an homage to the last panel of every episode
of McCay’s Little Sammy Sneeze, which always ended with Sammy getting a kick in the
pants. The family cat bears a striking resemblance to Herriman’s Krazy Kat, a likely nod
to Sterrett’s friend and colleague.

7  The back and forth exchange between film and comics moved in both directions, with Chaplin
becoming the subject of a cartoon called Charlie Chaplin’s Capers in 1915.

100
In the Shadow of Herriman
Al Capp, in recalling his artistic heroes once said, “now, Sterrett–that’s
the guy who was the greatest. To think that a whole generation has
grown up worshipping Picasso when the guy who did it far better was
Sterrett! Far better than Picasso–and Herriman. I love Herriman–he
has his own special place. But I love Sterrett–he belongs someplace
else…”8 Capp’s praise aside, Sterrett’s reputation as an artistic innova-
tor suffered from comparisons with Herriman, whose command of the
visual form and linguistic verve far exceeded the period.
George Herriman pushed at the very fabric of language and meaning
by transmuting it into something close to existential longing. Witness
an exchange between Krazy Kat and Ignatz, in a comic dated April 16,
1922 which anticipates the Theatre of the Absurd, as the two charac-
ters talk around one another and reflect on their existence inside the
comic page that they are themselves examining (Figure 5).

Figure 4 Cliff Sterrett,

“Polly and Her Pals,”
Seattle Sunday Times,
October 23, 1927.
8  Al Capp, Cartoonist PROfiles #37 (March 1978).

101
The absurdly beautiful poetry of Herriman never appealed to a broad audience but it
had its loyal fans, Sterrett among them (as well as E. E. Cummings). Herriman dis-
mantled what Groensteen refers to as the “waffle-iron grid” approach to page design,
by removing frames entirely, and reinserting them randomly within the space of the
page, contributing to the sense of Coconino county as a vast, empty expanse of space
(Groensteen 2013, 43-44). He broke the frame, both visually and in terms of content.
One of the clear distinctions between Herriman and Sterrett is apparent in page design.
Herriman’s work is considered more daring and challenging to the reader, in part be-
cause of his willingness to abandon the grid in his early black and white strips.9 Sterrett
instead embraced the grid, and made it a key component of the page’s rhythm and
flow. Sterrett managed to disarm the reader while keeping within the seemingly ordered
framework of the waffle-grid page.
This proclivity for mining chaos out of order can be seen in the Polly and her Pals
episodes that deal with visual disorientation. The source of the impairment varies,
sometimes it is alcohol, or a misplaced pair of glasses, other times it is the result of a
blow to the head. Regardless of the cause, such occasions are an excuse for the artist
to exaggerate his already stylized and extravagant surroundings. Typically, Paw is the
victim of these altered perceptions, and his head traumas are visualized by a nimbus of
flower-like stars and moons. Clearly the artist delights in these exercises, as he returns
to them again and again. It also allows him to partake of the trope of modernity as
representing a world gone mad, illegible and unknowable.

9  Jan Baetens (2011, 111-28) artfully describes how Herriman adapts his style and reinvents
page design when color was imposed on the strip in 1935.

102
Sterrett’s attention to full-page design is apparent when Polly is com-
pared with the header strip Dot and Dash that topped the page. Dot
and Dash was a wordless comic, featuring a cat and dog pairing (which
eventually became two dogs). In an episode dated April 8, 1928 (Fig-
ure 6), the pair encounters music emanating from a nearby pond. They
discover that the sound is coming from a band of frogs, who attempt to
escape their notice by jumping into the water. Dot and Dash serenade Figure 5 George
the frogs, in hopes they might reveal themselves. When they don’t re- Herriman, “Krazy
Kat,” New York Journal,
spond, the two stride away, paws extended in unison and drawn from April 16, 1922.
a worm’s eye view. Sterrett favoured that point of view, and repeats it
in the character of Paw just a few panels down in the Polly comic. As Figure 6 Cliff Sterrett,
one visually tracks the directional strides, from the second panel of Dot “Dot and Dash” and
“Polly and Her Pals”,
and Dash down to the final panel of Polly, one can see the movements Sunday Oregonian,
April 8, 1928.

103
tacking back and forth, left to right, down the entirety of the page. The musical notes
create another connection between the topper and the main comic, with Paw’s hum-
ming to himself echoing the chorusing frogs up above. The Polly comic further creates
a sense of repetition and unity by way of its use of framing. Within each panel, we see
a rectangle framing element of some kind, whether it be a picture frame, a window, or
doorway/garage door. These repeating rectangles connect one panel to another, as do
the sequence of repeating circles of suns, windows, car wheels, and the circular-amoeba
pattern adorning the walled entryway. Both the header and main page comic are en-
tirely wordless, relying on physical gesture and implied sound effects to carry the weight
of the story. In the Polly feature, the crux of the story involves Paw underdressing for
the elements, in spite of the protests of his wife. Paw encounters the bracing wind, and
returns home to sneak a warmer coat out of the house. Sterrett includes a nod to his
Ogunquit Modernist pal, Yasuo Kuniyoshi, in the form of an abstract painting of a cow
signed with the artist’s name. Kuniyoshi depicted cows and oxen frequently in his work
of the nineteen-twenties and identified closely with the animal, as it was associated
with his birth year according to the Japanese lunar calendar. Kuniyoshi’s approach drew
upon cubism, as he was interested in reducing form to its component parts. He also fre-
quently used a tilted-up picture plane, another feature that finds its way into Sterrrett’s
work. It seems an unlikely choice of painting for the Perkins, but it allows for Sterrett
to promote his friend’s work.

104
A comic that appeared on May 31, 1936 (Figure 7) demonstrates
Sterrett’s facility with combining a subversive visual style with retro-
grade content. The comic opens with Ashur Perkins happening upon
an exhibit of modern art. Intrigued, he enters the art gallery and en-
counters dozens of abstract paintings and sculptures of female nudes.
The aggressive expressions and angular poses unnerve Ashur, who be-
comes increasingly agitated; at times he cowers in fear of the artwork.
He leaves the gallery with his head spinning and lunges at the first
woman he sees, a middle-aged matron whose plump curves make her
the antithesis of the frightening, aggressively modern women inside.
He plants a kiss on the unsuspecting woman, and goes humming and
strolling about his business, with his sense of normalcy and order thus
restored. On the surface, the comic castigates modern artists who take
the beauty of the female form and render it abstract and unrecogniza-
ble. It also suggests an alignment of modern art with an emasculating,
aggressive femininity. In this regard, the comic is similar to a wave of
comic art reactions to the Armory Show in 1913, which was the first
exhibition to present European modernism to American audiences on
a broad scale. Several cartoonists made comics parodying the art in the
show–while at the same time, the exhibition included several cartoon-
ists as participants, Sterrett’s golfing buddy, Rudolph Dirks among
them–yet they delighted in rendering the cubist forms that they were
seemingly mocking. Comic artists both participated in the show and
helped to mediate it for a mass audience. A similar dynamic is at play
here. Upon closer examination, the viewer is forced to recognize how
similar the modern art is to Sterrett’s prototypical drawing style. In
panel after panel, we see that the pose of Ashur in some way echoes
or mirrors the art hanging on the walls. As Ashur enters the gallery,
striding forward across a checkerboard floor, with his mid-stride foot
rising toward the viewer, we see a visually similar sculpture on the
right side of the panel. In each, the left elbow is raised and bent at a
45-degree angle while the legs are positioned as a diagonal, with one
foot raised so that the underside of the foot faces the viewer. Each fig-
ure has been stylized and reduced to geometric essentials. The panels
that follow similarly feature a mirroring of poses between the art works
and cowering Ashur. The reiteration of the forms acts to both affirm
a provincial suspicion towards abstraction, while visually reinforcing
the idea that Sterrett’s dynamic line drawing exists on the very same
continuum alongside the cubist art that so frightens Ashur.
Figure 7 Cliff Sterrett,
Polly and Her Pals,
May 31, 1936. The
Ohio State University
Billy Ireland Cartoon
Library & Museum.

105
Conclusion
Cliff Sterrett was adept at finding humour in oppositions, playing off the tensions be-
tween the young and old, the urban and provincial, the progressive and conservative.
At the same time, the comic’s style embraced abstraction, using avant-garde art, popular
music, film and mass media as inspiration for a rich and distinctive visual aesthetic.
Sterrett’s folksy humour diffused the radicalism of his artistic project. Sterrett disarmed
audiences with his wit and wordplay, while slyly introducing an abstract visual vocab-
ulary to mass audiences. Sterrett’s modernism for the masses was an overlooked yet
persuasive advocate for the cause of abstract art in American newspapers.

References
Baetens, Jan. 2011. “From Black & White to Color and Back: What Does It Mean (Not) to Use
Color?” College Literature 38 (3): 111-28.
Canwell, Bruce. 2013. “The Downeaster,” Polly and Her Pals 1933, edited by Dean Mullaney,
7-17. San Diego: IDW Publishing.
Crumb, Robert. 2006. R. Crumb’s Heroes of Blues, Jazz & Country. New York: Harry Abrams.
Dix, Dorothy. 1913. “The Extent of Parental Authority.” San Francisco Call, September 9.
Groensteen, Thierry. 2007. The System of Comics. Translated by Bart Beaty and Nick Nguyen.
Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.
–––. 2013. Comics and Narration. Translated by Ann Miller. Jackson: University Press of Mis-
sissippi.
Heer, Jeet. 2010. “Sterrett’s Symphony.” In Polly and her Pals, 1913-1927, edited by Dean Mul-
laney, 6-18. San Diego: IDW.
Jones. 2010. “Visual Aliens, Part II.” The Hooded Utilitarian, October 29, http://www.hoode-
dutilitarian.com/2010/10/visual-aliens-part-ii/
McGovern, James R. 1968. “The American Woman’s Pre-World War I Freedom in Manners
and Morals.” The Journal of American History 55 (2): 315-33.
Merrill, Daphne Winslow. 1983. A Salute to Maine. New York: Vantage Press.
Raeburn, Daniel K. 2004. Chris Ware. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Russell, P. Craig. 2010. “An Artist’s Artist.” In Polly and her Pals, 1913-1927, edited by Dean
Mullaney, 4-5. San Diego: IDW.
Westbrook, David. 1999. “From Hogan’s Alley to Coconino County: Three Narratives of the
Early Comic Strip.” American Quarterly: Hypertext Scholarship in American Studies,
http://chnm.gmu.edu/aq/comics/nocss/start.html
Smolderen, Thierry. 2014. The Origins of Comics: From William Hogarth to Winsor McCay.
Translated by Bart Beaty and Nick Nguyen. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.
Waugh, Coulton. [1947] 1991. The Comics. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.

106
108
Des chemins vers l’abstraction :
la bande dessinée abstraite selon Ibn Al Rabin
et Andrei Molotiu
Jean-Charles Andrieu de Levis

Au cœur de ce processus [de modernité], les œuvres modernes se sont

développées à l’encontre du régime sémiotique dominant basé sur la
fonction (fiction) de communication et régi par la fameuse contrainte de
la «lisibilité» - qui a depuis toujours pesé (et pèse encore) sur un art dont
on a voulu qu’il relevât stricto sensu du domaine des « mass média» et
qu’il fût asservi à une forme d’utilitarisme assez peu compatible avec la
conception et la pratique généralement répandues de l’art.
Jacques Samson (1988, 120)
La bande dessinée s’est constituée à travers des langages graphiques
variés mais qui ont tous cultivé une grande lisibilité dans la représen-
tation du monde qu’ils donnent à voir. Il a été admis que, pour suivre
le courant narratif d’un récit, le dessin doit être rapidement identi-
fiable ; l’œil doit glisser d’une case à l’autre sans heurt.1 Le lecteur doit
pouvoir immédiatement reconnaître et distinguer les différents per-
sonnages qui se meuvent dans les pages et de cases en cases. Il en va
de même pour les lieux, les objets, les époques etc… autant d’infor-
mations qu’un dessin figuratif est à même de proposer, avec plus ou
moins de justesse et de détails selon le dessinateur. Prenons l’exemple
éloquent de la ligne claire, style graphique dont la paternité est attri-
buée à Alain Saint-Ogan et véritablement institutionnalisé par Hergé,
et qui a longtemps largement prédominé dans le paysage de la bande
dessinée. Lors de l’exposition « L’aventure de la ligne claire » qui eut
lieu au Cartoonmuseum à Bâle entre octobre 2013 et mars 2014, les
commissaires d’exposition définissaient le terme introduit par Joost
Swarte en 1977 comme ceci : « La ligne claire désigne une manière de
dessiner qui implique les principes suivants : les surfaces sont délimi-
tées par une ligne d’épaisseur constante, avec des contours francs, elles
sont mises en couleur par aplats, sans ombrage ni hachures ». La lisi-
bilité du dessin est ainsi le principe fondamental de ce style. Philippe
Marion parle même de transparence du dessin en évoquant la ligne
claire : « Ces deux mots résument assez bien l’idéal de lisibilité et de
1  Chris Ware expliquait : « Je ne veux pas que le lecteur s’attarde sur les des-
sins, je voudrais qu’il les survole sans vraiment les voir en tant que tels (…) »
(Peeters 2010, 67). De son côté, Christian Rosset déplorait que « Le plus sou-
vent, la bande dessinée est conçue, pensée, fabriquée, pour être lue très vite »
(Rosset 2006, 75).

109
transparence qui, sur le plan plastique, se traduit notamment par la linéarisation du trait
de contour et le réalisme schématique des décors » (Marion 1993, 131). Cette exposi-
tion montrait bien l’étendue de cette tradition graphique, qui finalement, peut toujours
s’appliquer à un très grand nombre de productions contemporaines, la définition s’élar-
gissant quelque peu : prenons l’exemple de Cow-boy Henk de Herr Seele et Kamagurka
ou encore des nombreux livres de Trondheim ou même Chris Ware. Que ce soit la
ligne claire ou l’école de Marcinelle, les différents courants de dessins en bande dessinée
ont toujours préservé cette nécessité de lisibilité, qui a pesé sur le dessin au prix d’une
certaine liberté plastique. Il est éloquent qu’un auteur comme Lyonel Feininger, dont
les premières productions graphiques sont des planches de bande dessinée, les Kind-
der-kids et Wee Willie Winkie’s World en 1906-1911, au travers desquelles il introduisait
un graphisme audacieux et en marge, n’abordera jamais l’abstraction dans ces pages, lui
qui pourtant s’illustrera par la suite par ses peintures qui versent dans l’abstraction et
qui le feront côtoyer l’avant-garde européenne, notamment le Bauhaus des années 20.
Face à cette prédominance d’un dessin figuratif se soumettant à la clarté du récit, des
auteurs ont voulu prendre de la distance avec la sacro-sainte lisibilité du dessin. Gustave
Doré, dès ses premières histoires (Les travaux d’Hercules, 1847, et Histoire pittoresque,
dramatique et caricaturale de la sainte Russie en 1854) introduit, l’espace d’une page
ou d’un dessin, des compositions abstraites. Il démontrait alors la possibilité et même
la facilité de poursuivre une narration en bande dessinée avec du matériel iconique
abstrait. Mais ces écarts restaient ponctuels, s’inscrivaient entre des pages entièrement
figuratives, et venaient se poser sur le récit comme un trait d’humour. D’autres auteurs
plus contemporains s’y sont aussi essayés, discrètement pour certains comme Mattotti
(Feux, Albin Michel, 1986) ou Caza (Arkhê, Les humanoïdes associés, 1983), ou de fa-
çon plus affirmée comme Eberoni (John & Betty, Les humanoïdes associés, 1985). Mais
ces incursions loin de la figuration demeuraient discontinues, l’espace de quelques cases
ou quelques pages. Si ces explorations dans le domaine de l’abstraction sont révélatrices
de la curiosité des auteurs d’investir une tradition graphique à l’opposé de la leur, elles
posent aussi la question de la potentialité de faire durer cet exercice à l’échelle de tout
un récit mais aussi comprendre en quoi la bande dessinée est particulièrement propice
à ce genre d’expérimentations. Nous verrons aussi que si l’on parle de bande dessinée
abstraite, les modalités dans le processus de création et de lecture des diverses expé-
riences sont pour beaucoup fondamentalement différentes. Afin d’englober l’étendue
des différentes propositions tout en sauvegardant leur spécificité, nous pourrions parler
de bandes dessinées constructives, pour reprendre le terme de Serge Lemoine (1992).
Rompre avec ce dictat du figuratif est une manière d’explorer une des spécificités du mé-
dium (certainement la plus importante), la séquentialité ; c’est aussi éprouver l’élasticité
de la redondance iconique et observer comment, en abandonnant des formes figuratives
clairement identifiables, la solidarité iconique est préservée ; enfin, comment, à travers
la séquence, des suites de cases non figuratives mais solidaires parviennent-elles à es-
quisser un récit ou au contraire transcender la notion de récit. Au-delà de ces questions
théoriques, l’auteur, en se libérant de ces conventions graphiques contraignantes, et

110
pour reprendre les mots de Barthélémy Schwartz, cherche à « retrouver
la force poétique intrinsèque aux images ».
Si peu d’auteurs ont véritablement essayé de faire des bandes dessinées
uniquement avec des dessins abstraits, deux dessinateurs contempo-
rains ont particulièrement travaillé cette approche du médium. Ibn
Al Rabin et Andrei Molotiu vont initier et faire émerger la notion
de bande dessinée abstraite, bien qu’ils développent deux conceptions
diamétralement opposées. Ces expériences, si elles peuvent paraître
trompeuses sur certains points, n’en restent pas moins passionnantes
par le discours qu’elles engagent sur la bande dessinée.

Des figures géométriques comme

premiers pas vers l’abstraction
Dans l’histoire de l’art, la notion de peinture abstraite a été le fruit
d’une longue évolution qui a emprunté de nombreux chemins. Le
terme d’abstraction a recouvert différentes significations avant l’ac-
ception que nous en avons maintenant, plus d’un siècle après son
apparition dans les écrits de peintres et critiques d’art (Roque 2005).
En bande dessinée, il en va autrement. Avant que le terme de bande
dessinée abstraite n’apparaisse véritablement à partir des années 2000,
des auteurs ont ponctuellement envisagé la possibilité de raconter des
histoires uniquement avec des images abstraites, et plus précisément à
l’aide de figures géométriques (rappelant ainsi les débuts de l’art abs-
trait). La géométrie est en effet un système de représentation abstrait
par excellence. Serge Lemoine décrivait un tableau de Fernand Léger
(Contrastes de formes, 1913) par ces mots : « l’espace y est bidimension-
nel, les formes sont géométriques et ne représentent rien, les couleurs
en petit nombre, les rythmes dynamiques : l’œuvre est dégagée de toute
allusion au réel » (Lemoine 1992, 17).

111
C’est en 1922 qu’a été réalisée la première expérience significative de
séquence dessinée abstraite. El Lissitzky, célèbre constructiviste russe,
raconte, dans son livre pour enfant Les deux carrés, l’histoire de deux
carrés à travers six compositions abstraites. Les protagonistes de ce ré-
cit ne sont pas nommés, leur aspect visuel suffisant à les définir et les
identifier. Ce qui nous intéresse particulièrement dans ce livre, outre
l’essence du constructivisme qui émane des images, est l’usage fait de
la redondance iconique. Chaque double page présente un dessin enca-
dré qui se lie aux autres à travers des formes, des couleurs et même des
matières qui se répètent et permettent d’identifier les protagonistes et
de suivre l’évolution du récit. Le texte, certes succinct, introduit de la
poésie et de la richesse graphique aux pages mais n’ont pas de nécessité
diégétique. L’espace qui sépare les cases est suffisamment faible pour
bien comprendre le récit mais, dans le même temps, préserve une cer-
taine distance pour conférer à ces images un lyrisme qu’un cadre trop
stricte enserrerait. La composition des images semble autant intéresser
l’artiste que les liens qui peuvent se tisser entre elles. Il démontre que,
même dénuées de toute référence au réel, des formes plastiques peuvent
prendre vie lorsqu’elles se succèdent et sont ainsi mises en séquence.
Bien entendu, El Lissitzky n’avait pas pour ambition d’éprouver le
principe de solidarité iconique propre au médium, mais ses recherches
font pourtant écho à des préoccupations propres à la bande dessinée.
Il faut ensuite attendre février 1973 pour retrouver une planche en-
tièrement abstraite. Dans le numéro 692 du journal Pilote, Jean Ache
entame sa fameuse série Les débutants célèbres de la bande dessinée. Dans
ces pages, Jean Ache décline en une planche un récit bien connu, Le pe-
tit chaperon rouge, en pastichant l’univers graphique de grands peintres
modernes, du Douanier Rousseau en passant par Picasso. La planche
qui nous intéresse ici est celle « accréditée » à Mondrian. Dans cette
page, les personnages du récit sont représentés par des carrés de cou-
leurs différentes. Les lieux et autres objets du décors (panier, arbres,
maison) sont autant de figures géométriques qui composent l’image
comme Mondrian pouvait segmenter ses toiles.2 Des traits de vitesses,
des onomatopées et des bulles sont différents éléments graphiques
appartenant à la sémantique de la bande dessinée (donc étrangers à
l’univers plastique de Mondrian), qui animent les figures et leur font
jouer leur rôle (bien qu’ils n’apparaissent que sur quatre cases sur neuf ).

Figure 1 El Lissitzky,
Les deux carrés, page
2  Les toiles de Mondrian pourraient elles-mêmes être considérées comme des 4. © 2013 MeMo.
prototypes de bande dessinée abstraite jouant sur les rythmes du multicadre.

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Le lecteur interprète les compositions abstraites à travers la redondance des formes, les
différents signes graphiques qui leur sont attachés et leur place dans le découpage du
récit dont le déroulement diégétique est semblable sur toutes les planches de la série. Il
déchiffre les cases et identifie les personnages et situations représentées. Le récit opère
ainsi par une traduction des images. L’expérience semble avoir suffisamment intéressé
l’auteur pour qu’il la réitère un an plus tard avec Des carrés et des ronds. Dans ce recueil

114
de fables de Lafontaine, l’auteur alterne des doubles pages de texte (les
fables) et leur adaptation en strips composés uniquement de modèles
géométriques. Les principaux protagonistes sont immédiatement iden-
tifiés à la figure qui les représente. Il se crée alors un aller-retour entre
les transformations subies par ces figures géométriques et les parties du
texte auxquelles elles se réfèrent. Les actions explosent et recomposent
les images abstraites, produisant ainsi de nouvelles images. Ces pertur-
bations sont associées aux conséquences d’une action de l’histoire. La
succession de nouvelles compositions abstraites constitue la séquence
du récit, décodée à la faveur de son association avec le texte précédem-
ment lu. Les limites de l’exercice de Jean Ache se situent justement
dans cette nécessité de l’écrit, pourtant clairement séparé des images :
sans texte, les strips resteraient un mystère pour le lecteur.

En janvier 1989, Massimo Mattioli dessine pour la revue Corto Maltese

un récit de six pages uniquement composées de formes géométriques
(à l’exception de trois cases).3 Il développe une histoire d’amour entre
un triangle rectangle bleu prénommé Arthur et Mcr., « une superbe
triangle rectangle jaune », romance qui sera mise à mal par Gorgoy, un
cube orange. Le lecteur entre dans un univers où les formes géomé-
triques sont des personnages et ont toutes des fonctions narratives. Le
mouvement d’identification est alors inversé par rapport aux planches
de Jean Ache : dans Des carrés et des ronds, le lecteur doit reconnaitre
et identifier les personnages alors que dans Love, Mattioli dessine des
compositions abstraites qu’il explicite dans un second temps. Prenons Figure 2 Jean Ache,
Les débutants célèbres
la dernière case de la première planche comme exemple. de la bande dessinée,
dans Pilote 692, page
41. © 1973 Dargaud.

Figure 3 Jean Ache,

Des carrés et des
ronds, pages 38-39.
3 Cette histoire se trouve dans le recueil B stories publié par L’Association en © 1974 Balland.
2008.

115
Nous pouvons lire dans le récitatif : « Ce que nous observons à présent est un concert
de rock des « Motorcity Cobras » devant un public de droites en extase ». Le lecteur
ayant eu ces informations va alors percevoir l’image en l’organisant selon les indica-
tions données: le carré blanc devient la scène du concert, les triangles rectangles roses
au bout noir le groupe de musique « Motorcity Cobras », et les lignes droites parallèles
ne forment plus une trame mais une foule venue écouter le groupe. En somme, les ré-
citatifs sont pour Mattioli autant un outil narratif qu’une légende pour les images. Les
figures géométriques ne représentent pas mais incarnent des personnages du récit. Il est
à noter que textes et dessins sont clairement séparés et que les images ne contiennent
aucun signe graphique relevant de la sémantique de la bande dessinée. Massimo Mat-
tioli avait déjà réalisé une planche abstraite composée de figures géométriques en 1987
intitulée « Pourquoi tu m’aimes ».4 Nous pouvons constater que lorsque l’auteur italien,
plus connu pour son art de la parodie et de la transgression, aborde un sentiment aussi
abstrait que l’amour, son dessin devient lui aussi abstrait.

Les débuts d’Ibn Al Rabin

En 2000, Ibn Al Rabin, dessinateur suisse, autoédite un fanzine de bandes dessinées
abstraites intitulé Cidre et Schnaps. C’est la première fois que le terme « bande dessinée
abstraite » est clairement employé. Il ne propose pas vraiment de définition à ce qu’il
envisage comme de la bande dessinée abstraite, mais expose plutôt les règles qu’il s’était
fixé pour la réalisation de son fanzine dans une conversation sur Google lancée au
même moment que son fanzine. Il y explique que :

4  Pour une analyse approfondie de cette planche, nous renvoyons à l’article d’Aurélien Leif, « Les
yeux à fond de trou », publié dans le quatrième numéro de la revue Pré carré.

116
 Le but de la Bd abstraite est de s’abstenir le plus possible de représenter
des objets concrets (personnages, animaux, décors, mais aussi toute
écriture) tout en développant un récit qui soit compréhensible (…) et
qui « fasse sens » (…). Les seuls objets « concrets » que l’on s’autorise
sont ceux qui font partie du langage de la bande dessinée (cases, phy-
lactères, etc.).5
Dans sa thèse de doctorat, Jean-Christophe Menu les décrit ainsi : « on
cherche à éliminer tout référant figuratif, et à montrer que le dispositif
de la bande dessinée peut produire une narration uniquement avec des
cases au contenu abstrait » (Menu, 2011 409).

La dynamique des planches qu’il propose procède principalement de

l’auto-engendrement des images, ou « de la physis, c’est à dire d’une gé- Figure 4 Massimo
Mattioli, Love, page
nération de chaque image par la précédente » (Groensteen 2011, 11). 1, panel 1. © 2008
Elles possèdent une logique interne que le lecteurs découvre et appré- L’Association.
hende selon les interactions que les formes, présentes dans les cases,
auront entre elles. Les séquences sont bien narratives, mais les formes Figure 5 Ibn Al Rabin,
Cidre et schnaps, page
5  Cette discussion est disponible à l’adresse suivante : https://groups.google. 3. © 2001 Me Myself.
com/d/topic/fr.rec.arts.bd/ULXvejYURNE/discussion

117
ne sont pas pour autant détachées d’un processus d’identification. Dans la planche
L’Empire contre-attaque, d’une forme A se détache une forme B, de laquelle va alors se
détacher une forme C. Nous suivons ensuite les péripéties de ces trois formes noires. Au
fur et à mesure du récit ces trois protagonistes se chargent narrativement et réagissent
même émotivement aux situations auxquelles elles sont confrontées : nous pouvons
observer à la case 19 des emanata provenir de la plus petite forme, angoissée à l’idée de
se faire manger par la plus grande.6 Nous personnifions ainsi ces formes, leur attribuant
des émotions bien humaines. Ces masses noires commencent par être abstraites mais
leurs interactions, et ainsi la narration qui naît de ces interactions, les remplit d’une
certaine consistance. Elles incarnent des entités que nous observons se mouvoir et obéir
à des « lois » propres à l’univers dans lequel elles se trouvent et dont l’apprentissage
devient l’enjeu de la lecture. Bien qu’Ibn Al Rabin se défende d’utiliser du texte, il ac-
compagne ses planches de titres. Ces titres, attribués a posteriori, donnent une grande
orientation dans l’interprétation de ces histoires, d’autant plus qu’ils sont placés sous
les planches et donc, d’une certaine manière, les sous-titrent. Dans la conclusion du
fanzine, l’auteur s’accuse d’anthropomorphisme pour cette raison. En réalité, les dessins
auxquels il fait référence ne deviennent anthropomorphiques qu’après lecture des titres.
Dans d’autres planches, plus rares, l’auteur cherche à ne représenter que du mouvement,
comme dans la treizième page intitulée « moving picture ». Ces figures géométriques se
mouvant dans l’espace de la case ne sont pas sans rappeler les films d’animations ex-
périmentaux comme Rythmus 21 d’Hans Richter. Nous sommes alors plus dans une
volonté de montrer que de raconter. Le cadre trop étroit de la case ne peut contenir une
forme dans sa totalité et donc la parcourt. La lecture de la page va donc donner à voir
cette forme. Un double mouvement se produit ici : la lecture donne à voir une forme
que ses mécanismes (la séquence et la spatialité des cases) ont déconstruite. Ce genre de
mécanisme narratif sera assez souvent repris dans ce genre d’expérimentations, les au-
teurs s’amusant à découper des formes simples qui apparaissent complexes lorsqu’elles
sont décrites à travers le système de la bande dessinée.

6  Emanata est un terme « proposé par Mort Walker dans son manuel Lexicon of Comicana
(1980) pour désigner les traits, gouttelettes, spirales, étoiles et autres signes graphiques placés
à proximité du visage d’un personnage pour traduire une émotion, voire un état physique »
(Groensteen 2011, 136).

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Afin de poursuivre ses recherches de concert avec d’autres dessinateurs,
l’auteur genevois va introduire dans la revue Bile Noire, aux éditions
Atrabile, une rubrique dédiée à la bande dessinée abstraite qui s’éten-
dra du numéro 13 au numéro 16, de 2003 à 2007, et qui comptera
à chaque fois entre dix et seize pages, toutes en noir et blanc. Si de
nouveaux schémas narratifs sont développés (notamment par Jessie Bi
et David Vandermeulen), ces carnets présentent principalement des
variations aux planches d’Ibn Al Rabin. Ces carnets se posent aussi
comme un espace de débat autour de la notion de bande dessinée
abstraite, trois ans après la conversation Google (débat qui consistera
surtout en un dialogue entre Andréas Kündig et Ibn Al Rabin), que
nous allons dès à présent étudier.

Premiers essais de théorisation

Figure 6 Jessie Bi,
Dès le début de ses expérimentations, Ibn Al Rabin est conscient de se « Sans titre », dans Bile
trouver devant un problème théorique. Il tentera par le biais de diffé- noire 14, page 62.
© 2004 Atrabile.
rentes plateformes de publication d’ouvrir des lieux de réflexion sur ce

119
qu’il nomme « bande dessinée abstraite ». Le 9 mars 2000, il inaugure le débat dans un
forum qui trouvera sa conclusion le 27 mars de la même année. Ibn Al Rabin, de son
vrai nom Mathieu Baillif (qu’il utilise sur le forum) explique vouloir dévoiler les « méca-
nismes » de la bande dessinée, exposer et découvrir son « squelette brut », pour reprendre
JC Menu (2011, 413), sans oublier la part ludique de telles expérimentations. Nous
retrouvons l’engouement propre à la modernité décrit par Marie-Odile Briot : « Trouver
une forme nouvelle, inconnue tel est le défi de toute la peinture abstraite, qu’elle soit
lyrique et gestuelle ou pure et géométrique… Inventer de nouveaux codes, en jouer à
l’infini » (Briot 1994, 57). Dans cette démarche, il souhaite explorer les spécificités du
médium : « La BD abstraite est une manière de se débarrasser de tout ce que la BD a en
commun avec les autres arts narratifs ».
Le suisse va tout d’abord diriger le débat sur la différence de lecture que l’on fait d’un
dessin abstrait en bande dessinée par rapport à un dessin figuratif. Il reprend alors ce
qu’il avait déjà évoqué dans l’introduction de Cidre et Schnaps, c’est-à-dire la néces-
sité d’avoir l’expérience d’un objet pour comprendre la représentation figurative de cet
objet. Il prend l’exemple d’un homme qui marche : une personne ne pourra pas recon-
naître un homme qui marche dans un dessin si elle n’a pas préalablement observé un
homme marcher. Ibn Al Rabin cherche à démontrer que la bande dessinée peut donner
du sens à un objet abstrait à travers la narration. Il se crée un aller-retour entre la nais-
sance d’une narration et le sens donné à un dessin abstrait : c’est la séquence qui, au
début donnera une signification au dessin, et, dans le même temps, c’est l’interprétation
de ce dessin (rendu donc possible par la séquence) qui va permettre à la narration de
s’installer. Il développe cette idée dans un post :
La bande dessinée (…) permet de raconter une histoire faite uniquement d’objets ab-
straits, c’est à dire n’ayant ni nature, ni fonction à priori : il suffit de dessiner un truc
qui ne ressemble à rien, et de faire en sorte que la narration fasse comprendre au lecteur
quelle est sa nature et sa fonction (en tout cas, de lui donner suffisamment d’indices pour
que le lecteur puisse appréhender le « sens » du récit).7 
Le système de la bande dessinée permettrait ainsi au lecteur de se passer de l’expérience
du monde, tout comme le regardeur se passe de référence au réel pour admirer une
toile abstraite.8 La bande dessinée abstraite présente au lecteur une image informe qu’il
ne saurait investir de son expérience. Mais, cette chose informe présentée dans une
première case se retrouve dans une seconde case. La seconde image est alors une repré-
sentation de la première image, en ce sens où, par identification formelle, la seconde
case présente à nouveau, donc re-présente, la forme qui nous a été présentée dans la pre-
mière case. Patrick Vauday développait : « si la représentation renvoie au représenté dont
elle tient lieu en son absence, elle a la vertu de le présenter à, au monde ou à quelqu’un :
présence de…à, dans toute la distance d’un espace et/ou d’un temps qui séparent »
(Vauday 2010, 35). La bande dessinée, elle, est un art de la répétition, de la présentation

7  Cf. https://groups.google.com/d/topic/fr.rec.arts.bd/ULXvejYURNE/discussion.
8  « Or l’art abstrait tourne le dos à la figuration, à la représentation du monde. Pourtant, c’est le
plus déroutant pour le spectateur qui perd ici toutes ses habitudes de lecture directe et immédiate
de l’œuvre d’art » (Sers 1989, 9).

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à chaque case d’un même objet. La redondance iconique dans la
bande dessinée abstraite s’assimile au processus de représentation qui
permet d’installer une narration. Ce que dévoileraient ainsi les expé-
rimentations d’Ibn Al Rabin, c’est que la bande dessinée serait un art
ontologiquement représentatif. La seule expérience dont a dès lors be-
soin le lecteur est celle de la lecture séquentielle. Si la bande dessinée
abstraite permet d’éliminer la notion d’expérience de l’image pour
appréhender et suivre des formes qui se meuvent dans la page, elle né-
cessite tout de même une connaissance minimale des mécanismes du
médium. Ibn Al Rabin propose alors une définition axiomatique de la
bande dessinée, peu convaincante, qui sera développée par ailleurs par
Andréas Kündig (2004) sans plus de succès.
Dans une conversation entre Ibn Al Rabin et Alex Baladi retranscrite
dans le troisième numéro de Comix club sorti en 2006, Baladi fait part
de sa défiance envers le terme « abstrait » qu’il substituerait plutôt à
celui de « concret » : « Dans la bande dessinée concrète, un ensemble
de trait n’est qu’un ensemble de traits et se suffit en tant que tel, peut
être un personnage en tant que tel. Je veux dire qu’un ensemble de
traits ne représente pas une chaise ou un être humain mais s’assume
en tant qu’ensemble de traits, voilà pourquoi c’est concret » (Al Rabin
& Baladi 2006, 77). Il persistera en 2009 dans son livre Encore un
effort, réaffirmant que « la bande dessinée abstraite utilise des formes
non figuratives. Dans la bande dessinée concrète, les formes sont prises
pour ce qu’elles sont, un trait est un trait » (Baladi 2007, 42). Baladi
réactive un débat terminologique datant des années 30, aux prémices
de l’art abstrait. Matisse, Picasso ou Miró se défiaient de la notion
« d’abstraction ». Jean Arp déclarait en 1931 : « L’homme appelle abs-
trait ce qui est concret ». Mais c’est Theo Van Doesburg qui a le plus
défendu la notion d’art concret avec la revue Art concret. Il écrivit dans
son unique numéro : « Peinture concrète et non abstraite parce que
rien n’est plus concret qu’une ligne, qu’un surface, qu’une couleur ».
Les arguments d’Alex Baladi se fondent donc dans les raisonnements
énoncés par les peintres de la modernité favorables à un « art concret ».9
Néanmoins, faute de vigueur et de soutien dans cette confrontation
avec son compatriote helvète, le terme « bande dessinée abstraite » est
resté pour devenir l’acception commune des expériences conduites par
ibn Al Rabin.

9  Sur la dénomination d’art concret, voir Georges Roque (2003, 120-34).

121
Andrei Molotiu et Abstract Comics: le refus de
la narration
C’est véritablement le recueil Abstract Comics : The Anthology, 1967-
2009 qui fait entrer la bande dessinée abstraite dans le champ de
l’édition. Publié par Fantagraphics books en 2009, cet ouvrage a été
dirigé par Andreï Molotiu, historien de l’art américain mais aussi
dessinateur, qui travaille sur la bande dessinée abstraite depuis de nom-
breuses années déjà. Avec ce recueil, Molotiu espérait avant tout créer
un fondement pour ce type d’expérimentations.10 Il réunit 43 auteurs
(dont une grande majorité d’américains) au sein d’un épais volume de
208 pages.11 L’historien propose dans l’introduction de cette antholo-
gie une définition de ce qu’il nomme bande dessinée abstraite :
La bande dessinée abstraite peut être définie comme un art séquentiel
comprenant exclusivement des images abstraites (…). La définition
peut être étendue pour inclure les bandes dessinées qui contiennent
des éléments figuratifs, tant que ces éléments n’adhèrent pas à une
narration où à un espace narratif.12
Il semble donc que Molotiu soit plus attaché à l’absence de narration
des planches qu’au degré de ressemblance des dessins à une réalité ob-
jective du monde. Sa conception de la bande dessinée abstraite rejoint
ce que Thierry Groensteen a définit comme « planche primitive », à
savoir un « modèle hypothétique de page régie par une grille mais où la
consécution des vignettes échapperait à toute détermination narrative
a priori » (1988, 49). Molotiu suggère la possibilité pour ces bandes
dessinées d’avoir un début et une fin qui seraient définis par un « arc
séquentiel » : le dynamisme de la séquence engage une force visuelle
qui entraîne le lecteur dans le parcours de la planche. L’américain sau-
vegarde ainsi la notion de lecture en considérant que le rythme des
cases, des dessins et/ou des couleurs (en somme tous les constitutifs
graphiques d’une planche) provoque un mouvement et une tension
qui emmènent et dirigent le lecteur de la première à la dernière case.
Il explique par ailleurs que la présence d’une dynamique de lecture
n’est pas indispensable ; une bande dessinée abstraite peut être seule-
10 « The present book is intended to bridge such gaps and to establish, largely
post facto, a tradition for this genre » (Molotiu, 2009).
11 Cette anthologie reprend aussi des planches d’Ibn Al Rabin et de Lewis
Trondheim. À noter que Molotiu participa à la dernière rubrique consacrée à
la bande dessinée abstraite de la revue Bile Noire.
12  Première page de l’introduction traduite par mes soins. Pour la citation ori-
ginale : « abstract comics can be defined as sequential art consisting exclusively Figure 7 Andrei
of abstract imagery (…). The definition should be expanded somewhat, to Molotiu,
include those comics that contain some representational elements, as long as Abstract Comics,
those elements do not cohere into a narrative or even into a narrative space » couverture. © 2009
(Molotiu, 2009). Fantagraphics Books.

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ment construite par une succession de formes. On trouve ainsi dans Abstract Comics
des expérimentations très variées, au sein desquelles le travail de la matière prédomine
largement ; malgré l’élargissement volontaire de la définition introduisant le recueil, il
n’y a que très peu de planches qui présentent des dessins figuratifs. La narration ayant
été balayée de cette même définition, les jeux graphiques sont au centre d’un grand
nombre de pages. Les auteurs distordent et se réapproprient la sémantique de la bande
dessinée, l’utilisant uniquement pour ses qualités plastiques. Les cases encadrent au-
tant les images qu’elles deviennent elles-mêmes images.13 Pour prolonger avec le texte
de Groensteen, la grande majorité des expérimentations entrent dans les différentes
fonctions distributives primaires qu’il énumère en 1988 lors du colloque de Cerisy :
l’inventaire, la déclinaison, la variation, la décomposition et la fragmentation sont les
principes fondamentaux qui régissent bon nombre d’expérimentations comprenant des
images abstraites. Pour les planches qui présentent des dessins figuratifs, c’est l’amal-
game qui opère (Groensteen 1998, 55).
Avec Abstract Comics, Andrei Molotiu rend compte d’une énergie pour ce genre d’expé-
rimentations qui dépasse les frontières. Cependant, cette anthologie comporte quelques
apories théoriques qui invitent à s’interroger sur la façon dont l’historien américain
conceptualise la bande dessinée abstraite. Dans une interview accordée à Catherine
Spaeth,14 Andrei Molotiu, expliquant que la succession de photographies qui montrent
l’évolution d’une toile de Jackson Pollock en cours de réalisation peut constituer une
bande dessinée abstraite, ajoute qu’il ne considère pas l’évolution d’une forme d’une case
à une autre comme quelque chose de narratif. Il soutient ainsi que l’espace inter-ico-
nique n’a pas de fonction diégétique. Cet interstice blanc servirait donc uniquement à
séparer les images entre elles sans créer de lien véritable. Mais affirmer que l’évolution
d’une forme de cases en cases ne ressort pas d’un processus narratif revient à dire, par
extension, qu’une planche dans laquelle un personnage (en tant qu’un personnage est
une forme graphique) se meut de cases en cases n’est pas narrative. De plus, la transfor-
mation d’un élément d’une case à une autre indique qu’entre les deux cases, c’est-à-dire
dans l’espace inter-iconique, un évènement s’est produit dont a résulté la transforma-
tion de cet élément. Le lecteur comble ce vide de suggestions narratives que la séquence
dans toute sa continuité confirmera ou infirmera.
Pour finir, dans l’introduction d’Abstract Comics, Molotiu appuie son choix de donner
un titre aux planches afin d’aiguiller le lecteur dans leur interprétation. Au sein de sa
démarche, cette importance du titre peut paraître paradoxale: comme nous avons vu
auparavant avec les planches d’Ibn Al Rabin, les titres sont justement porteurs de sens et
permettent de suivre plus facilement la narration mise en place (ce qui pourrait provo-
quer un anthropomorphisme des éléments abstraits). En même temps, Molotiu suggère

13  L’importance graphique de la case n’est pas propre à la bande dessinée abstraite, nous pen-
sons notamment à des auteurs comme Rodolphe Töpffer, Joann Sfar ou encore Alex Baladi qui
ont aussi travaillé l’expressivité du cadre dans des bandes dessinée aux dessins figuratifs, mais
dans cette anthologie, les manipulations et déformations peuvent être l’élément principal de la
planche.
14  L’interview n’est malheureusement plus disponible, le nom de domaine du site ayant expiré.

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qu’une interprétation des planches est possible. Cette idée d’une narra-
tion à traduire persiste à travers les étranges glyphes qui peuplent le livre
et dont la présence est particulièrement imposante dans l’introduction.
Les premières pages de l’anthologie, au cours desquelles Molotiu intro-
duit son concept de bande dessinée abstraite, sont découpées en deux;
la partie supérieure (qui occupe environ les deux tiers de la page) est
remplie de glyphes alors que la partie inférieure contient le texte en
anglais: ce dispositif tend à mettre en place un rapport de traduction
des glyphes de la partie supérieure par le texte d’introduction. Deux
langages différents, utilisant deux alphabets distincts se trouvent en
coprésence. Ce rapport de contiguïté peut faire penser à la composi-
tion de la pierre de Rosette, et le lecteur se retrouverait alors dans la
peau d’un Champollion découvrant les arcanes de la bande dessinée
abstraite. Mais dans ce cas, ce langage visuellement abstrait porte en
lui une signification. Ces glyphes étant omniprésents dans le volume,
il en découle que, si le texte abstrait se traduit, les images aussi, ou du
moins que la succession des images est significative. Le lecteur se doit
donc de déchiffrer les planches abstraites afin d’en tirer la clef d’inter-
prétation. Cette notion de compréhension est pourtant incompatible
avec la manière dont Molotiu envisage la bande dessinée abstraite. Le
discours de Molotiu peut ainsi paraître assez paradoxal.
Enfin, ce que l’on pourrait aussi reprocher à la démarche de Molotiu
est de considérer la bande dessinée uniquement comme motif gra-
phique, et non comme un système structurant des images entre elles.
Les auteurs investissent la sémantique de la bande dessinée comme
outils plastiques et non comme vocabulaire de la bande dessinée. Ils
travaillent la bande dessinée en tant qu’image. Si un auteur n’utilise le
multicadre que pour des propriétés plastiques, le médium est inopé-
rant. Dans cette acception, la plupart des pages d’Abstract comics sont
plutôt des variations autour du motif « bande dessinée » qu’un véritable
travail sur la bande dessinée.

Autonomie d’albums entièrement abstraits

Les bandes dessinées abstraites se sont donc tout d’abord développées
dans des revues ou recueils collectifs à travers des formes courtes (la
plus longue atteint 16 pages). Pour autant, elles ne se cantonnent pas
à ce format contraignant. L’impulsion et l’énergie d’Ibn Al Rabin ont
essaimé des projets plus ambitieux chez des auteurs qui pousseront
l’expérimentation jusqu’à un album entier. Dans ces ouvrages, les au-
teurs explorent de nouvelles manières d’envisager l’abstraction dans la
bande dessinée ainsi que la possibilité de faire durer de tels projets sur

125
un album entier. Nous diviserons ces productions en deux catégories : celles qui sont
strictement narratives tout en utilisant du matériel iconique abstrait, et d’autres qui
remettent en perspective la notion de récit.
Deux auteurs se place dans la droite lignée de la notion de bande dessinée abstraite
proposée par Ibn Al Rabin et développée dans les carnets de Bile Noire (auxquels ils
ont d’ailleurs participé dès le premier numéro) : Lewis Trondheim avec Bleu (2003)
et Alex Baladi avec Petit trait (2008). Dans ces deux livres, nous suivons les péripéties
de formes, un trait pour Baladi et des tâches mouvantes pour Trondheim, qui vont
interagir avec d’autres formes semblables. Les différentes temporalités de la séquence
sont clairement séparées, par des cases pour Baladi et par un gaufrier dense mais non
tracé pour Trondheim. Il se crée un mouvement intéressant dans ces deux récits : si les
formes sont abstraites, les histoires n’en restent pas moins anthropocentrées. Ce sont
des réactions et des désirs humains qui animent les formes, l’amour pour les tâches de
Bleu et la survie et la sauvegarde de son individualité pour le Petit trait (du moins en
voici notre interprétation). Cette identification permet au lecteur de se projeter dans
ces séquences et de les suivre comme une narration classique. De plus, le passage d’une
case à une autre, c’est-à-dire d’un instant du récit à un autre, est facilement descriptible
en quelques mots. Un développement intellectuel se met en place dans la lecture de ces
pages. Dans une certaine mesure, nous sommes face à des récits classiques mais dont les
protagonistes sont des formes abstraites.

126
Deux autres livres peuvent être ici abordés : Veuve poignet (2006) de
Greg Shaw et La nouvelle pornographie (2006) de Lewis Trondheim.
Dans ces deux livres, les planches abstraites sont comprises à travers un
protocole de lecture qui éclairera les compositions. Dans le premier, les
pages présentent des gaufriers de très petites cases monochromatiques
de couleurs variables. Dans le second, nous découvrons des formes
géométriques qui se modifient, apparaissent et disparaissent : l’enjeu
de la lecture sera alors de traduire ces images abstraites afin de com-
prendre la séquence dans laquelle elles s’inscrivent. Pour ce faire, les
auteurs vont livrer dans leur album la clef de lecture qui permettra de
les déchiffrer. Dans Veuve Poignet, Greg Shaw présente en introduction
un dictionnaire des cases colorées : une case beige signifie « peau », une
rose signifie « gland », une blanche signifie « sperme », etc. Ces suites
répétitives de cases colorées sont en fait un véritable éloge à la mastur-
bation, que le titre du livre avait annoncé. Lewis Trondheim attendra
quant à lui la fin de La Nouvelle Pornographie pour donner au lec-
teur l’indice qui lui permettra de percer le mystère de ses planches :
la dernière planche montre un accouchement vue de l’intérieur d’un
vagin. Le lecteur comprend dès lors que le point de vue est donné de
l’intérieur du corps d’une femme dont le pénis d’un partenaire vient
obstruer les ouvertures. Encore une fois, le titre corrobore l’interpréta-
tion que nous faisons des formes et de leurs variations. Dans les deux
livres, les pages procèdent de la variation d’une matrice, la première
page, qui se pose comme protocole de lecture. Les deux auteurs jouent
ainsi sur une manière singulière de dessiner des séquences pornogra-
phiques de manière crue. Cette notion de déchiffrement est centrale
dans la compréhension de ces livres : c’est la traduction des images
qui va permettre de dévoiler le récit. Nous ne sommes pas éloignés du
dispositif développé par Jean Ache, à la différence qu’ici, le lecteur ne
connaît pas à l’avance le récit qui lui est raconté.

Figure 8 Lewis
Trondheim, La nouvelle
pornographie, page 1.
© 2006 L’Association.

127
Ces livres narratifs aux dessins abstraits se lisent donc de manière intel-
lectuelle, à travers une conversion des variations entre deux images en
mots. D’autres auteurs ont travaillé à élaborer de nouvelles formes de
récits en utilisant des dessins abstraits. Prenons comme exemple trois
livres graphiquement très différents mais qui se rapprochent pourtant
dans le projet de lecture qu’ils mettent en place : Parcours Pictural de
Greg Shaw, Abstraction (1941-1968) de Jochen Gerner et 978 de Pascal
Matthey, tous trois sortis respectivement en 2005, 2011 et 2013. Les
trois auteurs ont emprunté des chemins distincts pour rendre leurs
images abstraites. Greg Shaw utilise des trames de points puis de carrés
pour délimiter des surfaces géométriques. Ces dernières vont se croiser
ou se superposer, se confronter en opposant leurs intensités de couleurs
et le bruit des éléments grouillants contenus dans chacune d’elles. Pour
Abstraction (1941-1968), Jochen Gerner est intervenu à l’encre sur un
pocket datant de 1968 relatant une bataille naval de 1941 (d’où le
titre) : il en a noirci les pages d’encre de chine, ne laissant apparaître
que quelques mots ainsi que des motifs abstraits restituants l’énergie
et la dramaturgie qui se jouent dans la case. Pascal Matthey a quant à
lui découpé divers supports de publicité de bande dessinée disponible
dans les librairies spécialisées pour ensuite les assembler et créer des
compositions qu’il met en séquence dans un gaufrier de six cases. Ces
trois livres, bien que très différents, se retrouvent dans l’appréhension
d’une lecture allant vers le sensible. Il n’est pas question ici de « sens » à
trouver. Le lecteur est emporté par la variation des couleurs, des éner-
gies contenues dans les cases, mouvantes au fur et à mesure que l’œil
les parcours et que les pages se tournent. Il est plus ici question d’af-
fect que produit la succession des cases que de récit intelligible. Nous
sommes proches de l’arc séquentiel envisagé par Andrei Molotiu. Mais
pour autant, ces pages ne rejettent pas l’idée de narration : s’il n’est pas
véritablement définissable, un courant narratif emporte le lecteur de
page en page, l’incite à explorer les cases et de passer de l’une à l’autre ;
par exemple, dans 978, la violence succède à des instants de plénitude,
à l’évocation de frasques sexuelles qui précèdent des confrontations
pour se diriger vers la douceur.15 Le lecteur est ainsi transporté d’émo-
tions en sensations, finalement, comme dans une lecture traditionnelle.
Seulement, ces émotions se communiquent ici par l’empreinte sensible
que provoque la succession d’images abstraites et non par la progres-
sion d’un scénario à rebondissements conduit par un dessin figuratif.

Figure 9 Jochen
Gerner, Abstraction
(1941-1968), page 3.
15  Nous avons analysé un peu plus profondément les livres de Pascal Matthey © 2011 L’Association.
et de Jochen Gerner sur le site du9 (Andrieu de Levis 2014a et 2014b).

129
Conclusion
Nous avons donc vu qu’après de ponctuelles expérimentations de bandes dessinées abs-
traites, deux pôles réflexifs se sont formés autours d’auteurs qui envisagent ce travail du
médium de manière radicalement différente : Ibn Al Rabin cherche à utiliser le système
de la bande dessinée afin de créer une narration avec du matériel iconique abstrait tan-
dis qu’Andreï Molotiu évite à tout prix la notion de narration, que les dessins soient
figuratifs ou non. Ces auteurs ont été des moteurs importants et ont entrainé dans leur
sillage de nouvelles expériences qui mettent en place des processus de lecture aux anti-
podes les unes des autres.16 Malgré les différences fondamentales de ces productions, ces
dernières se retrouvent réunies sous une même terminologie : bande dessinée abstraite.
De cet amalgame vient la difficulté de trouver une définition qui engloberait toutes ces
expériences. Thierry Groensteen proposait de séparer les bandes dessinées abstraites en
deux catégories : celles qui utilisent des dessins figuratifs qui n’ont pas de liens entre
eux, qu’il nomme bandes dessinées infra-narratives, et celles qui utilisent des dessins
abstraits, qu’il nomme bandes dessinées abstraites (Groensteen 2011, 8). Mais avec une
telle classification, il ne marque pas de différence entre des planches d’Andrei Molotiu
et des planches d’Ibn Al Rabin. De la même manière, les planches d’Ibn Al Rabin, qui
se défendent d’utiliser du texte, et celles de Massimo Mattioli, dont l’identification des
formes se trouve justement dans le texte, sont elles aussi rangées dans le même groupe.
Jean-Christophe Menu (2011, 414) reprend les catégories proposées par Groensteen
et en rajoute deux : pictogrammique et extra-terrestre. De cette manière il poursuit
l’amalgame entre Molotiu et Ibn Al Rabin, et manque encore les bandes dessinées mo-
nochromatiques de Greg Shaw et les expériences de Jochen Gerner et Pascal Matthey.
Finalement, la recherche d’une définition et appellation globalisante pour toutes ces ex-
périences ne nous semble pas des plus fécondes. Nous avons préféré nous attarder sur la
diversité des approches de l’abstraction dans la bande dessinée. La difficulté de trouver
un terme définitoire paraît d’autant plus difficile que nous ne nous sommes intéressés
ici qu’à l’aspect graphique du médium. Certains albums ou expériences plus courtes
proposent des approches narratives proches de l’abstraction qui utilisent pourtant des
dessins figuratifs. Les images gardent des liens entre elles. Ces liens sont autant d’indices
qu’elles s’inscrivent dans une trame narrative sans pour autant que cette dernière soit
clairement énonçable. Nous pensons par exemple à des ouvrages comme SPUK (2004)
de l’allemand Niklaus Rüegg, Brutalis (2003) de Thierry Van Hasselt et Karine Ponties
ou, par certains aspects, Here (2014) de Richard McGuire, qui ouvrent de nouvelles
pistes de réflexions enthousiasmantes. Qu’elles versent dans le figuratif ou dans l’abs-
trait, ces expérimentations de bande dessinée abstraite stimulent par cette utilisation
des ressources fondamentales du médium.

16  Pour autant, ce genre d’expérimentations reste en marge. Jean-Christophe Menu témoi-
gnait dans sa thèse de doctorat de la difficulté de publier ce genre d’œuvres, notamment par
l’exigence éditoriale qu’elles demandent (Menu 2011, 411). Quelques collectifs et structures
éditoriales persistent pourtant, avec plus ou moins de vigueur, de développer cette approche du
médium. Nous soulignons notamment l’intéressant travail des éditions Hécatombes (http://www.
hecatombe.ch/blog.php) et de Thomas Perrodin.

130
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–––. 1974. Des carrés et des ronds. Paris : Balland.
Al Rabin, Ibn. 2000. Cidre & schnaps. Genève : Me Myself.
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Andrieu de Levis, Jean-Charles. 2014a. « 978 ». http://www.du9.org/chro-
nique/978/.
–––. 2014b. « Abstraction (1941-1968) ». http://www.du9.org/chronique/
abstraction-1941-1968/.
Arp, Jean. 1931. « A propos d’art abstrait ». Cahiers d’art 6 : 357-8.
Baladi, Alex. 2008. Petit trait. Paris : L’Association.
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dessinée, récit et modernité. Sous la direction de Thierry Groensteen,
45-69. Paris : Futuropolis.
–––. 2011. Bande dessinée et narration. Paris : Presses universitaire de France.
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Kündig, Andréas. 2004. « La Bande dessinée abstraite alternative ». Bile noire
14 : 72-3.
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Marion, Philippe. 1993. Traces en cases, travail graphique, figuration narrative
et participation du lecteur. Louvain-la-Neuve : Academia.
Matthey, Pascal. 2013. 978. Bruxelles : 5ème couche.
Mattioli, Massimo. 1987. Joe Galaxy & Cosmic Stories. Paris : Aedena.
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sociation.
McCloud, Scott. 2007. L’Art invisible. France : Delcourt.

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Roque, Georges. 2003. Qu’est-ce que l’art abstrait ?. Paris : Gallimard.
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Kandinsky. Paris : Denoël.
Shaw, Greg. 2005. Parcours pictural. Genève : Atrabile.
–––. 2006. Veuve poignet. Bruxelles : 5ème couche.
Trondheim, Lewis. 2003. Bleu. Paris : L’Association.
–––. 2006. La Nouvelle pornographie. Paris : L’Association.
Van Hasselt, Thierry et Karine Ponties. 2003. Brutalis. Bruxelles : Frémok.
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 Practices

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Pratiques

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What would Paul Klee say?
Kym Tabulo
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Abstract Sequential Art: An Artist’s Insight
Kym Tabulo

Introduction
Abstract sequential art is an emerging genre of twenty-first century
visual culture that needs to be documented if it is to find its niche in
the evolving history of contemporary abstract art and comics culture.
Clearly abstract art and comics are not new but when they combine a
new aesthetic form is created, namely, abstract sequential art. In Com-
ics and Sequential Art (1985), Will Eisner uses the term “sequential
art” to refer to comics that use a sequence of images. However, because
sequential images can be identified in other areas of art, I consider that
abstract sequential art is more than just comics presented in abstract
form and, indeed, can take many forms, such as abstract polyptychs
(Tabulo 2013, 7-10) and artists’ books (Drucker 2004, 2). To facili-
tate an informed discussion about this genre, I propose this working
definition:
An abstract sequential artefact is the configuration of sequentially jux-
taposed abstract images that focus on form and technique to induce
a sequential rhythm that suggests sequence, movement, transition,
change and/or the passage of time, which may elicit from the viewer
an aesthetic response, a notional narrative and/or a possible theme.
This definition includes all forms of abstract sequential art that display
abstract subject matter across a series of panels, often with the inten-
tion of generating a temporal illusion and creating narrative rhythm
rather than an identifiable story. However, the artist cannot control the
viewer’s intuitive desire to invent narratives, themes or a sense of time.
To help others understand the genre, I offer this personal reflection
on creating a specific abstract sequential artefact, a fusion of abstract
comics and abstract polyptychs. I use the term ‘artefact’ because I cre-
ate the work as one entity, and then present it in multiple formats. As
an abstract artist, it has been a unique opportunity to create my first
abstract graphic novel and abstract gallery comics and share the expe-
rience at a time when others are still forming their opinions about the
genre.
In August 2012, I began to draw my abstract sequential artwork, en-
titled The Drift of Impure Thoughts, which would take me two years to
complete and another four months to fashion into an abstract graphic
novel and an abstract gallery comics. The concept of gallery comics

147
was first conceived by comics artist Chris Hill (Hill 2007, 6-10), and by 2007 it was
the featured topic in the International Journal of Comic Art (2007). Gallery comics are
the result of artists intentionally presenting a sequential or quasi-sequential exhibition,
positioned between book-based sequential art and made-for-the-wall fine art. Unlike
traditional exhibitions, gallery comics should be able to replicate the aesthetic layout
and rhythmic energy of comics. This was my intention when, in February 2015, my
work was exhibited at the University of the Sunshine Coast Gallery in Australia, and
this marked the end of a long creative journey.
I feel that the creative process put me on a path to somewhere new, and I needed to
express myself accordingly. It was not always an easy journey as it was an uncharted ex-
pedition and at times it felt like looking for a distant light. From the outset, I intended
my creative process as an exploration of the multi-dimensional world of abstract se-
quential art. In the search to intuitively and constructively find the right way to depict
this new world, and also as a way to extend the work and connect the consecutive pages,
I continually united the earlier phases of my journey with the pages of that of the day’s
work, while anticipating the thrill of finding a new panorama of images around the
next bend. As such, the process felt like the stages of a journey, anticipating that even-
tually the daily pictures would coalesce into a whole vista–an aesthetic totality.
My desire to embark on this journey was based on my need to find new creative fron-
tiers through experiential exploration. This desire sustained the necessity to keep the
images fresh to maintain my creative momentum and to anticipate what lay ahead on
this abstract expedition. The actual physical site of the expedition was my home studio;
as a consequence, my home life influenced the process. My work could be related to
autobiographical sequential artworks, for example, those graphic novels that record a
time and the emotions in an artist’s life. Though not intentionally autobiographical,
it clearly does portray some candid and cautious echoes of my emotional life. It also
records my solution to media and genre problems. The work thereby records the pro-
cesses of change arising from a challenging endeavour–changes in the understanding of
the genre and myself.
The pages of the artefact show how the qualities of a certain time can transform quickly
into those of another, and both renditions may represent the past, present or future.
Without leaving the studio, the place where the exploration begins, I can arrive at
another intrinsic destination and my work records the impression of doing so. With
time and experience compressed into panel images across numerous pages, my work
easily lends itself to a linear reading. It brings out a concern with the union of abstract
comics and abstract polyptychs practises as well as my preferred media and techniques.
Also embedded in the work, along with my creative thoughts, is my aspiration that, by
juxtaposing panels and gutters with different images, page layouts and media, some-
thing magical may happen between the beginning and the end–keeping in mind that
sometimes the magic can be found in the limbo of the gutters. These are places where
traces of thematic events may be glimpsed–making the intrinsic, extrinsic.

148
Presenting the Artefact
This section contains both a reflection on my creative process and a
discussion of the work’s images. Given the large number of pages, the
artefact is divided into five arbitrary sections. These divisions are not
used anywhere else and are purely for clarification. In the following
discussion, pairs of artworks are referred to as spreads–each spread be-
ing a pair of pages as they appear in the graphic novel. The work can
also be viewed on the dedicated website abstractsequentialart.com.

Section 1

With birth, many living creatures come out of the darkness and into
the light of life. These first pages represent such new beginnings. Out
of the darkness my creative journey begins, as shown in Figure 1. The
initial page number is zero, painted black in the density of Indian ink
to suggest the void that precedes the beginning. Next, the nebulous
effect in the first pages, which was created by layering graphite powder,
represents the fragile formation of a new entity. The main medium
used in these twenty-four pages is Indian ink, with the introduction
of ink washes on pages 5, 6 and 7. Washes are used to transition from
graphite powder to Indian ink only, which is perfect for creating the
notan effect, a Japanese technique and philosophy I favour. Notan is Figure 1 Kym Tabulo,
The Drift of Impure
an artistic compositional principle regulating the balance between pos- Thoughts, pages 0-23.
(c) 2014 Blurb.

149
itive and negative spaces–light and dark. Moreover, notan artists strive to create work
that conveys human experiences, which is precisely what I wanted to achieve.
When looking at the pages in Figure 1, I see newly emerging forms struggling to ma-
terialize as whole entities, summoning the themes of struggle, evolution and identity.
In my visual diary, where I recorded the progress of my creative process, I wrote that I
accepted the fact that the emerging entity or motif was unstable, and told myself not to
worry if it did not fully form because I anticipated that it would appear when the time
was right. I understood that the transforming motifs indicated that I was genuinely
experiencing something new.

Section 2

During the creation of the second section (Figure 2), I felt more confident about using
sequential art techniques. For example, it was beginning to feel natural to use sponta-
neous line drawing within prepared panels. I felt confident enough to introduce new
tools, such as masking fluid and calligraphy brushes because these provided an imme-
diate response to my spontaneous gestures while I was also trying to produce detailed
compositions. In this segment, I attained my goal of creating positive and negative
spaces, as well as forms that complement each other rather than dominate the page to
create visual harmony.
Another aim was to balance the structured pages with the more whimsical strokes, and

150
then to go from tightly drawn pages to open, larger panel formations.
It was difficult to transition in and out of free form non-panel pages
into ones with panels. A solution is evident on pages 39 to 41, where
I simply used black gutters to link them. Also, the panel images on
pages 41 to 44 connect vertically and horizontally, effecting the stylis-
tic devices of sequential dynamism and iconostasis of abstract comics
(Molotiu 2012, 89-91). By contrast, on pages 29 and 34 for exam-
ple, the abstract polyptych stylistic devices of continuity and unity are
dominant (Tabulo 2013, 7-10).
In an abstract polyptych composition, continuity is created by using
the flow of the subject matter and sequential transitions to generate a
rhythmic energy, ensuring the work’s inner connections. An abstract
polyptych artist can also create stronger visual linkages through manip-
ulating the interplay of elements within the panel images. If effective,
these connections merge the images into a cohesive hyper-image,
turning the many into one. This stylistic device of unity sustains the
viewers’ attention while they contemplate whether the multiple panels
connect into a single image. Unity is important for an abstract polyp-
tych, but for an extended abstract sequential artwork, which relies on
sustaining the viewers’ attention for many pages, there is a danger that
if the effect of unity is too strong, it may stem the flow of the sequen-
tial rhythm. This is avoided in abstract comics through the use of the
stylistic devices of sequential dynamism and iconostasis.
Andrei Molotiu, one of the foremost practitioners and theorists of ab-
stract comics, defines sequential dynamism as a “formal visual energy,
created by compositional and other elements internal to each panel
and by the layout, that in a comic propels the reader’s eye from panel
to panel and from page to page, and that imparts a sense of sustained
or varied visual rhythms” (2012, 89). Conversely, he states that ico-
nostasis is “the perception of the layout of a comics page as a unified
composition; perception which prompts us not so much to scan the
comic from panel to panel in the accepted direction of reading but to
take it at a glance, the way we take in an abstract painting” (ibid., 91).
Molotiu suggests that in abstract comics, even though dynamism and
stasis may seem to be opposite forces, “iconostatic perception, rather
than conflicting with sequential dynamism is a prerequisite for it; the
two go hand in hand” (ibid., 93). This is the same for the devices
of continuity and unity. Thus, it can be argued that a core aesthetic
strategy of both abstract comics and abstract polyptychs is the “har-
Figure 2 Kym Tabulo,
monization and reconciliation” (ibid.) of these two pairs of stylistic The Drift of Impure
devices. However, in my work, I found that continuity and sequential Thoughts, pages 24-47.
dynamism could occur on a page without their respective pairing. (c) 2014 Blurb.

151
It was at this stage in the studio process that I first realized that, more often than I had
anticipated, the work not only generated stylistic devices characteristic of abstract com-
ics but also those of abstract polyptychs. From these observations, I arrived at the idea
that a non-panel page could be regarded as one large panel. This idea motivated me to
monitor the way I balanced panel and non-panel pages in my future planning. Yet, as
I preferred not to interfere with the intuitive aspect of the work, I did not deliberately
control the balance.

Section 3

The first significant shift in the third section concerns the use of media. As shown in
Figure 3, pages 48 to 55 continued the sequence of notan images using Indian ink.
When I felt it was time to change media I re-introduced ink washes, this time with an
overlay of marker pen designs. Unfortunately, the fumes from the pens were too strong
for me, and I had to change media quickly, in this case to Conté pastel patterns over
the washes by page 58. Due to unforseen family circumstances I had to stop my studio
work at page 61, and when I later returned to create page 62 I unconsciously changed
to softer, darker pastels and charcoal, which I also found difficult to manage because of
the texture of the cold press Aquarelle Arches paper. Though not intentional, in retro-
spect the dark images and the differences in density and texture of the applied media
seem to convey my emotions, with my distress leading to poor media choices. However,
what I learnt from these experiences is that decisions about the content or composi-

152
tional style should be made first, and that media should be chosen to
suit these decisions. The media should not dictate the compositional
style, but it may inform the way transitions are made between chang-
ing styles and pages.
Once again, due to family responsibilities, time passed between com-
pleting page 69 and creating the next two pages. On my first attempt,
I produced the pages that have now become spread 72-73, but after
reflection it became clear that they did not connect well with page 69.
At first, I considered simply discarding these pages. However, because
I believed it was important to keep the work in its original form as
much as possible without substantial alterations, I spent a consider-
able amount of time trying to find an alternative. My solution was to
move them forward and insert two new pages after page 69 thereby
providing a better connection, as well as linking with spread 72-73. To
achieve this, spread 70–71 shows the same subject matter and panel
layout as page 69, as well as the same media in page 72. This approach
allowed me to adjust the media and change the layout of the pages and
it was important to me to include panel pages in the solution.

Figure 3 Kym Tabulo,

The Drift of Impure
Thoughts, pages 48-71.
(c) 2014 Blurb.

153
Section 4

The first important event of this fourth section was my failure to continue to use panels,
and I felt troubled that by page 75 the work had mutated into three pages of confusion,
as Figure 4 attests to. This was a time when I was overwhelmed by professional and per-
sonal commitments, and I experienced an episode of creative dysfunction. I wobbled
for two pages and needed to step back and review the work. As a result, from pages 78
to 83, I sought refuge in the safety of panel pages, black even gutters and simple sub-
ject matter–watercolour circles. As the pages progress, these elements are repeated and

154
the point of view zooms out to reveal a mosaic of miniature dynamic
panels, which, as I can see now, reflect my fervor to keep creating panel
after panel so that I could bring some order back into my life at a time
when other issues were out of my control. Page 84 shows how this state
of mind fractures as it had reached its climax, prompting me to explore
other creative ways to depict my journey. Before I found new means,
I returned to the safety of Indian ink and single page spreads where
shapes, which were previously active panels, had become blank silent
passages or blocks of a fractured fortress. The circle reemerges from
behind it, bigger than before, but still under the threat of fracturing as
it continues its progress into the approaching panel pages. The passage
is mired by complications but by page 91 there is a breakthrough of
sorts, perhaps a biological one because the circle becomes a cellular
form–an organic symbol of life. Then by page 93 it breaks free of the
safety of the panels and floats freely into a world of colour and hope.
However, this feeling remains tenuous, reflected in the ominous grey
wash that confines the new form.
A retrospective analysis of these pages reveals that panel pages and the
stylistic devices of abstract comics felt like safe havens providing order
as well as the joy of creativity. Making these pages was engrossing and
restorative, and I eventually chose pages 84 and 88 for the covers of the
graphic novel. Although in this section I deliberately set out to make
panel pages and was enjoying the experience, I subconsciously reverted
to open non-panel structures for eleven colourful pages, which contin-
ued into the next section. Once again, in retrospect, I can see how the
medium dictated the work’s content and composition. In my diary I
observed that creative and practical solutions go hand-in-hand; for the
sake of remaining as spontaneous as possible, I was prepared to take the
risk of intuitively producing non-panel pages. I also continued to be
interested in the idea that each page can be regarded as a single panel.

Figure 4 Kym Tabulo,

The Drift of Impure
Thoughts, pages 72-95.
(c) 2014 Blurb.

155
Section 5

To paraphrase a saying credited to Orson Wells, happy endings depend on where you
stop your story. When I began the final section of the work, I did not imagine that it
would be the ending. I originally intended to complete 150 pages, yet without planning
it the work would end here. Until I conceived the ideas for pages 124 and 125 (Figure
5), I thought I would continue. It was a real trouvaille when I looked at these drawings
and realized that I had finished the work. So how did I get to this ending?

156
My diary reveals that I was thinking about media, composition and
painting styles to continue to work intuitively but at the same time I
wanted to return to panel pages, especially after creating eleven consec-
utive seemingly non-panel pages. I say seemingly, because the ominous
grey wash on pages 94 and 95 begins to form panel structures that
continue, develop and change colour along the way as far as page 100.
These panels have no identifiable content but the way they solidify
and push toward the middle of the composition, directing the path of
the cells, gives them a sequential drive. Although the diagonal squares
in pages 100 and 101 are not traditional panels, they contain mov-
ing white dots. These pages are evidence of my preoccupation with
complex compositional problems and attempts at creating new panel
ideas while also moving back to the sequentiality of abstract comics. I
also changed from watercolour to acrylic paint, which, to me at least,
connotes solidity and reliability, even though the images are made of
floating dots. They could be viewed as images that depict a new idea
about to emerge or something new waiting to be created.
Pages 104 and 105 are panel pages that have implied gutters. The first
of these pages has twelve panels, and each one replicates a section of
the outer dots of the large circle on page 103. Page 105 has four panels,
each depicting a close-up view of the repeated green and purple dots.
These connections are not obvious, and the colours are subdued and
not dark and foreboding. Once again, although it was not my inten-
tion, the panels disappear. An optical illusion emerges in pages 106
to 109, adding a sensation of disquiet or anticipation, as if something
magical is about to be revealed. The idea of magic is reinforced by the
introduction of gold paint; however, all that glitters is not gold, as
mixed emotions were unconsciously affecting the flow of creativity,
as evident in pages 110 to 113. The latter reveals another lull in my
creative thinking, but I simply continued slowly, without much di-
rection. I reduced the shapes to open up the spaces around hoping to
find something genuinely inspiring in these areas to motivate forward
movement, which I did. At that moment, I remembered that the shine
of the metallic paint would make a good ending because to me it is
a symbol of eudaimonia–the attainment of well-being and prosper-
ity–and I wanted to end the work in a positive way with images that
reproduce the emotional ups and downs of my creative journey.
Pages 114 to 117 show how the reflective pause of the preceding spread
enabled me to gather my thoughts and move forward. Here the themes
Figure 5 Kym Tabulo,
last seen in spreads 100-101 and 102-103–the reversal of figure and The Drift of Impure
ground and the page filling circular compositions–re-emerge, but this Thoughts, pages 96-
time in a much bolder and more confident form. The white circles are 125. (c) 2014 Blurb.

157
now revealed against much larger areas of colour and the shapes they form as they in-
tersect with the background grid deriving from the circular compositions begin to take
on a life of their own. The emerging palette, though limited, is more self-assured than
in the earlier spreads. By spread 118-119, both left and right panels seemed to almost
perfectly counterbalance each other. In my view, harmony had been attained and a
sense of eudaimonia was achieved. While reflecting on this pair of pages, I first thought
page 119 might be a fitting conclusion to the project. However, I ultimately decided
that the page was in fact the climax of the narrative structure rather than the finale. In
order to bring about a satisfactory ending, more images were needed achieve a sense of
completion.
It could be argued that the large gleaming bronze circle emerging on page 119 is the cli-
max, while the following four pages constitute the resolution leading to the double-page
ending of spread 124-125. The primary subject of the final pages is a shimmering
bronze and gold disk which, across pages 120-123, struggles to materialize as a com-
plete form. The return to a panel structure reveals this struggle in greater depth, whereas
the constraint of the gutters adds to the almost claustrophobic atmosphere. The final
spread reveals the disk in its entirety–but it is once more seen as if behind a lattice,
which, to me, suggests that the graphic journey has concluded without foreclosing the
possibility for a sequel.

The Abstract Graphic Novel and

Abstract Gallery Comics
The work’s creative process did not end when the final page of the artefact was com-
pleted, collected and printed in book format. For the publication, the original pages
were scanned and uploaded to Blurb, an online self-publishing company. To hold
a physical copy is a special experience, made even more meaningful in that abstract
graphic novels are rare and that this was my very first. Figure 6 shows the book’s covers.
I felt a great sense of satisfaction and achievement when I received my first copy in the
mail. At this point, the book was ready for others to purchase online. Copies were also
sold at the exhibition and at conferences, and are now catalogued in the collection of
the University of the Sunshine Coast Library, the Queensland State Library and the
National Library of Australia and are available there like any other book. My abstract
sequential art website also provides free online access to the whole work for those who
do not want a hard copy or cannot afford it. The book and website are accessible to the
general public, suggesting at least the possibility that the work might have social and
cultural implications.

158
The abstract graphic novel was exhibited alongside the original pages
presented in a gallery comics format. They were shown unframed so
that viewers could take in every detail (Figure 7 and 8). Using pins
to hang the pages on the wall, a specialist gallery staff member and I
installed the work, which took seven hours (Figure 9). The pages were
arranged sequentially to suit the size and shape of the room (Figure 8),
and I was delighted with the result. During opening night, I was ap-
proached by several private collectors asking to purchase pages for their
collections. The sale of the work was unexpected and gratifying, and
may point to its significance. The collectors asked me how to frame
and hang the pages. My advice was to group and space them as if they
were a sequence of comics pages viewed on a wall. The act of framing
and hanging pages raises the question about the differences between
fine art and comics: from my perspective, abstract sequential art is a
fusion of both.

Figure 6 The abstract

graphic novel, front
and back cover.

Figure 7 The abstract

graphic novel
exhibition format.

159
Not knowing how an exhibition will look like as a whole is a risk all artists take, and I
was happy with the positive reception of the exhibition. Even if someone confessed to
not liking abstract art, he or she expressed appreciation of the uniqueness of the two
formats. Most had never seen anything like it before, especially the abstract graphic
novel. I also found that the sequentiality of the work gave those people who usually
only appreciate representational work something to identify with as they could perceive
the sequential rhythms of the pages and panels and follow them along the gallery wall
(or through the book) to the end, and were eager to share their impressions. Most visi-
tors were not comic book fans and I observed that their interest in both abstract art and
comics was stimulated upon viewing the work.
The Drift of Impure Thoughts testifies to my passion for abstraction, appreciation for
sequential art and ongoing apprenticeship as a practitioner of the form. The panels
and pages can be regarded as a series of exploratory illustrations of my encounters with
the genre, and my personal responses to its challenges, as it tests my resourcefulness as
well as my intellectual, emotional and creative strength or weakness. The object was
conceived in thought, then transferred into creative action within a specific genre. Now

160
it is material that invites rational discourse and critique, to be situated
and appreciated within generic, cultural, and socio-political contexts.

Genre Context
There are two terms I found especially significant to my work, and they
deserve some explication: ‘pure art’ and ‘automatic art.’ In discussing
abstract art, poet and critic Guillaume Apollinaire first used the term
“pure painting” in 1912 (Bernstock 1991, 22) to refer to artworks that
use abstract or non-representational subjects that convey the artist’s
emotions and/or sensory perceptions. The other term, automatic art,
refers to spontaneous works made without preconceived ideas, at least
as envisaged by František Kupka around 1912 (Fauchereau 1998, 20).
Essentially, pure and automatic art can be seen as sets of practices well-
suited to the creation of abstract works without the fixed intention
of producing recognisable forms. The opposite of this is approach is
pre-planned ‘constructed’ art, like the use of comics book storyboards
for example. The title, The Drift of Impure Thoughts, plays on these con-
ceptions in that it refers to my emotional interaction with the work as
well as these painting and drawing processes– for instance, the opening
page was planned and has a semi-realistic subject matter. Of course,
the concepts I am invoking are not new, but from my experience, it
seems abstract sequential art has a distinctive twenty-first century fla-
vour to it in its fusion of modernist and postmodernist attitudes, while
also mixing fine arts and comics without feeling the urge to justify this
mixing.
Although I believe abstract sequential art is an example of how, since
postmodernism, artists are readily creating work that combines high
art and low art, pure art and impure art, barriers still exist. In Comics
Versus Art (2012), comics theorist Bart Beaty provides insights into
the ways in which contemporary visual culture is beginning to in-
tegrate comics into the domain of the fine arts. Beaty suggests that
although some comics are accepted into the art world, this shift is not
without resistance (2012, 13). Rather than the direct appropriation of
their conventions (Roy Lichtenstein comes readily to mind), the ac-
ceptance of comics, is, according to Beaty, the result of a compromise
Figure 8 The abstract
forged from need rather than a warm welcome. He points specifically gallery comics hung
to the growing interest in the work of comics artists Robert Crumb at the University
and Chris Ware, along with their representation in prominent gal- of the Sunshine
Coast Gallery.
lery collections and the increasing value of their work at auctions, as
examples of the selectivity of this acceptance. Although Crumb and
Figure 9 Installing the
Ware are just two of the high-profile comics artists ‘elevated’ to the abstract gallery comics.

161
world of fine art, Beaty argues that the process of granting only a few specific comics
artists entry into the fine arts domain is central to ensuring that “the art world [is able]
to preserve old hierarchies while using a more celebratory language in keeping with its
own version of postmodernism” (ibid., 209).
Similarly, the comics domain may also want to preserve its traditions, and as I found
from personal experience, many comics artists and academics are bemused by abstract
comics. For example, when I presented a paper on abstract comics at the Third Inter-
national Comics Conference, Comics Rock, at Bournemouth University in 2012, I was
mainly greeted with polite indifference. Since then, more has been written about ab-
stract comics, such as Thierry Groensteen’s chapter in Comics and Narration (“Comics
and the Test of Abstraction,” 2013) and Daniel Worden’s article “The Politics of Com-
ics: Popular Modernism, Abstraction, and Experimentation” (2015), just to name two.
Yet, the discussion of abstract comics by mainstream comics theorists and enthusiasts is
proportionate to the number of people making them, which is relatively low. I also be-
lieve that without the artist’s personal insights, theorists only make assumptions about
the process of creation, the artist’s intentions and the finished works.

Selected Contextual Concepts

To repeat, my intentions for creating The Drift of Impure Thoughts were to undertake a
lengthy creative endeavour, to learn more about producing abstract sequential art, to
improve my art practice, and to enjoy the process of making cutting-edge contempo-
rary art. As an artist, I pay little attention to the high art and low art debate, and readily
combine pure and impure practices, and I would suggest that the issue of whether ab-
stract sequential art is fine art or ‘just’ comics has already been largely resolved by the
artists practicing the art form. The latter share an interest in both domains, as Rosaire
Appel and Nina Roos do, for instance. Perhaps, as in my opinion, they may simply
regard abstract sequential art as an art form in its own right–neither high nor low, fine
nor graphic–and simply the offspring of both, nurtured by the contemporary context
of visual culture.
Abstract sequential art is not an obvious way to promote social or political change.
For example, The Drift of Impure Thought does not display images that are disturbing
in content. There is nothing sexual, political or brutal. It does not deliver an explicit
message in the way representational sequential artworks can. People may find it too
restrained or too difficult because the themes are not obvious. But other than saying
that abstract sequential art is not a direct call to arms so to speak, I do believe there are
social and political matters that can be gleaned from my work and abstract sequential
art in general.
The Drift of Impure Thought reflects my pace of life at the time it was created. The
rhythm of life is a significant factor in this accelerating world, and obviously sequential
art is an appropriate and popular genre to express these themes. Local and global links,
and interest in facets of popular culture, such as comics and the Internet, can help

162
create social connections across different cultures. Even though these
developments can be seen as progressive, perhaps our society has in fact
become hyper-mediated. If so, it is possible that abstract sequential art
could serve as a mild antidote to the hype, as a calming interlude or a
peaceful way to connect with others. Viewers from other cultures may
understand abstract sequential artworks because they do not rely on
words or figurative images, and as such they are open to interpretation.
Sharing of this type of art can create intercultural relationships that
may help generate understanding and acceptance of others, culturally,
socially and politically, keeping in mind that not all people have the
democratic right to communicate freely with others. In a small way,
abstract sequential art, especially in the form of abstract comics more
than gallery-based works, assists democratic ideals because it allows
viewers the freedom and time to absorb the work at their pace, giving
them the power to create meaning in the work. As such, this form of
art would support Gude’s (2007, 14) assertion that the “abilities to
investigate, analyse, reflect, and represent are critical skills for citizens
of a participatory democracy.” It could be said that because of the hy-
brid nature of abstract sequential art, the accessibility of forms such as
abstract comics and abstract webcomics, and the mass appeal of figu-
rative comics, (as compared to the elitist status of modernist abstract
art), more people may gain an insight into contemporary abstract art.
In a world of social and political instability, art and books can provide a
sense of security through their tangibility. Treasured items have a value
that is not necessarily monetary; it can be metaphysical or intellectual.
I consider my work as tangible, accessible, inclusive and cerebral. It
offers the opportunity to express social themes such as impermanence,
change and transition in one’s culture and selfhood. The multiple panel
pages evoke the complexities of contemporary society and personal
life. The Drift of Impure Thoughts shows how my life and my art be-
came entwined. It records a time of flux in my personal life that could
have been expressed in a conventional, representational painting or
graphic novel but here my responses were coded into abstract sequen-
tial imagery. The panels were not created as an impulse to reveal actual
personal experiences but were simply motivated by the desire to be
creative, complete my abstract sequential artefact and retreat from the
pressures of daily life. The fact that, while making the work, my teen-
age daughter became gravely ill and was eventually diagnosed with a
chronic disease obviously influenced every aspect of my life. Although
the studio work slowed down, I found it to be a welcome distraction
and continued creating. The evidence of dark days can be seen in the
panels and pages as shown in Figure 10, while the joy of life returns in

163
Figure 11 as she was in remission and her health improved, heralding a different way
of life. As such, the work could be described as a mother’s illustrated diary. Since most
parents experience the joys and sorrows of caring for their children, the artwork is inti-
mately linked to others and society in general.

The possible outcomes of my daughter’s illness were unknown. Uncontrollable forces

may have prevented me from completing the artefact, but they also motivated me to
carry on. Out of personal experiences come reactions and solutions, which are revealed
in the panels and gutters, but these do not have to be self-referential and the viewer
may find their own personal themes. Thinking about themes in abstract art could help
individuals push past traditional conventions, help them to think independently, foster
new solutions to problems, and aid them to “begin to imagine the possibility of another
way of living” (Worden 2015, 65). If so, then my work may foster political thinking if
it leads others to consider how they can “produce meaning, identity, and value” (ibid.)
in their communities.
Throughout The Drift of Impure Thoughts, there are collections of pages that are con-
nected yet different in style, subject matter and media. Each page is a record of its time
of creation. There is no explicit relationship holding the separate collections together
except for the hand that composed them. Nevertheless, they somehow combine to
produce a sense of anticipation, climax and resolution. Hopefully, the resolution leaves
the viewer with a feeling of optimism, as I believe I succeeded in making a thing of
beauty from a mélange of moments, a range of emotions infused into the mix. For me,
the pages and panels bespeak an unpredictable and meaningful existence as well as the

164
magic of capturing the passage of time. These panels are part of a nav-
igational system that guided and recorded the creative moments in the
studio, not knowing exactly when the finale would come. Moreover,
when the end presented itself, I had to decide whether the expedition’s
ending was a wish for unity and conclusion, or the journey’s continu-
ation. Ultimately it was both.

References
Beaty, Bart. 2012. Comics Verses Art. Toronto, Canada: University of Toronto
Press.
Bernstock, Judith. 1991. Under the Spell of Orpheus: The Persistence of a Myth
in Twentieth-Century Art. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois Uni-
versity Press.
Eisner, Will. 1985. Comics and Sequential Art. Tamarag, FL: Poorhouse Press.
Drucker, Johanna. 2004. The Century of Artists’ Books. New York: Granary
Books.
Fauchereau, Serge. 1989. Kupka. Barcelona: Ediciones Poligrafa.
Groensteen, Thierry. 2013. Comics and Narration. Jackson, MS: University
Press of Mississippi.
Gude, Olivia. 2007. “Principles of Possibility: Considerations for a 21st Cen-
tury Art & Culture Curriculum.” Art Education: The Journal of the
National Art Education Association 60 (1): 6-17.
Hill, Chris. 2007. “Gallery Comics: The Beginnings.” International Journal
of Comic Art 9 (2): 6-12.
Molotiu, Andrei. 2012. “Abstract Form: Sequential Dynamism and Iconos-
tasis in Abstract Comics and Steve Ditko’s Amazing Spider-Man.”
In Critical Approaches to Comics: Theories and Methods, edited by
Randy Duncan and Matthew J. Smith, 88-100. Oxon, UK: Rout-
ledge.
Robertson, Jean, and Craig McDaniel. 2013. Themes of Contemporary Art:
Visual Art after 1980. 3rd edition. New York: Oxford University
Press.
Tabulo, Kym. 2013. “Abstract Sequential Art.” The Journal of Graphic Novels
and Comics 5 (1): 29-41.
Worden, Daniel. 2015. “The Politics of Comics: Popular Modernism, Ab- Figure 10 The
straction, and Experimentation.” Literature Compass 12 (2): 59-71. evidence of dark days
can be seen in the
panels and pages.

Figure 11 The evidence

of the joy of life
can be seen in the
panels and pages.

165
The Drift of Impure Thoughts
Kym Tabulo
167
168
169
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178
A propos de deux possibilités de bandes
dessinées abstraites
Jessie Bi

En juillet 2004 furent publiées dans le numéro 14 de la revue Bile

Noire deux bandes dessinées abstraites commises par l’auteur de ces
lignes. Elles faisaient suite à une conversation par courriels avec Ibn Al
Rabin.1 Le sujet de cet échange était bien évidement ce type de bandes
dessinées dont les éditions Atrabile faisaient une promotion régulière
dans leur revue.
Mon point de vue était alors de ne pas trouver les travaux précédem-
ment publiés suffisamment abstraits. A mes yeux, ils privilégiaient un
concret, où – décrit très schématiquement – ce qui était revendiqué
« abstrait » naissait principalement de l’absence de toute figure hu-
maine, et d’une attention à des détails de rendus de matériaux mis en
scène à travers certaines techniques perçues comme propres à la bande
dessinée. Le plus emblématique de cette approche était un travail mon-
trant des effets de coulure d’une matière semblant gluante, débordant
et retombant de case en case.
Considérer cela comme abstraction revenait, pour moi, à voir une
macro-photographie comme un tableau abstrait. Sachant que l’abs-
traction, née et théorisée en peinture, était un questionnement des
propres caractéristiques de celle-ci, allant d’une interrogation de la
juxtaposition de pigments sur la toile à la fin du XIXe siècle, jusqu’à
celle de son support lui-même dans les années 70 (avec les travaux
du groupe Supports/Surfaces par exemple), je me demandais si un tel
questionnement ne serait pas transposable à la bande dessinée.
L’idée a tout d’abord été de privilégier des figures simples, géomé-
triques, mais aussi « le point, la ligne et le plan » pour reprendre le titre
d’un des livres de Wassily Kandinsky (1991). Le plus petit dénomina-
teur commun de cette recherche a semblé être le rendu du mouvement
par séquence, caractéristique qui a fait qualifier la bande dessinée par
certains de « cinéma de papier ». Le jeu sur la « tabularité » de la planche,
le fait que l’œil se joue de l›échelle entre le détail d’une case et la vision
panoptique d’une planche, a été aussi un autre critère retenu comme
une des particularités de la « neuvième chose ».
De ce dernier point a aussi germé une réflexion sur ce que l’idée de
mouvement peut avoir de relatif. Plutôt que de faire bouger une ou
des formes à l’intérieur de cases, ce serait les cases qui se déplaceraient
1  Alias Mathieu Baillif, célèbre pour ses bandes dessinées minimales.

179
autour d’une forme, un peu comme un voyageur dans un train à l’arrêt peut avoir le
sentiment de déplacement en regardant le train adjacent se mettre en route2. Cette pers-
pective faisait écho, dans mon esprit, à la notion de « tableau en miettes » évoquée par
Benoît Peeters dans son livre Lire la bande dessinée (2003). Elle me permettait aussi de
pousser l’abstraction jusqu’au titre, d’en faire la légende et la reconstitution d’une image
parcellaire et émiettée dans les rets d’une planche de bande dessinée.
Une première planche de bande dessinée abstraite est née de cette réflexion (Figure
1). La forme retenue était un hexagone difforme. Le « récit » est rythmé par les ascen-
dances, descendances ou horizontalités, ainsi que par l’accord des angles. Logiquement,
il s’achève par un horizon répété sur trois cases, montrant un calme, un retour à la nor-
male après une succession de bouleversements. En agençant chaque case on pourrait
reconstituer la forme hexagonale, mais évidée de son centre. Celle-ci est visible dans
son entier, dans la petite image en haut à gauche qui se veut être le titre, dans la mesure
où elle est la clé, la légende, à la fois l’énigme et la réponse. Si le récit s’était poursuivi
selon la même logique, c‘est-à-dire continuer de suivre les bords de la forme, la pre-
mière case pourrait immédiatement suivre la dernière. La planche est donc aussi une
boucle qui se ferme.
Par la suite, il a été privilégié des formes plus simples comme le rectangle (Figure 2).
Ici, le récit se termine par un glissement du regard qui, après deux tours, se perd dans la
forme, dans un rapprochement suggérant un vertige monochromatique final.
Tout cela fit l’objet de plusieurs variations. La première fut de jouer sur le fond sur le-
quel repose la forme (Figure 3). Là, il a été divisé en un dégradé de quatre couleurs. Cela
a permis d’établir un « récit » qui soit moins linéaire, qui puisse suggérer un mouvement
inverse à partir de la troisième case de la troisième bande. La fin n’est plus un regard qui
se perd dans la forme mais dans « le décor », c’est-à-dire le fond, tout en permettant de
faire écho au début du « récit » commençant lui aussi dans le fond. L’image-titre montre
logiquement la forme rectangulaire sur son fond multicolore et devient plus clairement
un moyen de se situer. En quelque sorte, elle apparaît comme une carte, « un naviga-
teur », avec des déplacements potentiels dont la bande dessinée qui suit représente une
des possibilités.
La deuxième variation fut de juxtaposer deux « récits » (Figure 4), de faire se rejoindre
deux mouvements autour de deux formes commençant de manière symétrique. Cet
exemple fonctionne comme la bande dessinée de la Figure 2 mais avec deux rectangles,
un bleu et un jaune. L’histoire se déroule sur trois planches. Les deux formes ont été
juxtaposées pour faciliter la lecture.
Enfin la troisième et dernière variation fut de jouer avec des formes géométriques dif-
férentes. Après le rectangle, furent utilisés le triangle (Figure 5), puis le cercle (Figure
6). Ce dernier a profité d’une liberté plus grande, de mécanismes mieux maîtrisés. Le

2  Notons que cette réflexion a aussi été favorisée par l’usage de la fenêtre dite « navigateur » du
logiciel Photoshop, permettant de se situer à différentes échelles dans une image que l’on crée
ou que l’on retouche.

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cercle arrive, fait trois tours et repart. Trois fois quatre quarts de cercle
symbolisant chacun un quart de tour de 90°. Habituellement sans titre
autre qu’une image, cette planche abstraite fait exception et est sous-ti-
trée : « Trois petits tours et puis s’en vont ». Montrant de ma part un
détachement lié à la plus grande maîtrise des postulats de départ, elle
rejoint aussi une forme de légèreté, d’humour et de jeu créatif vis-à-vis
de l’abstraction, tel que l’on peut en rencontrer dans l’œuvre de Fran-
çois Morellet. Le choix de ce titre, ce jeu sur la répétition, tout cela
résonne comme un hommage à un artiste dont j’affectionne toujours
particulièrement le travail.
La bande dessinée de la Figure 7 est un aboutissement de ce premier
périmètre de recherche. Le récit est une déambulation dans une série
de carrés aux deux couleurs alternées et formant un damier. La pré-
sence plastique de la planche y est particulièrement affirmée. Les cases
en carré font écho au damier parcouru, et la toute première est l’inverse
de la dernière pour donner l’idée d’un début et d’une fin.
Un second espace de recherche s’est ouvert en ne privilégiant plus le
contour d’une forme mais en suivant une ligne, en la suivant à la trace
pourrait-on dire.
Dans le premier exemple de la Figure 8, on suit une ligne dans une
case, qui part du coin en haut à gauche pour aller vers celui en bas à
droite dans une parfaite diagonale. Dans la seconde case, la course du
trait se poursuit en émergeant en haut à gauche pour repartir cette
fois au milieu de son côté droit. Dans la troisième, il émerge logique-
ment dans le milieu du côté gauche pour aller presque en bas du côté
droit. Ainsi de suite, le trait se déploie de case en case dans une lecture
gauche droite que perturbe la « tabularité » de la planche. Une pertur-
bation volontairement encouragée et recherchée, puisqu’une grande
oblique contre-intuitive semble barrer toute la planche. Celle-ci est
aussi conçue comme une boucle, et dans sa dernière case le trait part
dans un coin où il pourrait émerger dans la toute première.
Les planches suivantes de la Figure 9 à la Figure 13 sont des varia-
tions sur cette méthode. A partir de la Figure 11 le nombre de cases
a été augmenté pour mieux se jouer de la « tabularité ». Cette planche
de la Figure 11 est une forme d’aboutissement dans cette démarche
puisqu’un trajet de trait formant deux créneaux laisse voir de façon pa-
noptique deux rectangles. C’est aussi pour cette raison que cette bande
dessinée est sous-titrée exceptionnellement : « Créneaux ».
La notion de titre en image n’a pas été abandonnée avec cette nouvelle
possibilité. La Figure 14 est, par exemple, le titre de la planche de la
Figure 13. Il représente la forme/trajet du trait suivi dans la planche.

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Mais ces titres ne peuvent plus être disposés de la même manière, du moins si ces
planches était publiées dans un livre. De fait, si ces planches étaient imprimées, l’idéal
serait qu’elles le soient sous forme de posters, affiches ou sérigraphies. Le titre serait
alors visible comme une légende de cartel, se rapprochant ou évoquant une écriture
inconnue et déliée pour ceux ou celles qui n’en percevraient pas immédiatement le rôle
visuel. Il serait d’ailleurs placé en bas à droite.
La planche de la Figure 12 montre que l’on peut complexifier davantage cette méthode
en suivant le trajet de deux traits.
Enfin, la dernière planche, celle de la Figure 15, montre que l’on doit représenter ce
trait en mouvement si l’on veut que celui-ci imprime des trajets plus complexes et dy-
namiques, qu’il puisse faire des retours ou des boucles dans les cases. Le trait ne va plus
d’un côté à l’autre mais possède une « tête ». Il est interrompu avant d’atteindre le côté
qui est son objectif. Il ressemble à ces jeux vidéo dit du « serpent » que l’on trouve sur
les téléphones ou les tablettes. Cela permet des effets autrement plus riches, se jouant là
aussi de la « tabularité ». La planche vibre d’une autre manière.
Avec un recul d’une douzaine d’années, ces deux méthodes ou possibilités de réalisation
de bandes dessinées abstraites me semblent toujours intéressantes par leur accessibilité
et leurs potentialités peu explorées. Elles posent aussi des questions qui me semblent
n’avoir rien perdu de leur pertinence, comme celle du rapport titre/légende, ou bien
celle de la publication de bandes dessinées sur d’autres supports imprimés que le livre.

Références
Kandinsky, Wassily. 1991. Point et ligne sur plan. Contribution à l’analyse des éléments de la pein-
ture. Paris : Gallimard.
Peeters, Benoît. 2003. Lire la bande dessinée. Paris : Flammarion.

182
Figure 1

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Figure 2

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Figure 3

185
Figure 4

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187
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Figure 5

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Figure 6 : bande dessinée aussi intitulée
“Trois petits tours et puis s’en vont”

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Figure 7

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Figure 8

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Figure 9

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Figure 10

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Figure 11 : bande dessinée aussi intitulée “créneaux”

195
Figure 12

196
Figure 13

197
Figure 1414 :
: Titre Fi
Figure titre de labande
de la bande dessinée
dessinée de la figure 13
de la figure 13.

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igure 15
Figure 15

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Experiments in Comics: Kafka’s Aphorisms
Martha Kuhlman

While convalescing from tuberculosis, Franz Kafka spent an extended

period of time in the Czech countryside of Zürau between 1917-1918.
According to his letters and diaries, this was one of the most tranquil
and happy periods of his life. He was working on a series of aphorisms,
some only one sentence long, each numbered and written on a slip
of onion-skin paper. This lesser-known trove of Kafka’s writing was
rediscovered by Kafka scholar Roberto Calasso over the course of his
research on the author. “The more I studied those thin slips of paper
and their connections with the notebooks and letters written in the
Zürau months,” writes Calasso, “the more strongly I felt that those
texts, like shards of meteorites fallen in a barren land, should be read
in exactly the form Kafka gave them” (Calasso 2006, x). Although the
aphorisms had been previously published, Roberto Calasso was the
first to assemble these fragments into a single, stand-alone volume,
which lends them a certain gravity and significance.1
The aphorism itself is a curious form––it promises truth in a com-
pact knot of wisdom, albeit indirectly through analogy or metaphor.
And yet the defining feature of Kafka’s work is that the truth is always
elusive, just beyond reach. “Before the Law stands a doorkeeper,” be-
gins the story-within-a story in The Trial (Kafka 1975, 61). A man
from the country waits patiently to enter, growing increasingly old
and frail. The ending is unexpectedly abrupt: “No one but you could
gain admittance through this door, since this door was only intended
for you,” taunts the doorkeeper. “Now I will shut it” (ibid., 65). Kafka
posits a division between the physical and the metaphysical, but in a
sudden reversal or change of perspective, denies the reader a satisfying
redemptive ending (Corngold 2002, 105). Regardless of whether we
consider a one sentence aphorism or a larger work like The Castle, Kaf-
ka’s writing regularly confounds our expectations regarding cause and
effect, truth and semblance, logic and dream.
Given their obscure nature, it would seem that Kafka’s aphorisms
would be an unlikely subject to adapt to comics form. Nonetheless,
wanting to assume this challenge, I selected aphorisms for their brevity
and ambiguity. Although some of them mention real-world objects,
they are in service to some greater metaphor, and thus lend themselves
to abstract interpretation:

1  Roberto Calasso’s collection of Kafka aphorisms was originally published in

Italian in 2002.

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 The true path is along a rope, not a rope suspended way up in the air, but rather only just
over the ground. It seems more like a tripwire than a tightrope. (Kafka 2006, 3)
A cage went in search of a bird. (ibid., 16)
I have never been here before: my breath comes differently, the sun is outshone by star
beside it. (ibid., 17)
They defy an easily identifiable answer, subverting our readerly expectations for closure
and certainty. Peter Mendelsund, the book designer for the English edition of Kaf-
ka’s Zürau Aphorisms, scribbled the following notes when developing his cover ideas:
“Kafka: elliptical, esoteric, off-putting? funny, unified, colorful, penetrating (gaze)”
(Mendelsund 2014, 44). The book of Zürau aphorisms is deceptively simple, with a
heavy black paper cover and Kafka’s name in a non-serif dark red font above a light rect-
angle of cream with the title centered inside. Over time, however, the rectangle comes
loose and opens to reveal one of four possible aphorisms. In a sense, Mendelsund was
able to make the cover perform what the contents implicitly promise: the revelation of
a secret.

The Experiments
From the beginning, these comics were not about conveying a story in the traditional
sense, and therefore I needed some parameters to give the project shape. Although
it may initially seem counter-intuitive, I wanted to use the principle of rules or con-
straints as a springboard for creation, an idea I had gleaned from the French group of
comics artists OuBaPo (L’Ouvroir de bande dessinée potentielle). Inspired by the literary
movement Oulipo, these cartoonists specialize in comics “experiments” that apply var-
ious constraints–literary or new inventions–to produce witty, clever compositions as
type of artistic game (Meesters 2011, 132; Beaty 2007, 77-82). According to Thierry
Groensteen’s introductory essay in Oupus 1, constraints can be generative (that is, they
provide rules as to how the comic is to be constructed), or transformative (in cases
when détournement is used to manipulate existing texts) (Groensteen 1997, 18; 41).
While I did not want to venture anything as ambitious as a comics palindrome or scrab-
ble game reconceived with comics panels, just two of the many feats pulled off by these
artists (cf. Meesters 2011, 136), I employed generative and transformative constraints
on a smaller scale. The comics were generative in that each had to use a Kafka aphorism
in a four-panel page layout, but transformative because I collaged different elements
together–texts, images, and paper, placing them into new contexts.
I gathered any materials that I thought might be relevant to the project: photos, post-
cards, drawings, photocopies, books, and different types of paper in a variety of colors
and textures. Intrigued by Calasso’s description of the slips of semi-translucent onion-
skin paper upon which these aphorisms were handwritten, I decided that I would make
collages that include this quality of transparency and overlapping. My method at this
stage was to be relatively loose and spontaneous in assembling these various materials on
the page, and I often used watercolor paint to add an element of unpredictability. The

202
aphorisms were photocopied, cut into segments to create line breaks,
and then positioned with the fragments of text among the pieces of
paper, copies, photos, and watercolor wash.
Each finished collage was pinned up on the wall as a reference as I
composed the next one. Certain colors and design elements were re-
peated to unify the series of aphorisms as a visual whole; in this way,
the compositions were harmonized with each other as the process con-
tinued. For the next stage, I looked at the collages up close and then
from a distance, deciding which sections of the composition draw the
viewer’s gaze. Using color photocopies, I cropped these sections into
panels of four by four inches, and considered how I would reposition
the text around them to create four panel comics for each aphorism.
Word balloons were added to suggest that the aphorisms could be read
as miniature dialogues. The resulting comics were more compact but
also more playful variations on the collages from which they originated.
As an example of how this would look in practice, I will discuss the
collage and comic I composed based upon the aphorism, “A cage went
in search of a bird.” I often refer to this phrase when teaching my Cen-
tral Europe class because Czech writer Milan Kundera cites it in his
essay on Kafka “Somewhere Behind,” taking it to mean that powerful
institutions seek offenses and imprison the innocent (Kundera 1993,
99-117). Although Kafka is not explicitly ideological and predates the
totalitarian system that would take hold in Czechoslovakia between
1948-1989, he somehow intuits the microsocial mechanisms that led
to the insidious self-condemnations that took place during the Stalin-
ist show trials of the 1950s. Innocent people were forced into elaborate
confessions of their disloyalty to the state when they in fact had done
nothing wrong, and this practice of intimidation produced a form of
terrorized conformity. Kundera writes:
Kafka made no prophecies. He did not know that his seeing was also
a fore-seeing. He shed light on the mechanisms he knew from private
and microsocial human practice, not suspecting that later developments
would put those mechanisms into action on the stage of history. (116)
This is why Kafka’s work is so often cited as a metaphor for life under
totalitarianism. In 1963, a group of professors held a special confer-
ence on Kafka in Prague. In this context, Kafka’s work was praised
for its surreal and subversive qualities, “so contrary to the morally and
politically simplistic socialist realism” of official communist party lit-
erature, and consequently the proceedings from the conference were
suppressed (Burton 2003, 96). “The defense of Kafka,” writes Burton,
“became a scarcely veiled attack on the regime’s intellectual repression
as a whole” (96).

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In my reimagining of this phrase, I sought to disengage it from this particular history,
and examine how it might play as a fundamental contradiction. A cage is an inanimate
object that cannot ‘search,’ whereas a bird can fly, so I decided that I would not repre-
sent the cage at all. I retained a photographic image of a bird to allude to the phrase,
and added an abstracted landscape in watercolor below, suggesting that the bird is
ostensibly free. To include the quality of semi-transparency from Kafka’s original slips
of onion paper, I overlapped translucent pieces of colored paper to suggest the sky, and
the intersection between land and sky. The diagram, printed on translucent velum,
depicts the golden spiral based upon the Fibonacci series–a design found in nature in
shells, ferns, and other living things. In contrast to this vision of invisible order hidden
in nature, I placed the spiral over a wet-on-wet watercolor of a spiral that spreads and
bleeds in unpredictable directions. Finally, I connected one corner of the Fibonacci
series diagram to the eye of the bird to hint that it is also caught in an invisible order
determined by nature. I played with the syntax as well, placing the beginning of the
sentence in the center, and creating a counter-spiral outwards to encompass searching
for the bird on the left and the right (Figure 1).
For the next stage in this experiment, I wanted to isolate portions of the composition
that draw the gaze in, and resituate them in another format to see how that might affect
the interpretation of the phrase. The golden spiral and the bird’s eye, key focal points of
the original collage, became the first and last panels of a four-inch by four-inch comic.
I decided to manipulate the original syntax even further by reversing subject and object,
such that the bird is searching for the cage. Paradoxically, the phrase retains the idea of
an innocent victim despite this reversal, although here the emphasis is placed on the
bird’s illogical choice to seek imprisonment.2 Word balloons reinforce the impression
that this is a monologue, or perhaps a staccato dialogue between two unseen speakers.
The meaning of the aphorism remains metaphorical and enigmatic, with the addition
of a few literal references to the bird, the blue translucent sky, and the original green of
the landscape (Figure 2).
This particular example is the only one in which the text of the aphorism was altered to
produce a different sequence; in the other comics from this series, the texts remained
the same but were surrounded by images suggestive of the aphorism without being di-
rect illustrations. Common elements that bring the series together include geometrical
drawings, transparency, and the repetition of colors, textures, and patterns. Each comic
can stand alone, and yet together they form a puzzle, a set of variations on Kafka’s
inscrutable writings. An additional aphorism, (“I have never been here before”), with
its corresponding collage and comic, is included to demonstrate how these themes are
dispersed across the series (Figure 3 and 4).
In his correspondence with his publisher for The Metamorphosis, Kafka was passionate
in his entreaty that the insect not be shown (Bernofsky 2014, 121). These comics are

2 Richard Gray, quoting Gerhard Neumann, cites this specific aphorism as an example of a
“gliding paradox” because the inverted phrase has much the same meaning as the original (Gray
1987, 158).

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not so much about mimetic representation as they are about process,
remixing, and suggestion. Reaching back to the original Greek der-
ivation of the word “aphorism” is concealed the notion of division,
boundary, or horizon line, terms that elide with lines, gutters, and
boundaries of comics panels.3 By investigating the imaginary space be-
tween the physical and the metaphysical, the line and the gutter, these
comics invite viewers to conduct their own “experiments” to find their
own unique interpretations of Kafka’s aphorisms.

References
Beaty, Bart. 2007. Unpopular Culture: Transforming the European Comic book
in the 1990s. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Bernofsky, Susan. 2014. “Afterward: The Death of a Salesman.” In The Meta-
morphosis, by Franz Kafka, 119-26. New York: Norton.
Burton, Richard. 2003. Prague: A Cultural and Literary History. Northamp-
ton, MA: Interlink Books.
Calasso, Roberto. 2006. “Marginalia.” In Zürau Aphorisms of Franz Kafka,
translated by Geoffrey Brock, vii–x. New York: Schocken Books.
Corngold, Stanley. 2002. “Kafka’s Later Stories and Aphorisms.” In The
Cambridge Companion to Kafka, edited by Julian Preece, 95-110.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Gray, Richard. 1987. Constructive Deconstruction: Kafka’s Aphorisms, Literary
Tradition, and Literary Transformation. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer
Verlag.
Groensteen, Thierry. 1997. Oupus 1. Paris: L’Association.
Kafka, Franz. 1961. Parables and Paradoxes. Translated by Heinrich Mercy
Sohn. New York: Schocken Books.
___. 2006. Zürau Aphorisms of Franz Kafka. Edited with a commentary by
Roberto Calasso. Translated by Michael Hoffmann. New York:
Schocken Books.
Kundera, Milan. 1993. The Art of the Novel. Translated by Linda Asher. New
York: Harper and Row.
Meesters, Gert. 2011. “L’OuBaPo.” In L’Association: Une utopie éditoriale et
esthétique, edited by ACME, 132. Paris: Les Impressions Nouvelles.
Mendelsund, Peter. 2014. Cover. Brooklyn: PowerHouse Books.
Partridge, Eric. 1983. Origins: A Short Etymological Dictionary of Modern En-
glish. New York: Greenwich House.

3  From the Greek, aphorismos: a definition, a pithy saying, from aphorizein,

to divide, to mark off, from horizein, to separate, as in horizon (cf. Partridge
1983, 21).

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206
207
208
Figure 3 Martha
Kuhlman, “I have
never been here
before,” collage.
© 2015 Martha
Kuhlman.

Figure 4 Martha
Kuhlman, “I have
never been here
before,” comic.
© 2015 Martha
Kuhlman.

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Notes on Time and Poetry Comics1
Bianca Stone

In a poetry comic, the image serves as another line of the poem. It is
self-sufficient, working in tandem with the words. The possibilities are
infinite when ‘illustrating’ a poem. For me this is the critical difference,
the defining feature of what makes something a poetry comic: the im-
ages function autonomously, as a line of a poem would, to the other
lines of the poem. The images are not there to translate what is already
there. They’re not there to visually help you understand what’s ‘hap-
pening’ in the poem. They are there to seamlessly interact and allow
the readers the space to feel and create meaning on their own.
The movement of time becomes more abstract in art because the cre-
ator is dictating the rules. And how powerful a thing that is, to dictate
time. It’s like reading about the complex nature of the universe: once
an astrophysicist begins explaining things, we realize that the rules in
space are very different than those we seem to experience on earth.
Sometimes we simply cannot comprehend the rules at all–our tiny
idea of time is just a means of convenience, and I think art resists
convenience. Once we lessen our grip on learned patterns of concep-
tualizing time, we start to see more around us. Poetry offers a good
opportunity to depart from routine temporal encounters and percep-
tions. A poem is very brief compared to most prose works. And yet, the
poem demands a much slower approach.
Robert Pinsky says “the medium of poetry is a human body” (1998, 8).
A poem’s metre is based on the body’s music, which–rooted in breath-
ing and the sounds manipulated by means of our larynxes and our
mouths–subconsciously dictates the pace at which the poem is read.
And poetry comics should be imbued with that same unique, physical
musicality.
If we think of comics as defined by what is called “sequential imaging,”
we see the comic as moving forward, telling a story, driving us to the
end–but the poetry comic form can demand you to stop and inspect
the intricacies of the image, while also taking in the meaning of the
words. In other words, you’re being both propelled forward and stalled
simultaneously. John Keats’ “negative capability,” intimating how, as
writers and readers of literature, we have to be capable of embracing
uncertainty–that there has to be mystery, things that are missing–fits

A part of this text was published in The Georgia Review, July 2015.

211
into the abstract comic form. In a poetry comic, there are so many things missing. You
have the white space on the page, the ‘gutters,’ as well as the subsequent connections
our minds will make while seeing the image and reading the text–so much happens in
those small spaces that demands time slow down.
All of this happens very subtly, powerfully. In experiencing art, you might be taking in
a lot of information, trying to make sense of it, but while doing so there is room for
awe and curiosity.

References
Pinsky, Robert. 1998. The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide. New York: Farrar, Straus and
Giroux.

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 Narration

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Narration

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232
C’est fini. Ça commence.
Notes sur WREK d’Olivier Deprez, Miles O’Shea
et Marine Penhouët
Jan Baetens

Abstraction et narration
La bande dessinée abstraite, en pratique d’abord, en théorie ensuite,
a d’abord étonné. Non pas en raison de ses images, souvent d’une
banalité extrême, à la limite (voulue) du supportable et presque tou-
jours inféodées à la contrainte de la grille typique de la bande dessinée
conventionnelle, mais à cause de son existence même, jugée incompa-
tible avec ce qui fonde pour beaucoup l’essence du médium : le récit,
puis la figuration qui donne à l’action un visage concret (des person-
nages, un décor, un contexte situé dans le temps et l’espace, bref une
diégèse). Récemment, plusieurs voix ont donné une prééminence à
ces manières de « faire-monde », au détriment des piliers classiques
du récit que sont l’actant-personnage et l’événement-action (Jenkins
2006, Boillat 2014).
La perplexité des premiers lecteurs s’est dissipée dès qu’on a saisi
l’étroitesse de pareille définition. Envisagé comme la transformation
non fortuite et non mécanique d’un état de choses à l’autre, comme
l’eût dit, certes avec plus d’élégance, le structuralisme traditionnel, le
récit n’est en effet pas nécessairement fonction d’un personnage ou
d’un espace-temps figuratif. Des formes « plastiques », pour suivre
ici la terminologie du Groupe µ (1993), peuvent également assumer
cette fonction. Il n’est même pas nécessaire de voir en ces « formes »
les représentations symboliques de certains personnages ou types de
personnages – comme il est sans doute possible ou tentant de faire,
par exemple lorsqu’on découvre une tension binaire entre certaines
couleurs, certains formes, contours, textures. Les qualités visuelles et
rythmiques de leurs arrangements respectifs sur la page suffisent à sus-
citer une dynamique, voire une véritable séquence temporelle à même
d’être interprétée d’un point de vue narratif. La définition d’Andrei
Molotiu, qui s’est vite imposée comme canonique, est très explicite sur
ce point :
La recherche pour cet article a bénéficié de l’aide généreuse de BELSPO,
dans le cadre de son programme PAI. Voir LMI, Literature and Media Innovation,
PAI 07/01: http://lmi.arts.kuleuven.be/.

233
 [Le terme de “bande dessinée abstraite”] touche au manque d’un prétexte narratif qui
relierait les cases ensembles, favorisant plutôt une attention plus soulignée aux éléments
formels de la bande dessinée qui, dans l’absence d’un récit (verbal), peuvent créer un
sentiment de poussée narrative, le simple rythme d’un récit ou le début et fin d›un arc
narratif (Molotiu 2009, s.p.).2
En fait, comme l’observe Douglas Wolk dans son compte rendu de l’anthologie de Mo-
lotiu, telle récupération narrative de compositions à première vue purement plastiques
n’a rien de surprenant. Nos habitudes de lecture tendent à imposer sur n’importe quelle
matière un filtre narratif, qui nous fait trouver du récit indépendamment de toute in-
tention, y compris dans des œuvres qui semblent s’ériger en défi contre le dogme du
tout-narratif :
Les artistes rassemblés par Andrei Molotiu dans son anthologie Abstract Comics (...)
pousse la bande dessinée à ses limites. (…) C’est un ouvrage fascinant à contempler,
et comme pour d’autres formes d’art abstrait, la moitié du plaisir se trouve dans l’ob-
servation de ses propres réactions : quiconque habitué à lire des bandes dessinées plus
conventionnelles se verra consciemment imposer un récit à ces abstractions, afin de com-
prendre ce que chaque case a à voir avec la suivante (Wolk 2009, 14).3
La bande dessinée abstraite n’est donc pas ce qui s’oppose à la bande dessinée narrative,
puisque l’une et l’autre peuvent raconter une histoire–quand bien même l’histoire ra-
contée n’est pas forcément la même de part et d’autre. Maintenir la coupure entre ces
deux types de bande dessinée serait confondre le niveau de la figuration, où la distinc-
tion entre abstrait et figuratif (ou si l’on préfère entre plastique et iconique) fait sens,
et le niveau du récit, où d’autres antinomies se font jour, par exemple celle entre des-
cription et narration (Baetens 2011). De cette observation il serait toutefois imprudent
de déduire que la bande dessinée abstraite ne serait qu’une bande dessinée comme les
autres. Cette bande dessinée singulière soulève une série de questions fondamentales
qui obligent à réfléchir sur le langage du médium tel qu’on croit le connaître.
En voici deux exemples. Pour commencer, la bande dessinée abstraite aide à revenir sur
la distinction un peu facile et mécanique qu’on a faite jusqu’ici entre abstraction et fi-
guration. Comme l’indique Molotiu, l’abstraction est contagieuse : elle ne se limite pas
aux seuls cas abstraits proprement dits, mais touche à la figuration même, qu’elle invite
à lire sur le mode abstrait. Prendre la bande abstraite au sérieux excède donc la seule re-
connaissance d’œuvres non-figuratives, pour signifier qu’on tente de déceler également
la puissance abstraite de certaines configurations non-abstraites. Ce geste inverse la lo-
gique ancestrale qui nous fait retrouver des personnages ou des objets dans toutes sortes
de formes naturelles : nuages, taches sur un mur, écorces des arbres, et ainsi de suite
2  “[The term ‘abstract comics’] applies to the lack of a narrative excuse to string panels together,
in favor of an increased emphasis on the formal elements of comics that, even in the absence of
a (verbal) story, can create a feeling of sequential drive, the sheer rhythm of narrative or the rise
and fall of a story arc.”
3  “The artists assembled by Andrei Molotiu for his anthology Abstract Comics (…) push ‘cartoon-
ing’ to its limits. (…) It’s a fascinating book to stare at, and as with other kinds of abstract art, half
the fun is observing your own reactions: anyone who’s used to reading more conventional sorts
of comics is likely to reflexively impose narrative on these abstractions, to figure out just what each
panel has to do with the next.”

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(on se rappelle l’usage qu’en a fait Fredric Wertham dans Seduction of
the Innocent (1954), où l’ennemi juré des comics d’horreur n’a aucun
mal à produire les « preuves » de messages subliminaux cachés dans des
formes apparemment plastiques et rien d’autre).
En second lieu, la distinction entre abstraction et figuration nous force
aussi à imaginer sur de nouvelles bases l’équivalent du pôle abstrait au
niveau du récit. En effet, il ne suffit pas de traduire narrativement l’op-
position de base iconique versus plastique à l’aide du couple narration
versus description. Au-delà du fait, aujourd’hui largement admis, que
les frontières entre ces domaines sont étanches et mobiles, il est urgent
d’élargir le champ de ce qui s’oppose au récit. Car la description peut
suspendre le récit ou au contraire s’y intégrer (au point de s’y substi-
tuer, comme dans certains exemples du Nouveau Roman), prolonger
le récit ou adopter le régime de la digression (dont l’étude de Bayard
(1996) sur les digressions dans À la Recherche du temps perdu a montré
à quel point elle peut être au cœur d’un projet narratif ), ou encore
prendre la forme de nouveaux types de récit, comme par exemple la
narration par liste ou la narration non-séquentielle–on pense ici à la
notion de « database narrative » lancée par Manovich (2000), puis re-
prise et nuancée par Hayles (2007).
En résumé, les premières analyses de la bande dessinée abstraite dé-
montrent avec force que le rapport entre figuration et abstraction ou
action et inaction ne peut être pensé sur le mode de l’exclusivité. Les
deux catégories sont imbriquées, aussi bien à l’intérieur des images que
dans les juxtapositions ou enchaînements qui en déterminent l’arran-
gement. WREK, une des nombreuses collaborations du graveur Olivier
Deprez et de l’auteur et comédien Miles O’Shea (Deprez, O’Shea et
Penhouët 2015), ici en étroite complicité avec la jeune artiste Marine
Penhouët, responsable entre autres de l’ordre paginal et d’autres inter-
ventions plastiques, permettra d’illustrer quelques aspects clé de cette
nouvelle problématique, préparée entre autres par des bandes dessinées
du seul Olivier Deprez, dont Lenin Kino (Baetens 2011) et d’autres
travaux à quatre mains, dont la création multimédia BlackBookBlack
(Baetens 2013).

Figuration « X » Abstraction

Lire WREK–on reviendra sur le mot-titre–c’est d’abord s’exposer à un
choc violent entre l’abstraction la plus complète, le noir intégral, et une
série d’images extraites d’une tradition populaire tout à fait figurative :
la bande dessinée américaine, et en l’occurrence Nancy, personnage
créé par Ernie Bushmiller en 1933. La page de couverture de WREK est

235
un aplat noir sans la moindre irrégularité ni nuance : non pas une pâte de peinture éten-
due, écrasée, étalée sur la toile qui reste présente sous la couleur, mais un noir d’encre
très dense sur un papier couché très mince, presque immatériel. Quant à l’intérieur,
également mince en dépit de ses vingt pages, il se voit occupé par des images inspirées
de Bushmiller qui nous sont parvenues à travers un intertexte touffu. WREK offre l’his-
toire d’une enfant pas trop sage (« naughty » pourrait se traduire par « vilain », avec dans
certains contextes la connotation supplémentaire de « grivois »), personnage inventé en
écho et hommage à tant d’autres enfants de la rue dont raffolait la première bande des-
sinée américaine depuis le Yellow Kid. Pour s’en convaincre, il suffit de jeter un coup
d’œil à l’anthologie personnelle réunie par Art Spiegelman dans la seconde moitié d’À
l’ombre des tours mortes, livre qui réserve aussi une place d’honneur à la Nancy de Bush-
miller (Spiegelman 2004). La culture visuelle du XXe siècle se souviendra diversement
de Nancy, à la fois à l’intérieur de la bande dessinée (la petite Malfalda de Quino en
est une sosie moderne, il est vrai moins vilaine que revue, nouvelle sensibilité politique
incluse, à la lumière des Peanuts) et dans le monde de l’art et du design, souvent avec des
accents surérotisés (pas tellement dans les sérigraphies de Warhol, mais à coup sûr dans
le fréquent réemploi de Nancy et de ses copains dans les détournements des pulps).4
Olivier Deprez et Miles O’Shea s’inscrivent dans cette tradition du « naughty » tout en
la poussant à son paroxysme. Ils exhibent en effet la double dimension de la mort et
du sexe que ce paradigme convoque et refoule en même temps. Dans WREK, Nancy et
son ami Sluggo Smith assistent à une scène de pendaison, que l’on pourrait entendre
aussi comme une scène de décapitation, tandis que la double page interne du fascicule
est un insert « X » qui met en scène Blanche-Neige et les Sept Nains dans les positions
prototypiques du film pornographique.
Que signifie ce mélange pour le moins impur, si ce n’est, dans un premier temps du
moins, la dichotomie absolue du plastique et de l’iconique, les deux pôles que réunit
paradoxalement leur conflit irréconciliable. Il est difficile de proposer un cadre plus
abstrait que la couverture absolument noire du livre, qui résiste à toute forme de récu-
pération–d’où notamment l’absence de toute inscription paratextuelle (les première et
quatrième de couverture sont vierges de toute mention), puis aussi de toute épaisseur
(le fascicule est si mince qu’il paraît fait d’une feuille unique, pure étendue où n’a
lieu que la non-couleur du noir). Et il est plus difficile encore d’imaginer une suite
de dessins et de gravures qui empêchent aussi rudement toute récupération formelle
ou formaliste. Le contenu des dessins est si violent que leur sens, quand bien même il
reste opaque, ne se laisse jamais réduire à un jeu de lignes et de couleurs. Dans WREK
la figuration autant que l’abstraction sont radicalement autres parce que radicalement
identiques. La première ne fait que représenter, la seconde ne fait que s’auto-présenter :
différence absolue, qui devient possible parce que les deux régimes sont employés de
manière littérale. L’abstraction est ultra-abstraite ; la figuration, hyperfigurative.

4  À titre d’exemple 
: http://accelerateddecrepitude.blogspot.be/2009/03/naughty-nights-
tand-novels.html.

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Le clash initial de l’abstrait et du figuratif est posé dès le seuil du livre,
tel le cadre conceptuel à l’intérieur duquel la lecture est appelée à se dé-
ployer. Elle se maintient aussi tout au long de ses multiples trajectoires.
Lorsque Nancy et Sluggo passent à l’action, sans qu’on sache très bien
en quoi elle consiste, l’abstraction n’est jamais complètement absorbée
par leur entrée en fiction. Loin d’assimiler à son profit la matérialité de
l’encre ou de la confiner aux marges du fascicule, le récit se voit comme
étouffé–durablement. Par ses auteurs WREK est qualifiée d’« histoire
en éclats », et ici encore il convient de prendre la formule au pied de
la lettre. L’œuvre n’est pas une mosaïque, ce « tout en morceaux » où
les fragments finissent par composer une figure d’ensemble (Belloï et
Delville 2007). Elle est une suite discontinue de fractions, un ensemble
qui n’en est pas un et dont les pièces, pourtant prélevées du même
univers, ne s’ajointent plus harmonieusement les unes aux autres. La
disjonction l’emporte sur le rassemblement. L’inévitable effet de suture
entre deux fragments qui se suivent ou se jouxtent dans un livre n’est
plus capable de parer aux ruptures de ton, de thème, de rythme, d’un
« éclat » à l’autre. Ou si l’on préfère : la « closure » est moins forte que
le « breakdown », si l’on emprunte la terminologie de Charles Hatfield
(2005), bien connue des spécialistes de la bande dessinée, qui doivent
y retrouver une double allusion à Scott McCloud (1993), puis à Art
Spiegelman (2008).
Il serait caricatural de proposer une lecture destinée à remplir les vides
entre les dessins. Loin d’être l’adjuvant d’une réception narrative des
images, la « gouttière », la passerelle qui aide à passer sans heurts d’une
case à l’autre, est dans WREK un instrument antinarratif. Elle ne pointe
pas vers ce qui manque aux dessins pour se convertir en séquence nar-
rative. Elle affiche au contraire la difficulté de relier les images entre
elles. Elle constitue vraiment un vide, un écueil impossible à franchir.
Dans cette stratégie antinarrative, le dysfonctionnement de la gout-
tière n’est pas seul à jouer. D’autres techniques interviennent aussi, qui
assurent ou renforcent l’évitement du récit. Parmi elles, la mesure la
plus radicale est sans doute le bizarre corps étranger au milieu du livre,
qui apparaît là où l’objet WREK fait pli. Cette double page à tonalité
pornographique est certes une illustration du champ sémantique du
« naughty », mais la mise ensemble de Blanche-Neige et des Sept Nains
d’un côté et de Nancy et Sluggo de l’autre demeure comme impéné-
trable. En effet, loin de fonctionner comme une mise en abyme du
livre, le détail central éclairant le tout qui l’accueille, ces deux pages
sont un exemple de montage « pur », générant des hypothèses et des
interprétations qui ne déposent jamais en signification solide. Le chan-
gement de couleur dans cet insert, le fond de l’image passant tout à

237
coup du blanc au jaune, est l’indice ultime de son caractère rebelle : l’image pornogra-
phique fait tache, elle n’est pas tout simplement la révélation du non-dit des images
apparemment plus innocentes ou plus enfantines de Bushmiller.
Mais s’il ne réfléchit pas l’ensemble de WREK, le corps étranger au milieu du fascicule se
réfléchit parfaitement lui-même. La double page en question est construite en miroir, le
dessin de la page droite répète littéralement, par une inversion complète, le dessin de la
page de gauche. Cette structure n’est pas mise au service d’un dessein narratif. Elle di-
vise le livre en deux moitiés qui par là même paraissent symétriques. Cependant, toute
tentative de lire l’amont et l’aval de WREK sur le mode palindromique, par exemple,
tourne vite court. Les « éclats » continuent à l’emporter sur l’« histoire ».
Il serait prématuré d’en conclure que la double page centrale sert avant tout à décevoir
ou, plus exactement, à frustrer les attentes du lecteur. De manière de nouveau très
littérale, la technique de l’inversion dénote un autre aspect clé de WREK : non pas le ré-
cit–comme on l’a vu, la fiction racontée ne compte qu’à peine : c’est une liste de thèmes,
non une véritable séquence–mais la matérialité de sa genèse–en l’occurrence la matéria-
lité du contact de la gravure encrée et de la feuille d’impression. Cette leçon technique
pose de nouvelles balises à l’interprète. Tout comme les deux pages centrales naissent
au contact l’une de l’autre, sans qu’on sache laquelle suit ou précède l’autre, les feuillets
du livre se manifestent comme le résultat d’une panoplie de formes de noircissement :
crayonnages, esquisses, griffonnages, incises, impression… Tout se passe un peu comme
si le monde fictionnel de WREK était d’abord un prétexte à décliner tous les possibles
du paradigme. Comme si le véritable récit de l’œuvre était l’alignement de ces possibles,
qui nous fait ressentir à tout moment le chemin du trait à la gravure, de l’entaille au
remplissage, littéralement et dans tous les sens. Car WREK n’est pas l’équivalent expé-
rimental d’un manuel ou d’un autocommentaire didactique (« Comment faire un livre,
de l’idée à la réalisation »). On saute sans arrêt d’une étape de la genèse et de la produc-
tion à l’autre, dans un désordre très voulu que renforcent aussi les écarts matériels du
texte et de l’image. Dans WREK, traces linguistiques et inscriptions visuelles n’évoluent
pas au même rythme–quand les unes tendent vers la précision, les autres se disloquent,
ou inversement–et leur union peut être rompue à tout moment. Ce manque de sy-
métrie est d’autant plus voyant que l’écrit n’échappe en rien aux manipulations de la
matière visuelle. À l’instar des dessins qui oscillent entre brouillon et produit achevé ou
encore entre reproduction à l’endroit et à l’envers, les mots dérivent parfois en direction
de la tache, de la pure matière plastique, s’ils ne se donnent pas à lire eux aussi à l’envers.
C’est dire combien les mots aussi peuvent se rapprocher de l’abstraction et combien le
noir des lettres est toujours sur le point de se noyer dans des zones d’encre plus obscures.

Genèse de l’abstraction
Dans WREK l’insistance sur la genèse de l’œuvre touche aussi à la question de l’abs-
traction. Celle-ci n’est pas désignée comme l’opposé du figuratif ou de l’iconique. Rien
d’étonnant dès lors qu’on le retrouve aussi comme un objet interne au monde de la fic-

238
tion. Cependant, la manière dont elle y figure en fait non pas un objet
ou un état, mais un processus, un devenir. On voit par exemple com-
ment Sluggo couvre un tableau de peinture noire jusqu’à en faire un
rectangle entièrement monochrome dont on suit les aventures–accro-
chages et décrochages successifs–dans les dernières pages du fascicule.
Ces aléas d’un tableau « noir sur blanc », peuvent-ils être lus comme
une image du travail d’Olivier Deprez et Miles O’Shea ? Sans aucun
doute, mais l’observation est trop banale pour qu’on s’y attarde trop
longtemps. Dans une large mesure, elle est même fausse, puisqu’elle
néglige les variations de la matière. Car là où Sluggo peint, Deprez et
O’Shea écrivent, dessinent, gravent, impriment. Mais quelque chose
de plus essentiel émerge dans cette thématisation de la peinture noire
finissant par faire tableau : le passage du produit à la production, c’est-
à-dire du motif au processus, au temps, au rythme.
Traditionnellement, l’analyse du temps s’opère selon trois axes, qu’on
a pris coutume, depuis Figures III de Gérard Genette (1972), de nom-
mer ordre, fréquence et rythme. Soit : dans quel ordre les événements
de l’histoire sont-ils représentés dans le discours narratif ? Combien de
fois ces événements sont-ils racontés ? Et selon quel régime rythmique,
de ralentissement ou d’accélération, apparaissent-ils dans le discours ?
De ces trois aspects temporels, la vitesse du récit et les questions de
rythme sous-jacent bénéficient en général de moins d’attention que la
fréquence et, surtout, d’ordre–la question qui se taille presque toujours
la part du lion. Est-ce à dire que le rythme est un paramètre margi-
nal ? Pas du tout. Mais à la différence de l’ordre et de la fréquence,
son appréciation dépend souvent d’élément très subjectifs qu’il est plus
délicat de formaliser que les observations relatives à l’ordre ou à la fré-
quence (Baetens et Hume 2006, Baetens 2015).
Dans le corpus de la bande dessinée abstraite, la situation est tout
autre. En l’absence d’une histoire ou d’un récit proprement dits, il est
moins aisé d’aborder les transformations matérielles du point de vue de
l’ordre narratif, tandis que fréquence et davantage encore rythme s’im-
posent d’emblée à l’attention. À suivre les analyses d’Andrei Molotiu,
le rythme de l’œuvre serait même ce qui tient lieu de véritable récit. Ce
sont en effet les modulations de vitesse tout comme les changements
de rythme qui créent la tension particulière que nos attentes cultu-
relles, toujours assoiffées de récit, sont tentées d’interpréter en termes
narratifs.
Mais que se passe-t-il dans une œuvre comme WREK, qui renouvelle la
discussion sur la bande dessinée abstraite par le mélange non réconcilié
d’éléments abstraits et de fragments narratifs ? Un récit et une histoire

239
sont là, c’est évident, au moins de manière inchoative. Seulement, on ne sait pas trop
comment les configurer pour en faire de vraies structures narratives. L’histoire proposée
reste fatalement « en éclats », on n’arrive pas à franchir le seuil du récit même minimal,
puisque chaque nouvelle cellule détruit autant qu’elle façonne la cohésion supposée
du déjà lu. D’une part, WREK n’est pas une œuvre où l’on est invité à « traduire » un
jeu formel, par exemple celui du noir et blanc, en motifs, en thèmes, et finalement en
séquence narrative, pour la bonne et simple raison que cette traduction est déjà faite
par les auteurs mêmes : il y a des personnages, il y a un décor, il y a des événements,
tantôt futiles, tantôt graves. D’autre part, si la matérialité de WREK ne doit plus être
allégorisée, il est tout aussi problématique de trouver une véritable signification aux
cellules thématiques ou aux cases narratives de l’œuvre. Alors que tous les ingrédients
pour faire récit sont bel et bien en place, l’histoire ne « prend » pas. Et bien entendu c’est
cela justement qu’il convient d’interroger : le blocage narratif de la figuration qui est là
uniquement pour faire comprendre que les images visent moins à faire naître un récit
qu’à rendre sensibles un rythme, une réflexion sur la genèse de l’œuvre, une traversée
parfois brutale d’associations d’idées. WREK s’insinue comme un récit vraiment abs-
trait : un paradoxe rare, sans doute, mais tenu ici d’un bout à l’autre du fascicule, puis
maintenant au-delà des diverses relectures.

Retour au titre
Dans une œuvre abstraite–film, tableau, bande dessinée–l’écart est souvent net et tou-
jours hautement problématique entre l’œuvre (abstraite) et son péritexte (figuratif ).
Donner à une peinture abstraite un titre comme « La création du monde », « Venise,
7 juin 1916 » ou « Tendresse naissante » est un geste anodin, mais de grande portée : le
titre normalise, c’est-à-dire annule l’œuvre. Quant aux pis-aller que sont les variations
de type « Sans titre » ou « Composition n° 17 », ils ont perdu beaucoup de leur force et
ne font que déplacer l’attention de l’œuvre à l’artiste, ce qui n’est guère plus satisfaisant,
du moins du point de vue de l’abstraction.
WREK est, de ce point de vue également, un titre à la fois habile et approprié. D’une part,
le mot est sans dénotation, mais il connote richement, notamment par langues étran-
gères interposées. Les anglophones, comme Miles O’Shea par exemple, y entendront
peut-être une allusion à wrecking ball (« boule de destruction »). Les néerlandophones
et, plus généralement, les Belges, comme Olivier Deprez, peuvent y retrouver une dé-
formation de wrak (« épave »)5 ou une anagramme de werk (« travail »). Bref, le mot-titre
WREK préfigure à merveille, non pas la tension entre figuration et abstraction à l’in-
térieur du livre, mais la coïncidence ou le chevauchement de ces deux modes. D’autre
part, le mot WREK est traité par les auteurs comme un pur objet typographique, c’est-
à-dire comme une configuration de caractères susceptible de basculer vers l’icône, un
peu comme dans les signes entretissés de la NRf ou les lettres ornées symbolisant une
5  Sans vouloir exagérer (mais au fond exagère-t-on jamais assez face à ce type d’œuvres ?) il
n’est pas interdit d’y sous-entendre même une petite allusion à « wrakhout » (« bois d’épave » ou
« bois flottant »), ce qui permet de fusionner le titre de l’œuvre et la technique utilisée…

240
marque d’imprimerie, selon une coutume qui remonte à la Renaissance
déjà. Les quatre lettres de WREK apparaissent dans une composition
faite de rectangles emboités, qui met en valeur un grand nombre de
propriétés matérielles du mot-titre. 1) La couleur : le contraste du blanc
et du noir (lettres blanches sur fond noir, carrés noirs encadrés de
blanc) est la première occurrence d’une couleur autre que le noir et
rompt le noir monochrome de la première et la deuxième de couver-
ture. 2) La taille : les lettres de WREK occupent presque toute la page
et ce faisant elles ne constituent pas un simple logo ou un titre, mais
s’imposent au contraire comme une sorte d’illustration. 3) L’emplace-
ment dans le livre : qu’elles soient titre ou illustration (mais en fait les
deux en même temps) focalise le regard sur le « vide » de la première
de couverture, non pas vierge de couleur, mais vide d’illustration aussi
bien que de titre. Ainsi le mot WREK conduit à une interrogation sur
les limites de l’œuvre et la distinction entre intérieur et extérieur, tout
en activant le sens littéral de ce qu’est une « couverture » de livre (qui en
l’occurrence n’est « rien que ça »). 4) L’ordre des lettres : l’arrangement
des caractères se fait en carré, ce qui casse la lecture linéaire ; en l’ab-
sence d’une signification immédiate de « wrek », qui pourrait suggérer
un sens de la lecture « naturel », il est possible de lire d’au moins deux
manières, soit horizontalement, ligne par ligne : « WR/EK », soit ver-
ticalement, colonne par colonne : « WE/RK ». 5) Le tracé des lettres et
des cadres, tantôt visiblement manuel, pour ce qui est des lettres et des
cadres internes, tantôt machinal, massicoté, le bord externe de la figure
incluant les quatre lettres étant aussi droit et pur que celui de la page
qui l’accueille.
En résumé, WREK apparaît de tous points de vue comme une œuvre
exemplaire. D’une part en raison de ses propriétés intrinsèques, qui en
font un objet ouvert à de nombreuses relectures et garant de multiples
surprises. D’autre part à cause de sa position stratégique dans l’his-
toire de la bande dessinée abstraite. Le travail d’Olivier Deprez et Miles
O’Shea excède la visée « négative » des premières tentatives abstraites,
qui ne retrouvent la narration qu’après avoir rejeté la figuration. WREK
est une œuvre d’emblée abstraite et figurative, qui ne cherche pas à
raconter en dépit de sa non-figuration, mais à interroger le récit même.
C’est là une avancée dont l’importance mérite d’être soulignée.

241
Références
Baetens, Jan. 2011. “Abstraction in Comics.” SubStance 40 (1) : 94-113.
–––. 2013. “Light in Black: On Olivier Deprez’ BlackBookkBlack.” Dans Light Image Imagi-
nation. Sous la direction de Martha Blassnigg, Hanna Schimek et Gustav Deutsch,
221-35. Amsterdam : Amsterdam University Press.
–––. 2015. “Adapting and Displaying Multiple Temporalities: What Became of Trollope’s John
Caldigate and Maupassant’s Boule de Suif in Simon Grennan (Dispossession) and Batta-
glia (Contes et nouvelles de guerre).” Dans Transforming Anthony Trollope. Dispossession,
Victorianism and Nineteenth-Century Word and Image. Sous la direction de Lawrence
Grove et Simon Grennan, 15-32. Leuven : Leuven University Press.
Baetens, Jan et Kathryn Hume. 2006. “Speed, Rhythm, Movement : A Dialogue on K. Hume’s
Article ‘Narrative Speed.’” Narrative 14 (3) : 351-57.
Bayard, Pierre. 1996. Le Hors-sujet. Proust et la digression. Paris : Minuit.
Belloï Livio et Michel Delville, dir. 2007. L’œuvre en morceaux. Esthétiques de la mosaïque.
Bruxelles : Les Impressions Nouvelles.
Boillat, Alain. 2014. Cinéma, machine à monde. Essai sur les films à univers multiples. Lausanne :
Georg.
Deprez, Olivier. 2009. Lenin Kino. Bruxelles : FRMK.
Deprez, Olivier et Miles O’Shea. 2008. BlackBookBlack. Bruxelles : FRMK.
Deprez, Olivier, Miles O’Shea, et Marine Penhouët. 2015. WREK. The Naughty Girl & The
Naughty Boy. Bruxelles : Le Kabinet.
Genette, Gérard. 1972. Figures III. Paris : Seuil.
Groupe µ. 1993. Traité du signe visuel. Paris : Seuil.
Hatfield, Charles. 2005. Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature. Jackson : University Press
of Mississippi.
Hayles, N. Katherine. 2007. “Narrative and Database: Natural Symbionts.” PMLA 122 (5) :
1603-8.
Jenkins, Henry. 2006. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York : New
York University Press.
Manovich, Lev. 2000. The Language of New Media. Cambridge, Mass. : MIT Press.
McCloud, Scott. 1993. Understanding Comics : The Invisible Art. Northampton, Mass. : Kitchen
Sink Press.
Molotiu, Andrei, dir. 2009. Abstract Comics. Seattle : Fantagraphics.
Spiegelman, Art. 2004. À l’ombre des tours mortes. Paris : Casterman.
–––. [1983] 2008. Breakdowns: Portrait of the Artist as a Young %@&*!. New York : Pantheon.
Wertham, Fredric. 1954. Seduction of the Innocent. New York : Rinehart and Cie.
Wolk, Douglas. 2009. « Comics ». The New York Times, December 6, sec. Sunday Book Review.

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Abstracted Narration and Narrative
Abstraction: Forms of Interplay between
Narration and Abstraction in Comics
Kai Mikkonen

The phrase ‘abstract comics’ has been used as an umbrella term for
different kinds of comic art that do not portray recognizable objects,
characters, situations or milieux. Much attention has been given to the
non-narrative aspect of abstract comics, that is, the lack of narrative
potential (or narrativity), as well as the anti-narrative aspect, the resis-
tance to narrative form and coherence. For instance, there is Andrei
Molotiu’s much-referenced formulation which emphasizes, first and
foremost, that abstract comics lack narrative sense and coherence. Mo-
lotiu defines abstract comics as sequential art that consists “exclusively
of abstract imagery” (2009), in line with conventional definitions of
the rather vague notion of abstract art. Yet, he then states that abstract
comics can, in fact, contain some representational elements, “as long
as those elements do not cohere into a narrative or even into a unified
narrative space” (ibid.).
The emphasis on the question of narration in Molotiu’s definition has
not gone unnoticed by comics scholars and theorists. Jan Baetens has
discussed the qualities of the notion of abstraction in comics from
the viewpoint of narrative analysis and argues that the non-abstract
needs to be split into two categories: the ‘figurative’ or ‘representa-
tional’ on the one hand, and the ‘narrative’ on the other (2011, 95,
101; 2015).1 Consequently, the non-figurative in comics can be evalu-
ated in terms of the single abstract image or panel that lacks figuration,
while the non-narrative–the absence of sufficient narrative potential or
overreaching narrative sequence2–needs to be evaluated in relation to
a larger sequence or the work as a whole. In this model, furthermore,
abstraction in comics remains in dialectical tension with these two op-
posites: the abstract panel image and the abstract image sequence.
1 Similarly, Jean-Christophe Menu has pointed out in his dissertation, La
bande dessinée et son double (2011, 409-10), that there are two basic ten-
dencies in abstract comics. First, they can retain a certain level of figuration,
that is, a sense of recognizable figures, while abandoning any sense of narra-
tive linearity and continuity (similar to Scott McCloud’s category of non sequitor
in his taxonomy of panel relations). Second, abstract comics can seek to elim-
inate all representation and figuration, yet continue to narrate using abstract
figures and images.
2  We could also speak of the lack of narrativity. ‘Narrativity’ is a relative term
that refers, in narratology, to the set of formal and contextual properties char-
acterising narrative; those features in a (narrative) text, document or work of
art that make it more or less narrative (Prince 2003, 65).

263
Thierry Groensteen, by contrast, has reserved the term abstract comic, in the strict
sense, for those comics where the drawings are non-figurative while assigning those
comics that lack narrative coherence to the large category of primary distributive func-
tions of panels, or what he calls infra-narrative comics (rather than including them as
abstract comics).3
The distinction between abstract image and abstract sequence can help us to specify
what we mean by abstract comics, and differentiate between the main uses of the term,
but it also opens up new questions about the relationship between abstraction and
narration. One difficulty with focusing on abstraction at the level of the image is that
it may be possible to identify different kinds of abstraction here. These range from an
abstract figure, caricature or style–as in the wooden blockhead of Ernest Riebe’s Mr.
Block (created in 1912) or Gary Panter’s character Valise in Jimbo’s Inferno (2006)–a
technique of abstraction (a distortion of an originally figurative or narrative image),4 to
an abstract panel image as a whole (as is the case with many works included in Molotiu’s
anthology). In other words, abstraction at the level of the image can be evaluated as a
component of the image, but also in terms of the panel as an undivided visual field or
a kind of abstract painting on its own.
Moreover, what counts as figurative representation in comics needs to be evaluated in
relation to the visual conventions of the art form. For instance, certain forms of sim-
plification and exaggeration through caricature in comics may be easily perceived as
abstractions in other contexts.5 This not only concerns the way the figures are drawn,
but also the background fields and other visual features of the composition. Images in
comics are also highly flexible in their depiction of the third dimension (depth), or lack
of it, without this having any necessary effect on their narrativity. The use of two-di-
mensional surfaces, including text or a plain ‘abstract’ background behind the figures,
are common conventions that do not undermine the sense of a narrative world. This
flexibility is preconditioned by the dual relation that each panel has with the story–the
expectation of a three-dimensional, fictional space–and the page layout that integrates
the panels in a continuous two-dimensional whole.6 What counts as an abstract image,

3  Groensteen’s ‘infra-narrative’ comics is a wide-ranging category of pre-narrative and pre-log-

ical distributive functions of the panels on the same page, such as amalgam (a collection of dif-
ferent images without any clear connection), inventory, variation, inflection, and decomposition,
as well as seriation and fragmentation (2011, 16).
4  Groensteen distinguishes between ‘indigenous’ abstraction and abstractions that are achieved
by operations such as erasure, blurring, or covering over an image that was initially figurative
(2011, 13).
5  For example, in gallery art that uses comics. Caricature can occur with or give way to ab-
straction in comics, but it is not helpful to treat all conventional and arbitrary signs in comics
as abstractions, in the sense that McCloud defines ‘iconic’ (representational) and ‘non-iconic’
(non-representational) abstraction for instance. The reductions, simplifications and exaggerations
of caricature, or what McCloud calls ‘iconic abstraction,’ contrast with pictorial realism–the level
of specificity and detail, for example–rather than figuration or representation. Hannah Miodrag
points out that the issues of abstraction and arbitrariness are often confused in comics criticism
(2013, 181-2). Nevertheless, it should also be noted that the kinds of arbitrariness that are com-
mon in figuration in comics also influence our evaluation of what counts as an abstract comic.
6  See also Fresnault-Deruelle (1976, 17) on the relationship between story and page layout.

264
then, to some extent depends on the visual medium in which it is
deployed.
Another problem in splitting abstraction in comics into two catego-
ries–the panel and the sequence–and associating the latter with the
non-narrative, is that the non-narrative is a highly versatile category in
itself. Besides abstraction, narrative comics have many other non-nar-
rative elements with which they may establish meaningful forms of
interplay. Such frontiers of narrative include the text types of descrip-
tion, exposition and argumentation.7 Strictly non-narrative comics are
rare, but pedagogical and instructive comics, along the lines of Larry
Gonick’s The Cartoon History of the Universe (1990-2009), as well as
political and propagandistic comics, follow an argumentative, infor-
mative or documentary purpose rather than a storytelling purpose.8
Moreover, so-called abstract comics are not the only form of comics
that have the potential to challenge narrative expectations or the read-
er’s sequential reading habits. Comics poetry and gallery comics, i.e.,
comics meant to be viewed in an exhibition space, can make visible
certain non-narrative elements that are sometimes overlooked in more
traditional narrative comics, such as the painterly aspects of individual
panels, or the materiality of the image and the page. The art gallery
context, where you can see the whole work on the wall for instance,
also influences the way in which a comic is perceived. Here, comics
can be viewed more as paintings or art works than as arrangements of
panels to be read in a particular order in book format.9
Given that many types of poetry are not narrative in nature, comics
poetry or lyrical comics constitute another departure from narrative
comics that may highlight, for instance, the conceptual qualities in the
text and image relationship.10 Popular comic strips, especially humour
and gag comics, also often lack the characteristics of an overall narra-
tive. The Peanuts strips, for instance, typically build their humour on
situations, juxtapositions between the main characters, discrepancies

7  For a thorough discussion of the linguistic categories of various text types

see Aumüller 2014.
8  Description, exposition and argumentation can also be studied as aspects
of narrative comics rather than as separate non-narrative types of comics.
See Cates 2010 on the metaphorical, metatextual, thematic and symbolic
juxtapositions in the diagram form in Chris Ware’s work and elsewhere. As
will become clear in this article, I disagree with Thierry Groensteen’s point in
“Narration as Supplement” ([1988] 2014) that the hypothesis of non-narrative
comics is only fertile “on a purely theoretical level” (2014, 165).
9  See also Groensteen (2011, 12) on the meaning of such viewing contexts.
10  If we define abstract comics mainly in terms of the non-narrative, there is
bound to be much overlap, and also potential confusion, with the category of
‘comics poetry’ (or ‘poetry comics’). See, for instance, the works included in
Comics as Poetry (Einspruch 2012).

265
between what is said and what is seen, metaphoric associations, puns, and dialogue
scenes. Their situations may have narrative potential, but they serve a purpose other
than storytelling: to make a humorous point, for instance, or to describe an incident in
a character’s everyday life. Similarly, autobiographical diary strips may focus on separate
incidents, where the main purpose is to convey a thought, an emotion, an experience or
a perspective, rather than tell a story.11
Yet another problem in associating abstract comics closely with the category of the
non-narrative is that many of them are not always particularly engaged with the ques-
tion of narration. Derik Badman’s redrawing of a selection of panels from Jesse Marsh’s
“Tarzan and the Flying Chief ” (Tarzan Comic, 1950) as “Flying Chief,” where the
backgrounds of the drawings are transformed into abstract shapes, clearly undermines
narrative expectations and meanings. Badman’s redrawing rejects various key features of
narrative in this medium: character development, the unity of scene and location, the
illusion of three-dimensional space, the sense of an event, continuing action, dialogue,
verbal narration, and the impression of temporal continuity from one panel to another.
However, other abstract comics, and several that are included in Molotiu’s Abstract
Comics, are not focused on narrative devices and expectations, or on the distortion of
the narrative dimension of existing comics. Instead, they may explore visual or spatial
conventions and qualities of comics for their own sake, focusing for instance on the
formal aspects of the layout, the frame, the speech balloon, or the rhythm of read-
ing. Furthermore, many abstract comics may also be perceived as telling a story with
abstract shapes and images.12 For instance, in the comics of Janusz Jaworski, Roman
Schaub and Warren Craghead III–all included in Abstract Comics–both narrative and
non-narrative readings are possible at the same time.13 Whether we wish to see them as
narratives, then, is our choice as readers.
By limiting the concept of abstraction to non-figurative images in comics, we may be
able to avoid some of these conceptual problems, such as imposing narrative form and
coherence on all abstract comics. However, the idea of abstract sequence is useful in
narrative analysis in that it allows us to investigate the interaction between narration
and abstraction in a great variety of examples, in particular in comics that only make
limited, strategic use of abstraction.
11  Experientiality is indicative of narrativity for most narratologists today, but the representation
of personal experience does not have to assume a narrative form. See, for instance, Cates (2011,
214-16), who discusses James Kochalka’s daily diary strip American Elf.
12 Despite his rather generalized claim that the relationship between abstraction and narra-
tive is that of active conflict, Jan Baetens does not conceive narration and abstraction as polar
opposites. On the contrary, he argues that “the link between abstraction and non-narrative is
less automatic than is usually presumed” (2015, 183), and refers to the possibility of “abstract
storytelling,” that is, storytelling with the help of abstract panels. Elsewhere, Baetens has also
emphasized that abstract elements can play a narrative role as they highlight an enigma that has
to be solved (2011, 106), while the non-narrative blocking of sequentially arranged pictures may
also better focus the reader’s attention on each separate image, page, and double-page spread
‘“as a story in itself” (2009, 283).
13  We may, for instance, narrativize the transformations of some visual form or shape, as do
Menu and Groensteen in relation to the treatment of the object (little drawn trace) in Alex Baladi’s
work Petit Trait (2008), as a story or an adventure (Menu 2011, 411; Groensteen 2011, 10).

266
In what follows, I will examine the relationship between narrative
comics and abstraction from a narratological perspective by briefly an-
alysing three representative cases of such interplay. First, I will read a
popular comic strip series for abstraction, where narrative is conceived
as a dynamic event that must move forward.14 Despite the irresistible
sense of narrative development in the story arcs of Tove and Lars Jans-
son’s Moomin strip (1954-59),15 the series includes certain elements,
such as the representational use of framing, which thematize the act
and process of narration and playfully investigate the relationship
between the space of the page and that of story.16 These elements trans-
form abstract building blocks that structure the comic strip’s narrative
surface into parts of the story. Reading for abstraction highlights the
interplay between narrative space and the space of the page, and be-
tween image foreground and background, rather than undermining
the narrative meaning or order of the story.
Second, I will discuss the narrative function of abstract and non-fig-
urative images in an otherwise figurative comic, focusing on
characterization and a key scene in Brecht Evens’s 2014 graphic novel
Panthère (Panther). The characters’ de- and re-materialization in the
abstract panels of this story, and the abstracted key sequence, serve the
narrative by expanding interpretive possibilities. Abstraction here cre-
ates and enhances narrative tension, that is, the interest in the events
and perspectives of the story.
Third, I will read an abstract comic for narration, discussing the in-
terrelations between figuration, abstraction and narrative in Niklaus
Rüegg’s SPUK (2004), an abstract comic that works at the level of
the non-narrative sequence (abstract sequences and panel relations).
Devoid of events, characters, voice and subjective perspective, SPUK
lacks sufficient narrative coherence between its panels. At the same
time, however, the absence of narrative, underscored by the fact that
the work is a redrawing of four Disney comics, enjoys a privileged
position in the work. The relationship between the title of the work
and the image sequence further contributes to the effect of narrative
jamming, that is, the continuous raising and undermining of narrative
expectations.
The following readings will suggest that abstraction and narration re-
late to each other along a wide scale of options in the medium of
14  See James Phelan’s definition of “narrative progression” (2002, 211).
15  Lars Jansson continued the series on his own from 1960 to 1975.
16 They can thus be conceived as metanarrative elements, like comments
and expressions that are concerned with the act and/or process of narration,
in the sense that Ansgar Nünning (2004) and Monika Fludernik (2003) define
the term.

267
comics. I will expand upon and qualify the distinction between an abstract image and
abstract sequence in two important ways. First, abstraction in comics can be evaluated
in relation to other formal elements of the work beyond the panel and the sequence,
such as characterization and page layout, and the relationship between the work’s title
and the contents. Secondly, the abstract elements need to be considered in relation to
the work as a whole, thereby raising the question as to whether the work is expected to
be read as a narrative or not.

Considering Abstract Elements:

Frames in the Moomin Comic Strips
In the first Moomin comic strip series that Tove and Lars Jansson drew for London’s
The Evening News in 1954, Moomin and the Brigands, Moomin and his friend Sniff
accidently create a modern abstract painting and a sculpture by pasting together pieces
from works of art broken by a jealous ghost. Sniff, who decides that he wants to get
rich with ‘modern art,’ suggests that he and Moomin take one of these works, a Cubist
sculpture of a female figure, which used to be a Classical Rebecca sculpture (the biblical
figure), to a local art gallery. At the gallery, they sell the sculpture for a hefty sum. Most
of the profit, however, goes to the pockets of the art dealer, who charges an outrageous
fee and gallery costs. Sniff then tries to convince Moomin to create more money-mak-
ing modern art, join the modern art scene, and wear a velvet beret. Moomin is not at
all interested in becoming rich and famous and throws himself in protest over a cliff,
declaring dramatically, as he sometimes does, “I only want to live in peace, plant pota-
toes and dream!”
The contrast between the narrative art of the comic strip and the Cubist or non-figurative
works of visual art in this story arc complements Tove and Lars Jansson’s good-natured
mockery of the self-importance of modern artists and greed of art dealers. However,
the butt of the joke is not modern abstract art, even if it is implied that you can just
assemble it on a whim; it is the commercialization of art that is the real target. Both
Sniff and the art dealer use the catch phrase ‘modern art’ as a selling point. Moomin is
not necessarily unrealistic in his vehement rejection of money-making as Sniff believes,
but holds other, uncompromising views. The passage reveals Moomin’s resistance to
materialism and conformism, as well as his romanticism–he explains that he does not
feel particularly artistic, but could do “something romantic”–in contrast to what Sniff
calls “baffling, bewildering” modern art. For Sniff, the notion of “looking reality in the
face” simply means making a profit.
At the same time, the passage is indicative of Tove and Lars Jansson’s personal engage-
ment with the conventions of the comic strip as a form of artistic experimentation.
This especially involves a focus on the frames of the strip sequence as fundamental to
the composition. The expressive and narrative uses of the frames between the panels,
echoing the contents of the strip, were an ongoing feature in the Moomin strip series

268
throughout the decades of its existence. In the passage about modern
art in Moomin and the Brigands, the device of the representative frame
is employed even more frequently than usual. More than half of the
frames in this passage are images that represent something: a broken
broom, paintbrushes, a door, and laurel leaves.17 Thus, the frame lines
function as metaphors of the milieu of the story, or the evolving theme
in these strips, such as modern visual art and artists. However, the
frames also depict objects that could be found–and in some cases are
also clearly present–in the scenes of the story. Thus, by turning the ab-
stract form of the panel frame into an image, the objects as frames (or
frames as objects) make visible the auxiliary force of the gaps between
the panels in the sequential arrangement of the strips.
The image frames in the Moomin series sometimes function in close
association with the depicted action or a character’s mental state. For
instance, a frame representing a nail becomes gradually more bent as
Moomin keeps hitting a nail in the image sequence. Frame lines can
also bend due to heavy wind or rain. A figure can react to a frame
that is being bent from the subsequent panel. A character’s body may
function as a frame thus connecting two panels of the strip,18 or a char-
acter’s anger, for example, might be reflected in the shape of the frame.
In these cases, the frame echoes the narrative action and the characters’
experience or mental state, or becomes part of it, thus playfully under-
mining the distinction between the space of the story world and the
frames of the image, the abstract formal elements of the strip. In some
cases, the humorous undermining of this distinction also suggests that
the spatial divide between the spaces of the respective panels is, in fact,
ambivalent.
An extended metanarrative treatment of the frame image can be found
in the story arc Club Life in Moominvalley (1957). In the first regular
vertical panel, a dog looks outside the panel towards the reader, saying:
“Dear reader, today the frames are different–of necessity!” and then
starts to run with a ball of yarn that unravels in an unusual way, in
three long horizontal panels (Figure 1).19

17  Elsewhere in the series, the frames are drawn as falling rain, planks, poles,
saws, plants in a field, tree trunks, water hoses, bars of a cage, doors, a spider
on its web, spades, flowers, swords, drying lines for laundry, walking sticks,
chains, candles, pencils, matches, cutlery, oar blades, rope, icicles, and so on.
18  See, for instance, Sniff (vol. 1, 30).
19  The Moomin strips consist of regular strips, mainly with three or four pan-
els, with a continuing story arc of between 50 and 100 strips. The series occa-
sionally includes one-, two- or five-panel strips.

269
The width of the panels–which are numbered to emphasize the change in the layout –
reflects the length and the unravelling of the yarn. At the same time, the length of the
frames is associated with the thread that is seen in the panels. The characters who come
across the yarn interpret it in various ways: The Superintendent sees it as the line of his
fishing rod; Fillyjonk thinks of it as her new washing line; it reminds Stinky of the loot
he has stolen; Moomin perceives it as a potential new fishing line. The characters also
relate to the yarn as a clue to the crime that has happened: The Superintendent and
Fillyjonk believe that the yarn will take them to the thief ’s (Stinky’s) loot, which indeed
happens in the story, while it also provides a warning to Stinky that his treasure may
be discovered. The dog and the yarn simultaneously function as elements of the story
world as well as plot devices to move the story forward. Their movement symbolizes
the plot movement, tying characters and scenes together, revealing the thief and his
loot, then leading the Superintendent and Fillyjonk to the false thief (Moomin). The
artificiality of the sequence’s plot progression is emphasized by various formal means:
initially by the changing panel arrangement, accompanied by the metanarrative com-
ment about the necessity of this change, and subsequently by the unfolding visual
connection between the yarn and the frame. In the ensuing strips, the self-parody of
the page’s spatial division is further explored by expanding on the playful association
between the unravelling yarn and the progression of the plot. However, this does not
result in a blockage of the sequential flow. On the contrary, the sequential flow is arti-
ficially and humorously accelerated.
While this passage includes an unusual design for a Moomin strip, it also contains an-
other metanarrative element that can be found in Moomin and the Brigands and other
stories in the series from the mid-1950s. I am referring to a minor, nameless character
capable of moving between the space of the story and the surface of the page, and who
therefore has an ambivalent status in relation to the world of the story and its outside.
In Moomin and the Brigands, this nameless marginal figure accompanies the protago-
nists Moomin and Sniff on their adventures, and sometimes mimics their actions and
reactions, and yet he appears to remain unseen by them. In amplifying the main char-
acters’ actions, feelings, and situations as a kind of empty foil, the figure acquires a role
as a narrative device. One particularly remarkable feature of this ‘parasitic’ character is
that it can pass through the frames, seemingly neglecting the spatial division of the page
more freely than can other characters. In the passage about modern art, for instance,

270
the anonymous figure calls for help while holding a balloon on a string
that also functions as a panel frame. In a sense, then, the figure occu-
pies the space of the frame and communicates from the frame to the
image field. Not acknowledged by the other characters of the story, the
figure calls attention to itself as the neglected margin and points out
formal components such as background images and frame lines.
In the subsequent Moomin and Family Life (1955), this marginal figure
temporarily becomes an agent in the story world. The figure interacts
with the other characters for the first time when it warns Sniff of a large
bomb, which turns out to be the perfectly round behind of Moomin,
who is crouching down in a field studying very large footprints. Un-
derneath the humour of the misunderstanding, there is a potential
comment on the art of caricature: not much substance is required to
become a character in a comic strip–an abstract round shape suffices.20
The drawing of round shapes is further emphasized by the repetition of
the circular shape in the pebbles on the shore and, especially, the small
balls (or possibly round fruits) that Sniff is threading onto a string that
doubles as a single inner frame of the strip. It is in fact a convention
in the comic for the first panel to show Moomin’s round shape from
behind–it is simultaneously a feature of the story space and an abstract
marker for the story’s beginning. The opening question in Moomin and
the Brigands–“What’s this?”–strategically placed above Moomin’s am-
ple behind, can be attributed to Moomin himself, who is looking for
something in a field of grass. In addition, it can also refer to anyone,
including the reader, who is looking at this perfectly round shape and
wondering what it is.
The anonymous marginal character’s close association with the frames
and margins of the story combined with the shifting position between
the character’s mimetic quality (character as a possible person) and
synthetic quality (character as an artificial construct) comes to the fore
in a strip in Moomin and Family Life.21 Here we see the figure speaking
from the frame across the space of a narrow panel to a cousin called
Shadow who stands by the opposing frame. Reflecting the family
theme of the story arc, the figure discusses its own forthcoming mar-
riage: “Oh, I’m so glad to see you, cousin Shadow! Would you take my
place in the story, I’m getting married!” In this way, the dispensability
of the figure is emphasized: its identity is irrelevant, what matters is its
20  Moomin characters can also perfectly function as characters even when Figure 1 Tove and Lars
they lose gravity and start floating in the air, or when they become invisible Jansson, Moomin:
due to Martian machines or magic potions. The ‘empty nothing’ then in fact The Complete Tove
reaffirms narrative continuity and the diegetic function of characters. Jansson Comic Strip.
21  See James Phelan’s distinction between mimetic, thematic, and synthetic Vol. 3, page 100, strip
components in narratives, particularly pertaining to the representation of cha- 45. (c) 2008 Drawn
racters and their world (Herman et al. 2012, 7-8, 113-16). and Quarterly.

271
role and function in the plot. Shadow then takes on the same role of mute companion
with no actual impact on the story events.
The two figures can only be distinguished because Shadow is completely black, whereas
its cousin has a wide white stripe on the chest. When Moomin later recognizes the fig-
ure it only confirms that he does not perceive any difference between the two of them.
When the desperate Moomin, who has lost his family, suddenly notices Shadow he
asks: “WHO ARE YOU? You have been at my heels for the past three months!” This
recognition, which reveals that Moomin knew he was being followed all along–even
without noticing the change in the follower’s identity–temporarily transforms the mar-
ginal figure into an agent in the plot. The delighted Shadow responds: “I am Shadow!
Nobody has ever taken any notice of me before! / Oh! I’m so flattered! May I save your
life? Or be of any other small service?” Shadow maintains his ability to speak for ap-
proximately one-and-a-half strips after this scene, and goes looking for Snorkmaiden,
convinced that it could do anything for Moomin out of the great joy of being recog-
nized. After Moomin and Snorkmaiden are reunited, the figure falls silent again and
returns to its role as a foil to the main characters, a kind of pet, a narrative device for
amplification, and a shadowy figure of the frames, backgrounds and margins.22
Reading for abstraction in the Moomin strip series brings out the humorous play with
the frames, the logic of sequence and the process of characterization. Formal, abstract
elements of the strip are incorporated into parts of the story world at two levels by
treating frames as representational and by depicting a character who can move between
the frame, the surface of the strip layout, as well as the narrative space of the story. The
tension between the abstract formal unit of the frame–indicating separation/connec-
tion–and the image as representation, or between the character as a synthetic figure of
the margin and a recognizable individual, contributes to the storytelling in that it adds
witty commentary on the conventions of sequential ordering and on the way comics
are read. Instead of resisting narrative figuration and coherence, to parody such con-
ventions in fact reaffirms their significance for the medium and turns them, through
humour, into something that can be enjoyed as an integral part of the story.

Abstraction as Means of Narration in Brecht Evens’s

Panthère
In Brecht Evens’s graphic novel Panthère (Panther), Christine, the six-year-old girl living
alone with her father, has just learned that her sick cat has been put to sleep. She starts
having visits from a shape-shifting panther who emerges from the bottom drawer of her
dresser. The panther, whose name is Octave Abracadolphus Pantherius–the self-styled
crown prince of the Kingdom of Panthésia–consoles the young girl by telling stories
he believes she wants to hear. This big cat also invents amusing games and tricks, plays
Twister with her, and invites a group of his friends (or subjects) from Panthésia to cele-

22  This also holds true for most of Moomin’s Desert Island.

272
brate Christine’s birthday. In his storytelling, showmanship and antics,
the panther uses his protean body to captivate the girl. However, the
reader gradually discovers that he is a jealous and dangerous manipula-
tor who devours Christine’s favourite teddy bear, while his friends and
minions are even more dangerous and violent than he is.
Abstract, non-figurative images, superimpositions and shapeless figures
appear frequently in the work’s numerous dream scenes.23 Whenever
Christine sleeps and dreams in the panther’s lap–presumably under
his influence or ‘protection’–her room is filled with a multitude of
shape-shifting figures and phantoms depicted in a skewed perspec-
tive. This is an unpleasant experience for the girl, and things become
gradually worse as indicated by the shift in her nightly visions from
colour to black and white. Abstract figures are not limited to the dream
scenes, however. They also appear during some of the panther’s magic
shows and when he appears and disappears again. The panther is con-
stantly shape-shifting–taking on different forms in each panel–as well
as shifting between abstraction and figuration. He also transforms the
interiors of Christine’s room, where most of the story takes place. For
instance, the panther appears in the form of colour dots that gradually
merge into a figure, or as abstract fragments that are scattered around
the panel. His shape can also merge and dissolve into the two-dimen-
sional shapes of the wallpaper or a shadow.
This brings us to the narrative function of these non-figurative ele-
ments and scenes, and whether they move the story and its reading, in
terms of the panel sequence, towards the non-narrative.24 There are at
least three ways in which the abstract panels and passages in Panther
contribute to the story beyond merely changing the rhythm of narra-
tion: they introduce a more subjective perspective into the image; they
add interpretive possibilities to the events and/or the characters; and,
accompanied by other local stylistic effects or transformations in lay-
out, they change the narrative atmosphere. By ‘narrative atmosphere’
I refer to the dominant emotion that pervades a story. This is related
to Christine’s experiential and emotional perspective, though it is not
identical to it. My argument is that the abstract elements of the story
alter the reading mode and direction for some of the passages.
All in all, the non-figurative shapes, panels and sequences in this work
can be seen as subjective images in their own right–subjective in the
23  These scenes vary in size from one page to a double-page spread and
three spreads.
24 Jan Baetens observes that narrative ‘“flaws’” or pockets of non-narra-
tivity in comics can strengthen the impact of stronger narrative zones, such
as cliff-hangers or surprises, while they also contribute to the work’s overall
rhythm (2011, 106).

273
sense of aspectuality, i.e., they employ a distinct visual language to expresses the qualities
of the character’s experience rather than merely indicating a point-of-view. The abstract,
superimposed or fragmentary shapes, and the accompanying changes in perspective
and colouring, are potential markers for the protagonist’s emotional and mental states.
These abstractions, accompanied by changes in the layout or other stylistic alterations,
accentuate the protagonist’s shift between waking and sleeping consciousness, or de-
note, say, fear and shock. This becomes apparent as Christine is regularly shown to fall
asleep before the ‘abstract’ scene–once she is drugged with anaesthetics–or reacting in
horror when she sees the panther appear from the drawer. But are the images products
of Christine’s (traumatized) mind or are they forms of visual spectacle and confusion
masterminded by the panther? Is the panther himself a figment of Christine’s imagi-
nation? It is even possible that the transformations are an indication that the panther
is seen only by Christine. The dream images and the abstractions also add anxiety: is
Christine safe around the panther?
The panther’s ability to resist form and fade into abstraction adds to the uncertainty
about his reality. Another obvious reason to doubt that he is real is that, apparently, no
one else in the storyworld can see him except Christine. When the father looks into
his sleeping daughter’s room while the panther is supposedly present, the feline figure
dissolves into a shadow around the bed. This could be the result of the panther’s mag-
ical powers, but the shift between abstraction and figuration could also cast doubt on
his reality. The panther could be Christine’s imaginary friend, a figment of her imag-
ination, like Hobbes in Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes. Or he could be a dream
image, perhaps inspired by the demise of the family pet that Christine’s father had put
in the freezer and that the girl had found by accident (the frozen cat and the panther
have some features in common). All these options are plausible, but none is certain. It
is also possible that in the world of the story the shape-shifting panther is real and that
shapelessness and invisibility are just some of his theatrical tricks.

While the physical form of the panther is ambiguous, the reality of his Panthesian
friends, as well as their status as independent characters (in relation to the panther),
are even more compromised. The Little Chicken, the Little Monkey, Mr. Trashcan
and the Giraffe are not as sentient as the panther–not even the reconstructed teddy

274
bear Bonzo, whom the panther apparently had devoured, and who
reappears as an impulsive, violent and sadomasochistic character. The
Little Chicken has a curious hole in his throat through which he utters
simple sentences; Mr. Trashcan is a kind of medical, anaesthetic appa-
ratus; the expressionless Little Monkey emits cigar smoke from his ears
until he explodes; the Giraffe has neither eyes nor mouth. The Mon-
key and the Giraffe seem unable to speak, while the language skills of
Mr. Trashcan and the Little Chicken are rudimentary and mechanic.
Their foregrounded artificiality and lack of sentience raises questions
as to interpretation: are they independent characters or perhaps the
panther’s creations and abstractions? Are they puppets belonging to his
arsenal of trickery and spectacle he puts on for the girl? Are they part of
Christine’s nightmares? These questions remain necessarily open and
the synthetic qualities of these characters emphasize that uncertainty.
Moreover, Panthère’s abstraction of the image and the layout evoke
questions about the nature of the events, which engenders narrative
mystery. In particular, this concerns a violent key scene towards the
end of the book depicted in three double-page spreads with no text
(Figure 2).
Here the panther’s supposed friends take over Christine’s birthday
party, drug the girl and appear to violate her while the Giraffe holds
the panther back. The weight and dramatic importance of this scene is
indicated by drastic changes in graphic style and layout: colour gives
way to black and white, and the sequence of panels is replaced by full-
page or double-page spread images. Moreover, in the course of the
scene there is a gradual movement from figuration to abstraction and
back. When Christine is drugged, the contours of Bonzo’s face become
mere dots on a double-page spread while in the following spread a
dotted circle gradually transforms into the panther’s face. Images and
figures thus become mere shapes melting into abstraction before be-
coming images again.
Abstraction has several potential narrative functions in this scene.
Along with the stylistic and layout changes, it marks a change of narra-
tive atmosphere–an entrance into a world of fear, nightmare, violence,
terror, and hallucination. These changes dramatize the climax of the
story, and further contribute to the interpretive openness and mystery
of the scene: What is this passage about? The question is closely tied
to the implied subjective perspective and experiential frame of the se-
quence. In the final violent scene, the images can be taken as the girl’s Figure 2 Brecht
subjective experience and vision. The panther’s companions violently Evens, Panthère,
capture the girl, pull off her dress, drug her and force her to lie down pages [110-11]. (c)
2014 Actes Sud.
on a table. The scenario, thus, suggests a scene of rape. The sequence

275
of wildly skewed or abstract images that follows simultaneously allows for a narrative
reading based on this scenario–the changes between figuration and abstraction signal
the girl’s extreme fear and suffering, or her hallucination as she is subjected to violence–
and may increase the uncertainty about the event.
The ambiguity of the abstractions in this scene expands interpretive possibilities rather
than the narrative: What is happening to Christine? What is the panther doing? Are
we witnessing the girl’s hallucination or reality? The panther’s explanation, after Chris-
tine has woken up, offers another version of what has happened. He claims that when
Christine was unconscious he fought Bonzo and his friends, who turned out to be evil
agents in disguise and who wanted to kidnap her; he was wounded, but managed to
chase them away. Given that the panther has lied before, and is responsible for bringing
the new Bonzo and his companions into Christine’s room in the first place, his reliabil-
ity is questionable even if there is no particular reason not to believe him either.
The events in the narrative immediately preceding and following the abstracted key
scene suggest how this passage, where the images also draw attention to themselves
as units of design, could be narrativized. At the same time, the stylistic changes and
non-figurative qualities of the abstracted images allow for several plausible but not
necessarily compatible storylines. However, this does not amount to a narrative jam-
ming, in the sense of refusing to satisfy narrative expectations, neither does it constitute
a non-narrative ‘pocket’ in the story. On the contrary, the shifts between figuration
and abstraction in this passage expand the scope of narrative interpretation and thus
increase narrative potential. Abstraction here enriches the interpretive possibilities by
making it more difficult to hold onto one explanation and storyline as the true version
of the story.

Narrative Jamming in Niklaus Rüegg’s SPUK

Niklaus Rüegg’s wordless comic SPUK, Thesen gegen den Frühling (“Ghost: Theses
against the Spring,” 2004) is a redrawing of four Disney comics that can be conceived
in terms of narrative jamming, that is, in the sense of frustrated expectations about nar-
rative sense and coherence.25 The recognizable milieu of the original Donald Duck and
Mickey Mouse comics and the typical graphic style of these action-centred series arouses
storytelling expectations that SPUK frustrates by not featuring any characters or action.
Devoid of events, voices, and signs of movement,26 the redrawings succeed in stripping
the original comics of most of their narrative content. Narrative understanding of the
composition is difficult, if not impossible. However, we can still read for narration by
investigating the work’s means of abstraction in terms of the sequence and especially the
way the comic arouses and frustrates narrative expectations.27
25  See Abbott 2008, 10.
26 However, there are some potential, subtle exceptions, in particular the fabric around the
openings of some of the circus tents in the third comic that show possible lines of movement.
27  While related to narrativization, ‘reading for narration’ differs in that it does not involve draw-
ing abstract, non-narrative elements into a story, or imposing a narrative form on the text. Instead,

276
In this case, abstraction is to be understood in terms of abstract or
non-narrative sequencing rather than non-figurative images. Most of
the images and panels in SPUK are figurative (representational), de-
picting interiors and exteriors of houses, furniture, fences and trees in
a yard, or suburban street scenes. However, the relations between these
representations do not cohere in a narrative sense. At times, the effect
of non-narrative abstraction is emphasized by non-figurative panels,
especially those comprising plain colour fields and the abstract shapes
in the backgrounds of the original Disney comics.28
Beyond the abstract sequence, the meaning of the title and the subtitle
and their relationship with the absence of text in the comics also arouse
and frustrate narrative expectations in SPUK. ‘Spuk’ is German for a
ghostly apparition, spectre, or nightmare. This has several meanings in
relation to the work’s ‘stories.’ We can think of the ‘ghost’ as what is
absent in the images: characters, actions and events. We could indeed
argue that the missing narrative in general is the ghost of the image
sequences, haunting the vacant scenes of the story. Then again, it is
possible to associate the idea of the ‘ghost’ with the background im-
ages of Disney comics, in particular the interiors, exteriors, and colour
fields that usually lack detail and are given little or no attention, mostly
going unnoticed. SPUK has brought them to the fore, turning them
into the focus of attention. 29
The subtitle Thesen gegen den Frühling explores a more abstract con-
nection between text and image. The relationship between the subtitle
and the visual content is open-ended and disjointed: how could these
comics function as theses against the spring or even illustrate such the-
ses? The idea of spring could be taken as a key to reading the work as a
whole, but the results of such a reading are not altogether convincing.
One element in all four comics that could relate to the subtitle is that
they feature images of grass and trees–potential signs of spring, at least
at a banal level. The coming of spring might also be a way to narrativ-
ize the subtle changes. In the first comic, the tree in the garden has no

it is a reading strategy that highlights aspects in non-narrative comics that may

raise narrative expectations.
28  The last page of the third comic is one of the most abstract ones, consisting
of three plain colour panels–one with a circle, and two that denote rectangles,
possibly the corner of a room.
29 On his site “MadInkeBeard/Derik Badman,” Derik Badman has an in-
sightful post on Rüegg’s work (August 25th, 2008) describing his experience of
trying to narrativize the comic. He argues that the “ghosts of the title could be
multitudinous: the absent characters, the absent narration, the absent identi-
fying hand of the original artist.” He speculates that “(p)erhaps the ghost is all
those forgotten backgrounds, those abstract rooms, buildings, and landscapes
that form a trope of comics, ever present yet ignored by not being present
enough.”

277
leaves; the second comic contains images of budding plants; and the last one depicts
the lushest greenery. Yet, these images show only weak signs of narrativity. The narrative
meaning of the potential spring-time images remains uncertain: how do the prominent
images of home interiors relate to the potential images of spring? How could these
comics be conceived as theses against spring? The open-ended relation between the title
and the work stimulates the interpretive imagination and suggests potential narrative
meanings for the whole. In the end, however, the sequences and the visual contents of
the work do not affirm any narrative meaning.
Narrative readings of SPUK are not obvious and are, in fact, difficult to produce.
Furthermore, the subtitle conceptualizes the redrawn comics as theses and thereby re-
imagines narrative sequences in terms of argumentation. This may, of course, be simply
an ironic gesture and the very idea of a thesis has no deeper meaning. Yet, even as an
ironic gesture, the naming distances the comics from their original narrative text type.
In contrast to their weak and frustrated narrative meanings, the four SPUK comics,
each separated by a blank page, suggest a strong sense of spatial and stylistic coherence.
This coherence is based on the repetition of similar shapes and colours, and the con-
tinuing descriptions of suburban homes and gardens recalls, to anyone familiar with
Disney comics, the fictive towns of Duckburg or Mouseton where the main Disney
characters live. Furthermore, these repeated features create the impression of a con-
tinuous space. Similarly, the work’s colouring and colour fields function as important
means of coherence and connectivity. This effect, however, is to some extent created by
the erasure of characters, actions and dialogue that, as a kind of by-product, turns the
colours and background images into the focus of attention.

We can attempt a verbal description of the visual repetitions to point out additional
ways in which these works raise narrative expectations but at the same time frustrate all
attempts at narrativizing the whole. In the first comic, we can see a white house with a
red garden fence, yellow walls inside the house, and various recurring pieces of furni-
ture, including a red armchair, a bookshelf, a dresser and a green couch. The unusual
details in the description are likely to attract the reader’s attention: the holes in the in-
terior surfaces of the house, the door that is off its hinges. One panel depicts a perfectly
circular aperture in the middle of a floor and, later, we are shown a sharp-edged hole

278
in a wall with the pieces of the wall lying on the floor below. These are
clear signs of events and agency, not of gradual dilapidation. However,
there are no evident ways to narrativize them or associate them with
an agent of action. The various shapes, pieces of furniture, trees and
other objects in the comic are not prominent enough to be treated as
characters. The house itself is a continuous object of description, but
there is no obvious way to give this description a narrative sense.
The second comic features a yellow house with a hedge to one side, a
wooden fence to the other, and a small garden, but the images of the
interiors suggest even less coherence than in the previous comic. This
is partly due to fact that there are more ‘abstract’ panels with plain
colour fields here. In the third comic, the description of a number of
recognizable spaces in a circus–tents, a trapeze and a safety net in a big
top–are followed by a series of images about the interiors of two sub-
urban houses. Two dissimilar spaces are thus juxtaposed without any
obvious connection. Some general narrative scenarios certainly seem
possible, such as ‘going to a circus,’ ‘coming from a circus’ or ‘working
in a circus,’ but there are not sufficient grounds to perceive these spaces
in terms of a narrative (Figure 3).
The fourth and last comic includes recognizable spaces in three or four
houses: a house with pink walls, a house with yellow outside walls and
blue interior walls, a shack used by children as a pirates’ den, a house
with bright red outside walls, yellow interior walls and pink curtains,
as well as a house with pink outside walls, yellow interior walls and a
garden with a wooden fence. The multiplicity of spaces without any
connection except for the repeated colours and shapes undermines
clear narrative meaning.
The redrawing of narrative comics with its elimination of basic narra-
tive elements such as characters, action and events radically shifts our
attention to the background images, shapes, and colours. However,
while abstraction operates on the narrative elements and expectations,
SPUK does not constitute a simple rejection of narrative. The details
in the images arouse and frustrate narrative expectations; they are shot
through with constant hints of absent characters and possible actions:
holes made in the floor and wall, the unhinged door, a trapeze in the
air, a pillow on a bed, open doorways, a close-up of an empty easy
chair, and so on. The persistence of the narrative frame in this abstract
comic is also dependent on the technique of erasure and the ‘ghost’ Figure 3. Niklaus
Rüegg, SPUK (Thesen
of the intertext, the stylistic presence of narrative Disney comics. This gegen den Frühling),
could suggest the typical actions and chains of events that take place in page 33, panels 5 and
6. (c) 2004 Autorinnen
such settings despite their uncertainty and openness. The erasure and und Autoren, edition
distortion of the narrative content also draws attention to the traces fink, Zürich.

279
of that erasure. In so doing, the re-drawings also highlight the narrative significance of
those less conspicuous elements, in particular background images and colours, which
belong to the storytelling apparatus in the comics medium.

Conclusion
Given that many comics classified as abstract are non-narrative, they shift our attention
from the domain of narratology. However, the important question that abstract comics
poses is how comics narratology can address the limits of its key concept, i.e., narrative.
To focus only on what is conspicuously narrative in comics or on the most obvious
narrative genres (such as plot-centred action stories), is bound to create a myopic vision
of comics as narrative art. To better appreciate what makes comics a narrative art and
medium, narratology also needs to shed light on the limits and departures from narra-
tive, including those domains and features of comics which undermine narratological
concepts.
My analysis of the three comics suggests that the interplay between abstraction and
narration occurs along a wide range. Abstraction can, for instance, complement narra-
tion, it can add new interpretive dimensions to the story, expand the connotations of
the story events, contribute to narrative tension, or explore the distinction between the
space of the story and the space of the page/composition. The examples also suggest
that abstraction in comics can be evaluated beyond the individual image and panel
sequence: form and content can be considered in terms of the relation between the title
and what is shown or narrated in the work, the means of characterization and the layout
of the composition.
Whether reading for abstraction in narrative comics, or, conversely, narration in ab-
stract comics, both can explicate various ways in which abstract images and abstracted
sequences can serve narrative (or metanarrative) functions. These include the alter-
nation of narrative rhythm and narrative atmosphere; the expansion of interpretive
possibilities; the introduction of a subjective perspective; the description of mental
states. There are also the effects of humour, curiosity, suspense and horror, the ironic
treatment of the basic building blocks of comics, the alteration of the mode of reading,
and so on. Storytelling through abstraction, and the incorporation of abstraction as a
component of storytelling as my first two examples show, suggest that storytelling and
non-narrative elements are more closely connected in comics than we think.
In the light of these examples, the idea of a conflict between abstraction and narra-
tion has relatively limited value. The focus on abstraction in comics does not in itself
constitute a critique of comics as a narrative medium. This is not only due to readers’
tendency to impose narrative meaning on the abstractions, but also because abstract
comics are not always particularly focused on narrative expectations. It is also possible
that their anti-narrative thrust relies on the erasure of the basic means of narration that
paradoxically draws attention to those means. For instance, in predominantly anti-nar-
rative works such as Rüegg’s SPUK, the resistance to narrative expectations, sense and

280
coherence highlights the issues of narrative form, meaning and nar-
rativization. This is not necessarily the case with all types of narrative
jamming through abstraction, but here the absent narratives are the
omniscient ghost of the work.
Furthermore, non-narrative comics and the use of non-narrative
components is a much wider phenomenon than I have been able to
illustrate. Abstraction in comics can take many forms, and various
types of interaction with narration occur. Above I have investigated
some non-narrative features of comics in relation to some dimensions
of abstraction: the transformation and function of abstract elements
within popular comic strips, the strategic use and narrative function of
abstraction in characterization and the building of a scene in a graphic
novel, and the implications of narrative jamming in abstract comics
that draw on popular forms of storytelling. Much more could be said
both about the uses of abstraction in narrative comics and comics that
go beyond narrative.

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284
Adding up to What? Degrees of Narration and
Abstraction in Wordless Comics
Barbara Postema

The wordless graphic novel h day by Renée French tells a story, but
what exactly happens in this story may not be entirely clear. Readers
are in fact guided in how to make sense of the book by the text on the
cover, which clarifies, “in h day (...) the artist illustrates her struggles
with migraine headaches and Argentine ant infestation.” Without this
textual key to interpreting the work, h day would be a challenge in-
deed, or would remain abstract to a much greater degree. When there
is no (verbal) text to perform the common anchoring functions that
readers are used to, wordless comics, even ones that somehow signal a
narrative intent, can come across as vague or ambiguous. At the very
least, wordless comics often confront readers with nameless protago-
nists, deliberately or not denying readers that small guidance. These
wordless comics demonstrate Jan Baetens’s assertion that “narrative
and antinarrative are not so much different forms as different strategies
of reading and looking, and that the dominance of narrative norms
should not prevent us from seeing the perhaps more covert role of
nonnarrative aspects” (2011a, 110). Many silent comics can be made
up of representational images, and yet be highly abstract in a narrative
sense, as in the case of h day. The abstraction of these works overall,
and their concomitant difficulty for readers, is not determined by the
relative abstraction of their art.
The comic h day, once again in the cover text, is described as “an of-
ten tense narrative of invasion, repulsion and liberation [that] can be
read both as an oblique autobiography and as a suspenseful fantasy
story.” Thus, the cover offers readers further pointers on how to grap-
ple with this graphic work, highlighting a number of the visual motifs
the comic establishes in order to give readers ways of gleaning some
kind of narrative continuity. And readers are generally happy to grasp
at such straws. In “Abstraction in Comics,” Jan Baetens notes that “not
only are we capable of reading nonfigurative material in a narrative
manner, we are also very keen to do so, since narrative is such an effi-
cient and satisfying strategy for handling problems and difficulties in
any material we may be reading” (2011a, 101). Since in the case of h
day the material was apparently more difficult than usual, the cover
established strategies for dealing with the work in advance by draw-
ing attention to the recurring visual motifs Renée French employs,
creating continuities that confer a degree of narrative on the comic.

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Examples of these motifs include buildings, water, a dog, a bed, and rope or the element
of constriction. The work opens with a series of single images on the recto page showing
a stinger-shaped object inside a head and then developing the motif of that stinger. The
viscerally spiky point communicates the sense of a sharp pain in the head, germinating
the seed of the migraine that was planted by the cover text.
The next section of the book, “Stage 1,” starts with images on both the verso and the
recto page, and establishes two streams of pictures in slightly different visual registers.

The verso page shows simple outline drawings set on the blank page without any back-
ground, and without a frame or a real panel indication. The recto pages show shaded
drawings with more depth and detail, with a clearly indicated panel area on the page
(though no formal framing lines). The verso side almost always shows a full human
figure, standing or lying on a bed. The recto image offers much more variation in point
of view, angle, distance, and in the contents of the panel. Here we encounter tall build-
ings, rising water, a dog that gets encapsulated by strands of material that solidify out
of smoke or streams of ants.
While the sequences of images on the two sides of the two-page spread are very differ-
ent in character, the work continuously creates links between them. When the human
figure pulls strands of material out of its head on the verso pages, the recto pages visu-
ally echo these strands in the shape of floating swaths of smoke or ants. The two sides
of the page are not exactly parallels, but their juxtaposition throughout the work invites
comparison and connection. At “Stage 5,” the figure’s head is being tied to the bed,
while the recto page shows a series of complicated cages. All the changes to the human
figure up to this point pertain to the head, not the body, allowing one to associate the
cages with various kinds of feelings of stricture and confinement within the head on the
bed, which at this point is shrouded in some kind of curtain.

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In “Stage 6,” the final chapter, a mass that had separated from the
head earlier in the book and had disappeared under the bed comes
back out and works its way into the belly of the human figure, joined
by an additional mass separating from the head. This leaves the head
still bloated but freer now, and the patient finally sits up and leaves
the bed. This is the sequence on the verso pages. On the recto pages,
after the interlude of cages in “Stage 5,” the buildings and the dog
return, the dog finally freeing itself from its bindings and boarding a
ship that takes off into the distance. The two image streams meet on
the last pages of the book, where a simple line-drawn bed, empty now,
is shown on the verso side, matched by a more detailed, shaded bed
on the recto page. The relation between the two sides is made explicit
here, though it had been implied throughout the work. It was hinted
at in the first place through the visual echoes I already discussed, but
there had been a second, underlying connection between these pages
all along: the verso pages have no panels or frames drawn on them,
but there is always the ‘ghost’ of a panel visible, shining through from
the other side of the page, so that the panel of the recto page is always
implied ever so slightly on the verso, as a lightly shaded background.
The materiality of the book, in this case the translucency of the pages,
generates connections between the separate images of the work.
If the cover text of the comic had not drawn attention to the minimal
lines of narrative that can be identified in the book (or if a reader
approached the work without consulting the cover for guidance),
the connections between the panels would still have been significant
enough for signalling sequentiality and its corollary, i.e., narrative
intent. The division of the work into something like chapters–the so-
called ‘stages’–adds another layer of narrative structure by implying a
progression. These stages function similarly to the “days” that structure
the comic Influenza by Ulrich Scheel. In combination with the title,
breaking this otherwise visually and sequentially fairly abstract work
into “days,” gathers the individual images into a narrative of the epon-
ymous disease running its course. The notion of chapters, whether
reformulated as “days” or “stages,” draws out associations with tradi-
tional narrative, as do the days that supply the chapter titles in Max
Ernst’s surrealistic collage novel Une semaine de bonté, for instance.
Even–or perhaps especially–in wordless narrative, the few textual in-
terventions that are present take on greater significance.
Titles always suggest narrativity. Chapter titles like the days of the
week or “stages” add a sense of time and progression. Furthermore, the
Figure 1 Renée French,
main title, the very minimum of text associated with a work, is more h day, pages [38-39].
or less inevitable and cannot but steer our reading. For example, the © 2010 Renée French.

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title Conversation supplies the only necessary key for Beth Hetland’s fold-out comic,
allowing readers to assemble strings of disembodied speech balloons filled with icons
into a rambling dialogue, most likely between a man and a woman, as signalled by the
blue and pink balloons. The easily available narrative key of Hetland’s short comic can
be contrasted with the more obliquely titled 100 Scenes by Tim Gaze. In 100 Scenes, the
images are completely abstract, there are no chapter titles, and even the title is abstract.
This work pushes abstraction to such a degree that it is difficult even to identify connec-
tions between the individual images based on visual or graphic matching, the “plastic”
dimension that Baetens identifies (2011a, 97). As a result, there is little impetus to keep
reading and finish the work.
As a specific form, wordless comics add a wrinkle to the discussion of abstract com-
ics. As Groensteen points out, most abstract comics are wordless, not even employing
speech balloons (12). Gene Kannenberg Jr.’s abstract comics are a notable exception.
Collected in Comics Machine #1, his comics are wordless in the strict sense, but they
include speech balloons filled with asemic writing: made-up, meaningless letter shapes.
These comics reference the vocabulary of comics in their use of panels, formats such as
daily strips and single-page gag strips, through title banners, captions, balloons, outline
drawings, emanata, and conventions on the size and thickness of letter shapes, all the
apparatus of comics except for actual verbal text and representational imagery. The
comics suggest there is meaning, yet they resist definite signification. Instead, meaning
is centred on the form of comics: devoid of concrete content, Kannenberg’s comics
allude to the history of comics using particular formats like strips and single image
‘gags.’ In addition, they also evoke the cover image of a Superman comic in the cover
illustration for Comics Machine #1, and panel layouts with resonances of The Family
Circus by Bill Keane (not included in Kannenberg’s first collection), just to give two
more specific examples.
The comics and other graphic works discussed so far display a range of visual styles with
varying degrees of representationality. I have addressed these works as abstract comics,
or at least comics with abstract dimensions in terms of their narrative. However, the
dearth of narrative meaning may not be enough for all comics theorists to identify these
works as abstract. Thierry Groensteen, for example, distinguishes between abstract com-
ics, which are made up of “sequences of abstract drawings” (2013, 9), and infranarrative
comics, “sequences of drawings that contain figurative elements, the juxtaposition of
which does not produce a coherent narrative” (ibid.). Mimesis has no place at all in
abstract comics, according to Groensteen’s approach. Instead, the non-representational
images of abstract comics create a space to interact with each other in other ways,
“establish[ing] relationships of position, contiguity, intensity, repetition, variation, or
contrast, as well as dynamic relationships of rhythm, interwovenness, etc.” (12). An-
drei Molotiu draws attention to the same kinds of relationships in abstract comics, but
importantly, also in narrative comics. In fact, he argues that abstract comics can teach
us new habits of reading; we will pay closer attention to the sequential dynamism of
the page or could become aware of the possibility of iconostasis. In turn, this would

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allow readers to engage with images in narrative comics in a different
way, reading them not only for story, but also for non-narrative design
elements (2012, 85).
In Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud shows a clear bias towards
narrative comics, but he leaves the door open for the possibility of
abstract comics. He touches on abstraction in two ways: where it con-
cerns the image, abstraction is represented by the right side of the
triangle that he calls the map of the universe of comics (1994, 52-3).
The points along the bottom are “reality” on the left and “meaning”
on the right. The abstraction or visual simplification along the bottom
leads to increasingly simple images and eventually crosses over into
words in McCloud’s conception. At the top of the triangle, loss of
representationality leads to The Picture Plane, “ink on paper” (50),
which comes down to completely abstract shapes that offer no form of
referentiality at all. With regards to narrative, McCloud allows for the
possibility of abstract, non-narrative comics with the sixth of his panel-
to-panel transitions. He classes this transition “non-sequitur,” saying
it “offers no logical relationship between panels whatsoever” (72). Yet,
in his analysis of panel-to-panel transitions from various comics tradi-
tions, and in the work of several cartoonists, McCloud does not give us
one single example of a non-sequitur transition. He did already predict
this outcome though, as he comments on the non-sequitur transition:
Is it possible for any sequence of panels to be totally unrelated to each
other? Personally, I don’t think so. No matter how dissimilar one im-
age may be to another, there is a kind of alchemy at work in the space
between panels which can help us find meaning or resonance in even
the most jarring of combinations. (73)
McCloud does attribute instances of non-sequitur transitions to Art
Spiegelman’s “Ace-Hole, Midget Detective” (2008, n.p.) but does
not show these examples. From reading Spiegelman’s short story,
I would question whether any of the transitions are indeed non-se-
quitur. In terms of imagery, some of them may seem to be, but all
panels are connected by Ace-Hole’s ongoing hard-boiled ‘voiceover.’
Furthermore, the few panels that at first glance seem inexplicable in
their combination make sense in the context of the larger page and
overall story, which give them the “single overriding identity” that
McCloud identifies within sequences (73). McCloud’s method of bas-
ing his panel-to-panel transitions on units of two adjacent panels is
severely limited since it does not account for relations that can exist
between panels at a greater remove, such as the translinear connections
characterized as “braiding” (Groensteen 2013, 181). Furthermore, as
Groensteen points out, all of McCloud’s transitions are based on “nar-

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rative technique” (ibid., 41), and do not account for purely visual connections because
the page functions “as a visual unit as well as a unit of narration” (181). From a narrative
perspective, all panel transitions in an abstract comic would be non-sequitur. However,
based on the visual impact, there can be strong progressions between panels in terms
of texture, direction, and shape, for example, which could also be covered under Mc-
Cloud’s “logical relationships.”
When Andrei Molotiu and Thierry Groensteen use the term “abstract comics,” they
always contrast it with narrative: abstract comics cannot be narrative comics. For
Groensteen, abstract comics also entails abstract drawings, images that do not represent
anything (9). For Molotiu, abstract comics can be made up of sequences of drawings
that can be either abstract or representational, figurative, “as long as those elements
do not cohere into a narrative or even a unified narrative space” (2009, n.p.). For
Groensteen, abstract comics “jettison narrative art, sequential relationships, and the
production of meaning” (2013, 10). However, meaning need not be narrative, and
sequences can create strong relations, progressions, without being beholden to a sto-
ryline. For Groensteen, such sequences work to show off the spatio-topical apparatus of
comics (12), here identified as “the foundation of the comics medium, as the cardinal
element of its ‘primary machinery’” (13). Molotiu makes a similar claim, noting that
“every aspect of the mechanism of comics can be exploited and made the vehicle for
sequential development (…) [creating] potent formal dramas” (2009, n.p.).
Molotiu draws attention to the potential of formal, abstract visual play of the represen-
tational comics page. However, this process works in two ways, as Baetens demonstrates.
In his article on colour in comics, he points out that in many cases choices in comic
art are completely at the service of communicating the narrative as clearly as possible.
Baetens gives the example of Hergé’s clear-line style for Tintin, in which each creative
choice, from page layout to colour, was chosen for maximum legibility. He writes:
[T]he ‘clear line’ aesthetics is actually a narrative more than a visual device. If it is so
important for Hergé to obtain immediately the direct recognition of the figures and their
background, it is not in order to impose a certain kind of ‘pure drawing’ but in order
to achieve their narrative usefulness. Each panel of a comics book must be immediately
readable and understandable, i.e., capable of being integrated into the larger whole of
a storytelling that is unavoidably elliptic, given the importance of the ‘gutter’ and the
‘untold’ in the space between the discontinuous panels. (2011b, 117)
Here, figurative art is not automatically equated with narrative: representational art is
used in the service of narrative and has degrees of legibility.1 If representational art can
be more or less legible, allowing for greater and lesser degrees of narrativity, then the
same can hold true for art that is less representational. A high degree of abstraction in
comics art still allows for narrative, as Nicolas Mahler’s work demonstrates. If abstrac-

1  Debbie Drechler’s graphic novel The Summer of Love shows just how important colour is for
narrative legibility. The work is printed in a rusty brown colour hold, with a mossy green as the
contrast colour. There is no use of black at all. Since the colours are close together in shade and
intensity, the work does not display a great deal of visual contrast, and reading it takes an extra
effort. Thus, while the work is still clearly narrative, its legibility is affected.

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tion does not negate narrative, why should representationality assert it?
The drawing in comics ranges from the realistic to the highly stylized.
Any of these styles, independent of their level of abstraction, can be
used to create narrative images or resist narration. One example of de-
tailed representational imagery that nonetheless resists clear narrative
meaning is Max Ernst’s collage novel Une semaine de bonté. Themes
and motifs are easily discernible, with the use of recurring imagery
for each day of the week, including bird’s heads for one and reptilian
wings for another. At certain times we even get the impression there
are continuous protagonists, owing to the lion-headed figure in the
“Sunday” section, or the rooster in the “Thursday” section. Still, while
readers always have a strong impulse to try and glean narrative from
juxtaposed images (cf. Baetens 2011a, 101), Ernst’s work resists any-
thing but a general sense of dread and a “mood of catastrophe” as the
publisher’s note observes (1976, v).
While abstract comics can highlight the form of comics, as Groensteen
asserts and Kannenberg’s comics demonstrate, they can also draw at-
tention to themselves as printed works, as books. Le fils du Roi by Éric
Lambé is a large format square book that includes full-page panels
and pages with four equal-sized panels. All the art is in black and blue
ballpoint pen.

This comic is non-narrative and the images work through contrast.

The intensity of hatching conveys a darker or lighter environment
with less or more depth. Variations in rendering highlight different
tonalities in the depicted world: the contrast between hard and angular
shapes like the walls and zebra crossing contrast with the soft organic
shapes of animals, shells, and liquid. Throughout, a contrast is estab-
Figure 2 Éric Lambé,
lished between male and female: figures of a man (the king’s son?) and Le fils du Roi, [n.p.].
a woman, as well as phallic and vaginal imagery. The contrast between © 2012 Éric Lambé
dark and light is used to foreground one of the elements that gives con- and FRMK.

291
tinuity within this work of contrasts: a clean, bright white line (a cord, or rope?) which
is made visible on the page once again using contrast: it is usually the only area on the
page that is left completely blank. This is especially noticeable due to the hatching tech-
nique Lambé uses: long lines that cover the page horizontally, vertically, or diagonally.
Generally, these lines are continuous, but they are interrupted to allow for lighter areas
on the page, an effect that is most striking when they remain completely blank, as on
the white lines. At the end of the work, the same technique in which emptiness creates
luminosity, is used to create the spots of light and the blank eyes that are the motifs that
close the book. Spots of light seem to fade, and suddenly our attention is drawn to the
simple drawing technique: the page looks like an obsessive doodle, as if a child had been
playing with a ruler. But then the hatching builds up again, showing how the layering
of diagonal, horizontal, and vertical lines creates depth and texture, and the blank eyes
begin to stand out again.
The work has no narrative. It is a book-shaped object to be touched and leafed through.
Oversized, the book is awkward to hold. The bare cardboard covers with their sharp
edges dig into the hands. The spine of the book is bare too, showing binder’s glue and
the stitching that holds the signatures of the book together. This unfinished quality
draws attention to the book as a material object that has been designed and assembled.2
All the edges of the book are dyed blue, the cuts of the paper as well as of the cardboard
covers. This blue is the same shade as that of the ballpoint lines that make up the art
throughout the work, inside and out. This overload of blue again draws attention to the
process of making this book, the endless tracing of straight lines with simple ballpoint
pens – the work almost makes me want to check my hands for smudges from the ball-
point ink, such is the extent of the Bic ballpoint essence of the book, from the precise
colour blue to the particular raggedness of the lines. Certainly, Le fils du Roi is a work
to be read, but it is about experiencing certain aspects of the making of the work, not
about story. This quality is enhanced by the wordless nature of the work, which creates
picture planes uninterrupted by written words, a much more prosaic use of ballpoint
pens.
Silent Worlds by Carlos Santos shares a focus on “drawnness” with Lambé’s comic. Silent
Worlds is a wordless comic that repeats the same nine-panel grid across all its forty or
so pages. The nine-panel waffle-iron grid is regular but the framing lines have a hand-
drawn wobble to them; often, hatching from the art within the frames slightly crosses
over the panel boundaries. The drawing has an organic quality to it, repeating natural
imagery such as stalactites, flowing water, tree trunks, whorls and ridges as those left by

2  The emphasis on the book as object is what Le fils du Roi shares with David Mazzucchelli’s
Asterios Polyp. Mazzucchelli’s work has the same ‘unfinished’ cardboard covers. It has a dust
jacket that is a touch shorter than the book itself, leaving the top and bottom edges of the card-
board covers exposed. The printing colour scheme of Asterios Polyp also draws attention to the
materiality and manufactured nature of the work. Cyan, magenta, and yellow appear throughout,
and their mixture in the creation of additional colours in the palette is foregrounded. One of
Asterios’s tenets is that function dictates form, which, referring to a pair of Oxfords, he dubs the
“essence of shoeness” (n.p.). Similarly, I will adopt the term the ‘essence of bookness’ to bring
out the materiality of the printed work.

292
erosion, and textures like scales, growth rings, bark. In places these tex-
tures verge on the abstract, but other panels contain representational
figures: insects and fish, ancient ruins and prehistoric life, and medie-
val town-scapes. Some recurring elements in the drawings are skull-like
faces and sex organs, sometimes only indicated suggestively, but often
shown in detail.3 The sequences of panels do not combine into a story,
but they build across pages to create an ebb and flow of tension. From
one page to the next, and across the multiframes of individual pages,
panels lead to other panels in a flow created by repeated textures and
patterns. Other pages are united by animal and forest imagery, parts
of castles, and H.R. Giger-like tubes and ridges. There is a doodle-like
quality to the way details from one panel are picked up and repeated in
the next panel, eventually turning into the next theme. Both Molotiu
and Groensteen comment on the applicability of musical terminology
to discussions of abstract comics (Molotiu, 87; Groensteen, 34), and I
will add my own variation on this theme here, since Santos’s drawings
can be seen as improvisations riffing on certain themes and motifs.
Several pages in Silent Worlds use iconostasis to unite the separate pan-
els even more clearly into a unifying composition that covers the entire
page, with pages 29 and 34 as the clearest examples. On the one hand,
pages with iconostasis foreground the tabular reading of the multi-
frame over a sequential one. Alternatively, sequential dynamism draws
the eyes onwards, not by combining single panels into larger images,
but by creating a rhythm and direction that connects one panel to the
next. Silent Worlds is immersive by virtue of this hypnotic flow, of end-
lessly morphing shapes that come together and fall apart again. In his
essay on Silent Worlds included at the end, Eric Bouchard points out
that the sequence, at least in the sense of order, is practically meaning-
less here: Santos delivered the comic as a stack of unnumbered pages,
leaving it to the publisher to put them in a particular order, but the
final order is as arbitrary as any other (2013, 54). Similarly, Bouchard
argues, the book’s standard waffle-iron grid could be treated as the
squares on a Rubik’s Cube, or the tiles on a sliding puzzle (53), which
can be endlessly shifted around to create new apparitions on the page.
As did Le fils du Roi, Silent Worlds draws attention to the work’s ‘book-
ness,’ albeit a bookness revealed as inadequate by its own materiality.
Indeed, as Bouchard argues, “Santos’s comics forced the book-as-ob-
ject to recognize its limitations in serving these types of works, as if the
3  The ghostly faces and skulls in Silent Worlds bring to mind Scott McCloud’s
notion of the “universality of cartoon imagery” (1993, 31). This would allow
readers to recognize human faces in just “a circle, two dots and a line” (ibid.)
because “we see ourselves in everything [and] assign identities and emotions
where none exist” (33). Silent Worlds inserts (semi-)human faces in the most
unlikely and inhuman of environments.

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latter should have been published via a complex system of pivots, or a
four-dimensional medium” (54).
Fata Morgana by Jon Vermilyea is another work that tests the limits of
narrativity and abstraction with images that contain a degree of rep-
resentationality. Completely composed of full two-page spreads, Fata
Morgana shows a child sleeping in a bed floating in the darkness of
space, followed on the next spread by the same child greeting a friend,
a little block man, as he comes out of the front door of a house. The
implication is that the child in bed is dreaming as he sets off on a dream
journey. Comics readers have been trained for this oneiric narrative for
over a hundred years by Winsor McCay’s Little Nemo in Slumberland
and other variations on the theme. The child in Fata Morgana makes
his way through a series of scary landscapes, always accompanied by
the rock manikin, and joined on the way by other oddly matched
friends, including a holiday ham, a stack of candy corns wearing sun-
glasses, and a corgi-like dog with a pointy hat. Yet this accumulation
of travelling companions is not necessarily evident in the work until
the page where the child bids his new friends goodbye, standing once
more on his doorstep. Earlier in the book the eight additional friends
were tricky to spot, because the companions were not necessarily close
together on the page. Unlike the newfound traveling companions in
The Wizard of Oz, these companions did not join arms and walk to-
gether. The clearest indication of the boy picking up a new companion
is when he is shown carrying the dog in his arms and walking towards
the edge of the page. Moreover, the way colour is used contributes to
the obfuscation of this accumulation: the colouring of Fata Morgana
is bright and surreal and not realistic at all. Furthermore, the colours
are not used to highlight the continuing characters, the child and his
friends. Instead, the contrasts in colour highlight the scary aspects of
the worlds he passes through: eyes of monsters, streams of goo, squirt-
ing wounds. While the colour combinations are striking, they are
not picked for contrast or the type of legibility discussed by Baetens
(2011b). If comics can signal their narrative intent, then Fata Morgana
signals the opposite, indicating that narrative takes a backseat.
Can (and should) Fata Morgana be classified as an abstract comic? It
has figurative imagery and implies a developing narrative. However,
this narrative does not seem to be the point of the work. There is no
sense of a quest or a goal, and the one element that develops over the
course of the pages, the increasing number of traveling companions, is
Figure 3 Carlos Santos,
practically concealed by the dispersal of the companions across the en- Silent Worlds, page 29.
tire surface of the page and the unrealistic colouring of the images. The © 2013 Carlos Santos
opening and closing pages of the work, leading up to the child in bed and Éditions TRIP.

295
and following the closing image of him in bed, mirror each other. They show a chimeral
dragon disappearing into black space and a pastel coloured world with floating geomet-
ric shapes, images that frame the child’s journey. It is not clear how these pages relate to
the boy’s dream journey, or what their relation is to the mirage in the title of the work,
the Fata Morgana. These opening and closing pages unsettle the possibility of realism
upon seeing a boy in bed, thus destabilizing the reading of the work as a straightforward
dream journey. The work is not about the journey, but rather about emotions like fear
and fascination raised by the encounters with fantastical environments; perhaps it is
about the comfort of having friends around in trying circumstances.
Like Fata Morgana, Luke Ramsey’s IS? [Intelligent Sentient?] uses an unrealistic colour
scheme and single-page, full bleed images–not double-page spreads as in Vermilyea’s
comic. While Fata Morgana has a cursory narrative, an overall narrative is harder to
ascribe to IS? Ramsey’s work is similar to Santos’s in the way it establishes visual motifs
and riffs on them. The comic introduces worm- or snakelike shapes that recur on all
pages, often crowding any open space left on the page. Sometimes the worm shapes are
large, even morphing into a river meandering through a landscape, while at other times
the form is reduced to no more than an S-shaped line. Another recurring element is a
blank human outline, apparently waiting to be filled.
Ramsey provides some introductory comments on the copyright page, which is another
key to guide readers in wordless narratives. He draws attention to the importance of
the line, “the same line in time–a line that’s been with humans since the beginning”
(Ramsey 2015, n.p.), and to something he calls the “anti-character.” Some of the works
discussed earlier in this chapter, such as Silent Worlds and Le fils du Roi, drew attention
to the process of their making by highlighting the ‘bookness’ in which the drawings are
embedded. IS? does not share those qualities, but nonetheless foregrounds the creation
process in that Ramsey acknowledges that IS? is the result of a collaboration. Fellow
artists contributed two-page “environments” which included their version of the an-
ti-character, a “de-evolved human from a grey race” (ibid.). He notes that he chose his
contributors based on stylistic affinities: “I identify with their line work” (ibid.). And
indeed, while the pages with the guest artists are quite different in terms of visual style,
in general there is a striking homogeneity in the weight of the line, accentuated by
the continuity in the colour palette. While the work has recurring figures, there is no
identifiable line of narrative to match the importance of the line in the visuals. Indeed,
the blurb on the back cover tells us that the images “tie together not in narrative but in
progressive theme–the takeaway that everything is connected. This book is meant to be
read forward and back, returned to, and treated like a mystical text.”
This notion of things being connected and to be returned to is shared by most works I
have discussed in this chapter. As narrative progression is diminished in these texts, they
become works to be dipped into, with individual pages to be pored over and read out of
context and out of order. Their wordlessness encourages this practice, since there are no
sentences to interrupt or verbal cues to be missed. It is as if the lack of verbal syntagms
begins to erase the common syntagmatic function of the sequential comics image.

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These images no longer testify to what Thierry Groensteen (2007)
has called “iconic solidarity”: they do not presuppose one another and
could be reordered without changing their overall signification in any
meaningful way.4 The page structure in these works supports this read-
ing. Many of the examples discussed use only single images per page,
whether with margins or bleeding off the page. Several texts use full
and two-page spreads throughout. These single-image pages weaken
iconic solidarity, and there are fewer gutters demanding closure. Even
in Silent Worlds, with its deliberate grid, the multiple panels subvert the
sense of narrative sequence, since though they exist in praesentia, these
panels do not in fact presuppose one another: there are no proairetic
codes suggesting action or recurring characters to indicate a protago-
nist. Connections between these images are based on what Bouchard
calls “poetic substance” (51) and a “sense of sequence based on graphic
forces” (Molotiu 2012, 93), not narrative.
Even if a minimal amount of narrative is identifiable in these works,
this is not what they are about. h day, by virtue of the pattern it sets
up between verso and recto pages, builds reader expectation, an an-
ticipation that inevitable leads to a kind of narrative. However, the
point of the work is not the story–a migraine comes and goes, that is
not what the book is about. One could summarize Fata Morgana as
a story about a boy who dreams and makes new friends. These very
simple narrative-focused synopses fail to capture the fascination of
these wordless texts. As Baetens contends, “any story encompasses ele-
ments and devices whose narrative pertinence may vary between ‘high’
and ‘low’” (Baetens 2011a, 106). Another scale functions in parallel,
measuring abstraction from “low” to “high.” By lacking text, word-
less comics display a higher degree of abstraction than comics that use
verbal dialogue and captions. Beyond that however, there are many
factors that determine how specific and representational, or how ab-
stract, a work–and any form of narrative within that work–is going to
be. What the images in a comic finally add up to depends on the kinds
of connections that can be made between them, whether they come
together as sequences or not. Such sequences may be based on a nar-
rative logic, but where degrees of abstraction are high, such sequences
may be linked through formal and graphic logics, the “shifting forms,
whose sequential arrangement starts creating a network of material re-
lationships among drawings instead of providing us with elements to

4 In The System of Comics, Groensteen suggests iconic solidarity as a foun-

dational principle of the form of comics. He provides a definition: “interdepen-
dent images that, participating in a series, present the double characteristic of
being separated (…) and which are plastically and semantically over-deter-
mined by the fact of their coexistence in praesentia” (Groensteen 2007, 18).

297
be integrated into a higher-level narrative” (ibid., 97). In the works I have discussed,
narrative is abstracted into the impression of emotions and a sense of time passing. This
sense of a developing situation derives from the sequentiality of the images, since each
individual image is abstract.

References
Baetens, Jan. 2011a. “Abstraction in Comics.” SubStance 40 (1): 94-113.
–––. 2011b. “From Black & White to Color and Back: What Does It Mean (not) to Use
Color?” College Literature 38 (3): 111-28.
Bouchard, Eric. 2013. “Tabular Worlds.” In Silent Worlds, by Carlos Santos, 51-4. Chelsea,
QC: Éditions Trip.
Drechsler, Debbie. 2003. The Summer of Love. Montreal: Drawn & Quarterly.
Ernst, Max. [1934] 1976. Une semaine de bonté. New York: Dover.
French, Renée. 2010. h day. Brooklyn: Picturebox.
Gaze, Tim. 2010. 100 Scenes: A Graphic Novel. Kent Town, Australia: Asemic Editions.
Groensteen, Thierry. 2007. The System of Comics. Translated by Bart Beaty and Nick Nguyen.
Jackson, Miss.: University Press of Mississippi.
–––. 2013. Comics and Narration. Translated by Ann Miller. Jackson, Miss.: University Press
of Mississippi.
Hetland, Beth. 2012. Conversation. Chicago: Self-published.
Kannenberg, Gene. 2015. Comics Machine #1. Chicago: AbdaComics.
Lambé, Éric. 2012. Le fils du Roi. Brussels: FRMK.
Mazzucchelli, David. 2009. Asterios Polyp. New York: Pantheon.
McCloud, Scott. 1994. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperCollins.
Molotiu, Andrei, ed. 2009. Abstract Comics. Seattle: Fantagraphics.
–––. 2012. “Abstract Comics: Sequential Dynamism and Iconostasis in Abstract Comics and
in Steve Ditko’s Amazing Spider-Man.” In Critical Approaches to Comics: Theories and
Methods, edited by Matthew J. Smith and Randy Duncan, 84-100. New York: Rout-
ledge.
Ramsey, Luke. 2015. IS? [Intelligent Sentient?]. Montreal: Drawn & Quarterly.
Santos, Carlos. 2013. Silent Worlds. Chelsea, QC: Éditions Trip.
Scheel, Ulrich. 2004. Influenza. Poitiers: Éditions FLBLB.
Spiegelman, Art. 2008. “Ace Hole, Midget Detective.” In Breakdowns: Portrait of the Artist as a
Young %@&*!, n.p. New York: Pantheon Books.
Vermilyea, Jon. 2013. Fata Morgana. Toronto: Koyama Press.

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Abstract Panels and Sequences
in Narrative Comics
Pascal Lefèvre

How narrative graphic sequences deal with seemingly abstract imagery

is the focus of this contribution. Of course, such nonrepresentational
passages, in the form of a single panel or a (short) sequence, are still
largely unconventional in graphic narratives since the latter are by
definition based on the narrative connections (suggested chronology,
causality, etc.) between representational panels. In graphic narratives,
it is only via the static and drawn representations of scenes that the
reader/spectator gets access to the plot (or sjuzhet) and can construct
the fabula–the chronological sequence of events as they are supposed
to have occurred in the time-space universe of the narrative (Lefèvre
2000, 2011). When readers do not perceive the graphic representations
as interesting or meaningful, they will not be inclined to continue their
reading. Thus, abstract panels, and especially abstract sequences, may
present a threat to this conventional reading process. Nevertheless, as
I will argue, it matters little to our visual system–at least in the first
moments of perception–whether it is confronted with representational
or nonrepresentational imagery. In addition, not every line or patch
of colour in a drawing or painting denotes something: some lines or
patches are just there as formal elements without a clear or precise
representational mission.
My thesis is that abstract panels in narratives often function only
temporarily in this way, because as the reader continues reading,
these abstract panels usually gain meaning in retrospect. I will trace
the main ways in which abstract imagery is used in narrative comics,
which will lead us to identify four different categories. Subsequently,
I will nuance the difference between the abstract and figurative (or
representational), because the frontier is not always clear-cut; at the
very least it is provisional, and can shift during the reading. Finally,
an analysis of Yokoyama’s (2008) Travel will elucidate how the more
abstract qualities of representational scenes can be used throughout a
complete visual book.

Two Preliminary Considerations on Human

Perception
Firstly, it is important to note that every perception starts with ‘ab-
stract’ stimuli on our retinae. From a multitude of different flecks of

313
light intensities and colours projected through the eye lenses onto our retinae, the vi-
sual part of our brain can ‘see’ and interpret our field of vision, whereby various visual
attributes are processed mostly in parallel and independently of each other (Mather
2014, 50; Arstila 2012, 557). Though it may seem natural and effortless, the process is
in fact extremely complex. Already in the early 18th century in An Essay towards a New
Theory of Vision (1709), George Berkeley pointed out that the various parameters that
give the world its features are conflated in our retinal image. As Dale Purvis paraphrases
Berkeley’s insights,
a two-dimensional image projected onto the receptive surface of the eye could never
specify the three-dimensional source of that image in the world. (…) The same pro-
jected image could be generated by objects of different sizes, at different distances from
the observer, and in different physical orientations. As a result, the actual source of any
three-dimensional object is inevitably uncertain. (Purves 2010, 120)
The problem is not simply that the retinal images are underdetermined and thus am-
biguous: “the deeper issue is that the real world is directly unknowable by means of
any logical operation on a projected image” (ibid.). This inability of the visual system
to access the properties of the world is known as the “inverse problem” or the “un-
derdetermination problem” (Orlandi 2014, 24). The behavioural significance of any
visual stimulus is uncertain, but the “visual system uses constraints developed from past
exposure to overcome the inverse problem” (ibid., 68). Through various procedures,
the visual brain makes sense of the retinal images, for instance by trying to detect and
differentiate objects. Crucial to this process is finding contrasts in luminance because
those can inform us about the basic contours of an object. Experiments have proven
that our visual system will increase the differences between light and dark.

The Wertheimer-Benary effect offers a demonstration (Figure 1): depending on the

surrounding context, we experience subjectively an objectively uniform square of grey
(with the same luminance) at various locations in the larger rectangle with a varying
gradient of luminance as having a different brightness. While a light meter will not
register any difference between the four small grey squares, to human perception it
seems as if the brightness of the grey squares gradually varies: from lighter on the right
to darker on the left. When the surrounding regions are lighter than the grey square,
that particular square will appear darker than when the surrounding area is darker.

314
From other experiments (think of the Mach band for instance) it has
become clear that the human visual system is not specialized in as-
sessing the measurable luminance of a grey surface. There is thus a
crucial difference between luminance, physical dimension and objec-
tively measurable data, and brightness, which is a subjective perceptual
dimension (Wade and Swanston 2013, 152). The differentiation or the
filtering already starts on the level of the retina:
The retinal ganglion cells respond to changes in the pattern of illu-
mination, rather than to steady states of uniform illumination. The
changes can be spatial and temporal. (…) The excitatory and inhibi-
tory interconnections in the retina are the basis for the receptive field
properties of the retinal ganglion cells. (ibid., 148-49)
The light values that reach our brain are modified from the start, al-
ready subject to a kind of Photoshop filter, and offer a picture with
exaggerated differences between values. Furthermore, the first stages
of the visual processing in the primary visual cortex are involved in
finding discontinuities in brightness, colour, and depth. There are, of
course, many other important aspects to visual processing, but in the
context of this contribution, it suffices to stress that at the basis of
every perception is the engagement with two-dimensional patterns of
light (abstract shapes of colour) on our retinae (Palmer 1999, 9). In
the case of cinema or printed graphic narratives, the spectator has to
form, on the basis of a two-dimensional printed or screened picture,
a three-dimensional space wherein the characters are supposed to act–
only exceptionally is a really two-dimensional world suggested (like in
Trondheim’s Bleu). Furthermore, as everyday perception has natural-
ized our environment, in panels of graphic narratives we expect to find
forms and shapes that we can recognize and identify. Our natural envi-
ronment has already trained us to decipher abstract visual impressions.
For instance, our need for identification stimulates us into ‘seeing’
recognizable objects or persons in essentially formless clouds.
When opening a graphic narrative book, the reader already expects
to find various static pictures representing consecutive phases or frag-
ments of an event, and that these images are organized in a specific way
on the page. Regardless of graphic style, the reader expects a panel to
show a representational scene. In almost all cases this assumption will
be gratified, but exceptionally there are panels in a graphic narrative
that defy an easy or unambiguous interpretation. While different from
completely abstract sequences or single abstract paintings, such mo-
mentarily abstract panels in narratives can usually be given meaning
in the context of the larger sequences. But many differences remain. Figure 1 The
Wertheimer-
There is quite an extended field between pure abstraction and com- Benary effect.
plete figuration.

315
The second important issue to consider is that even in figurative pictures (like drawings
or paintings) not every line or patch of colour refers to a detail of an object or a crea-
ture. For example, it is possible that a particular line does not refer to the edge, cracks
or textures of an object. In art, drawing and painting marks may also be used for purely
formal reasons, to suggest a kind formal rhythm for instance. So, while some lines may
denote the contours of something, other lines may function independently of this sys-
tem of references to reality (or a fictive scene). The same goes for shapes: for instance,
in some comics (like Beyrouth by Michel Duveaux) the screen tones do not always obey
the contours of objects or represent shadows.

Categories of Abstract Panels or

Sequences in Graphic Narratives
Predominantly narrative comics can include narratively weaker zones like blank panels
or short sequences of abstract imagery, but generally they do not pose an insuperable
problem for the story-driven reader, because–often in retrospect–they can eventually be
identified and given meaning. Such narratively weaker zones can even strengthen the
impact of narratively stronger zones, as Baetens argues (2011). Following a suggestion
by Barthes, he sees the role of abstract elements as hermeneutical, since
they foreground an enigma, which has to be solved. (…) [N]arrative and antinarrative
are not so much different forms as different strategies of reading and looking, and (…)
the dominance of narrative forms should not prevent us from seeing the perhaps more
covert role of nonnarrative aspects. Second, and more importantly, what abstraction
finally shows is also the possible frailty of narrative. (Baetens 2011, 106; 110)
There are at least four important categories of abstract panels or sequences in narrative
comics. Though the categories cover divergent purposes, they will always stand in re-
lation to the figurative panels/sequences that surround these instances of temporary or
local abstractness.

1. Combinations of Abstract and Figurative Zones

within the Frame of One Panel
When ‘dissecting’ a picture, it may turn out that while some features are more figura-
tive, other features tend to be abstract. For instance, a close-up photo by long-lens can
present someone’s head crisply, while the background, out of focus, becomes a rather
vague colour field. Comics artists can also work with such contrasts in focus between
figure and ground, as Lorenzo Mattotti does in Fires (on page 18) for instance. While
the figure of the soldier is clearly outlined, the environment is represented by unstable,
indeterminate colour fields. Of course, these colour fields are not completely unidenti-
fiable, because the reader can assume from the context that the green colours probably
refer to grass and the bright yellow and orange patches probably refer to groups of

316
flowers. Contrary to what I stated in an earlier publication (Lefèvre
1999), I would now be less categorical in arguing that in this particular
case these forms frustrate rational interpretation and referential com-
parison. As I suggested above, these forms, even in their less precise
definition, still relate, to a greater or lesser degree, to some aspects in
nature. The contrast between well-defined and less defined elements,
between figure and ground, is exploited in many comics, especially
those in a more cartoony style: the backgrounds often lack details and
are suggested by a solid colour field around the characters. Paradoxi-
cally, these artistic choices seem quite natural to us because our visual
perception continuously puts some things in focus while others are
blurred in the background since our peripheral view is less colourful
and sharp than what our eye lenses focus on (Wade and Swanston
2013, 233).

2. ‘Blank’ Panels
From the moment a frame is drawn on a page, the viewer expects that
something is represented within the borders of that frame. Frames have
a long cultural history. A frame signals that there is something to see,
but as in certain abstract paintings, some panels in a graphic narra-
tive can, on the one hand, offer a completely blank picture consisting
of the same colour as the page around the panel, or, on the other, a
uniform field of colour. We find early examples of both in graphic nar-
ratives from the middle of the 19th century: In Gustave Doré’s Histoire
pittoresque, dramatique et caricaturale de la sainte Russie, we find five
panels organized in three tiers. Below the page is a short text:
The following century continued to present a series of colourless facts,
which, dear reader, I’m afraid would only irritate you with my work
from the beginning by pestering you with drawings that are all too
tedious. But my editor, conscientious as he is, urged me to leave the
indicated space alone, to prove that a skilled historian can tone things
down without leaving anything out. (Doré 1854, 7; my translation)1
An example of a uniformly ‘coloured’ panel can be found in an earlier
graphic narrative by Cham, M. Lajaunisse. The last two panels have
the same square form and are completely black. Both the caption and
the previous figurative panel explain why they are black. The previous
figurative panel shows a man blowing out a candle and the captions
1  The original text reads: “Le siècle suivant continuant à présenter une suite de
faits aussi incolores, je craindais, ami lecteur, de vous indisposer contre mon
œuvre, dès le début, en vous accablant de dessins trop ennuyeux. Toutefois
mon éditeur, en homme consciencieux qu’il est, m’a vivement engagé à en
laisser la place indiqué, afin de prouver qu’un historien habile peut tout adou-
cir sans rien passer.”

317
under the panels read as follows: “Exhausted, he blows out the candle with immense
effort, goes to bed, and is astonished to discover it lacks pillow and blankets and is hard
as a bench” (English translation in Kunzle 1990, 77). In both cases, seemingly blank or
abstract panels are used as pictorial devices for humorous purposes, with the captions
helping the reader to understand why they are left white (the colour of the page) or
completely filled with black ink.
In more recent graphic narratives such completely black panels also appear in non-com-
ical contexts: for instance, the first page of the second chapter in Moore and Campbell’s
From Hell consists of 6 black panels (not counting some text balloons and captions).
Only on the following two pages it becomes clear that, as in Cham’s case, this is caused
by the absence of light (in the sewer). The ‘scene’ is repeated more succinctly on page 5
of chapter 14. There are many other examples in this graphic narrative of black panels
motivated by the lack of light. In addition, they can also refer to a black object: while
the black panel on page 8 of chapter 2 conveys the point of view of the blindfolded
person, on the next page, the black panel seems to frame the black blindfold seen from
the front. So, while the implied viewpoint has changed, it still results in a similar black
panel. Black panels can also mark a jump in space and time (chapter 14, pp. 4-5) which
remains unseen at first. It is only in retrospect that the possible meaning of the black
panels becomes clear. There remains, however, always some ambivalence in the inter-
pretation of a particular panel, which does not apply to the same degree to figurative
panels. So, ‘blank’ panels can be used as a means of telling narratives in interesting ways.

3. Panels with Abstract Shapes

More often we encounter panels consisting of shapes that are not immediately recogniz-
able, or only recognizable through the information found in panels in the immediate
neighbourhood of the abstract panel(s). For example, when zooming in on something,
a great deal of the telling context is lost. Context is also an important element in the
recognition of objects; experimental research in perception has shown that a stereotypi-
cal context facilitates recognition, while a truly unusual or atypical context (or location
of objects) complicates recognition. As Palmer (1999, 428-29) explains:
[a] tradeoff exists between the amount of part-structural detail that is needed for object
categorization versus the amount of context that is provided. A given object, such as a
nose, eye, or mouth, can be depicted with only its approximate global shape when it
appears in the proper context. When seen alone, however, its own part structure must be
articulated more fully and accurately to achieve the same level of categorization.
Together with context, the viewpoint on an object matters as well, because as experi-
mental evidence has demonstrated, some views (canonical perspectives or typical views)
will facilitate recognition (Palmer 1999, 421; Deregowski 1984, 45-57).
Comics artists are well aware of this principle. For instance, in Les Éthiopiques (1973)
Hugo Pratt first presents black, seemingly abstract patterns, and only by ‘zooming out’
(in the case of graphic narratives by various static shots) in the following panels can

318
the reader interpret them as the stripes on a zebra. But there is a com-
plicating factor, at the end of the page; two panels show similar black
and white patterns on the shields of the African hunters, which may
undermine our earlier interpretation of the first two panels: possibly
those panels did not show a close-up of a living zebra, but fragments of
the zebra’s skin on a shield. Lecigne and Tamine analyzed it as a sort of
appearance/disappearance play supposing “the dissolution of phenom-
enological world” (1983, 39).
A variation on the previous technique is found in Frank Miller’s The
Dark Knight Returns: a ‘zoom in’ on a detail is followed by a ‘zoom out’
on a similar detail as a way of jumping from one scene to another. For
instance, on page 84 the American flag is zoomed in on, till only the
colours white and red (and black contour lines between the colours) are
visible, followed by a similar pattern of waving colour fields in which
the red reappears, and the white has changed to yellow. The following
panel zooms out to finally reveal the symbol on Superman’s chest. We
understand that the perspective has moved from the outside of the
White House (the flag) to somewhere inside the presidential residence
where Superman is talking with the president. Such transitions by vi-
sual association are often used in cinema. Bordwell and Thompson
(2010) explain that similarities and differences in the purely pictorial
qualities of two shots allow the latter to interact: “The four aspects of
mise-en-scene (lightning, setting, costume, and the behaviour of the
figures in space and time) and most cinematographic qualities (pho-
tography, framing, and camera mobility) all furnish potential graphic
elements” (225). Such graphic configurations–including patterns of
light and dark, line and shape–are largely independent of the image’s
relation to the story’s time and space, and can also be used in static
graphic narratives.

4. Representational Panels and Sequences

Resisting Narrativization
As in the case of abstract cinema, static abstract sequences may also
include recognizable objects
isolat[ing] them from their everyday context in such a way that their
abstract qualities come forward. (…) [S]ince the filmmakers then jux-
tapose the images to create relations of shape, color, and so on, the
film is still using abstract organization in spite of the fact that we can
recognize the object as a bird, a face, or a spoon. (…) But, in watching
an abstract film, we don’t need to use the shapes, colors, or repetitions
that we see and hear for practical purposes. Consequently, we can no-

319
 tice them more fully and see relationships that we would seldom bother to look for
during the practical activities of everyday life. In a film, these abstract qualities become
interesting for their own sake (Bordwell and Thompson 2010, 369).
A fine example of such an abstract film is Ballet Mécanique that Bordwell and Thomp-
son (2010, 369-74) analyse in more detail.
Furthermore, in the case of static sequences, the notion of the ‘abstract’ not only stands
in counterpoint to figurative or representational, but also to narrative. As Jan Baetens
puts it, referring to Vincent Fortemps’s Cimes (1997) and Martin Vaughn-James’s The
Cage (1973): “Abstraction seems to be what resists narrativization, and conversely nar-
rativization seems to be what dissolves abstraction” (2011, 95-6). As comics readers, we
engage quite rapidly in reading sequences, even if they consist of very heterogeneous
panels and are presented in a narrative manner, as Groensteen (1988) has demonstrated.
Such abstract looking panels are not only used for transitions (in time and place), as in
the case of Frank Miller, but also during a sequence, as we will now consider in more
detail through a close reading of Yuichi Yokoyama’s wordless manga Travel (2008).

The Pattern Play of Yokoyama’s Travel

While the majority of manga production is quite formulaic and strongly genre-oriented,
occasionally manga are published that differ strongly from mainstream production.
This is the case in works by Yuichi Yokoyama (°1967), who was trained to become a fine
art artist at the oil painting program of Musashino Art University. His wordless Travel
(originally published in 2006 in Japan, published in English in 2008) is not a graphic
narrative where cause and effect relationships build up an interesting plot. Above all,
it is a contemplation on formal patterns in time and space. Initially, the graphic narra-
tive seems to offer a chronological plot organization because it starts with three males
buying a ticket for a train trip and at the end of the publication they arrive at their
destination, somewhere at the seaside. In-between the opening and closing scene are
some 190 pages purely devoted to the train ride, yet nothing dramatic seems to happen.
Firstly, the narrative focus is not totally organised around the three main characters
of the opening scene; many views of the surroundings of the railroad are presented.
At first, we move along with the three characters through various carriages, until the
three men decide to sit down in the twelfth carriage (on page 44). Notwithstanding
its chronological order, the action does not lead to conventional plot points. Only the
mutual glances and stares between the three walking men and other passengers gener-
ate tension. What immediately strikes the eye is that both train and passengers have an
outspoken design. Though Yokoyama spends a lot of attention on the texture of the
objects represented, his graphic style itself is not textured (Yokoyama’s graphic style
is foremost based on clear outlines). Almost every carriage is meticulously designed
in a completely different way (with other kinds of seats, windows, etc.), just like all
passengers (or group of passengers) are drawn in great detail, from their hairdo to their
clothing, the way they are sitting, walking or standing. As to the order in which the

320
three men are walking, for instance: they always keep the same order,
and it is only at the end, when they leave the train, that the order in
which they walk is suddenly reversed. Furthermore, the number three
is highlighted at various times: there are not only three ‘protagonists,’
but also three identical train drivers, and three motifs on the caps of
the soldiers. Numbers seem to play an important role, because they are
clearly visible like the number of carriages (no. 10 on p. 29, no. 7 on
p. 96, no. 12 on p. 187), or the code (A2, A3) on the briefcases (pp.
30-31), or the number 600 of the destination railway station (pp. 1
and 191).
Patterns are thus of crucial importance. Right from the start we see
three characters with three different patterns on their shirts: the first
wears a shirt with circles, the second one with crossing lines, the third
has a waistcoat with horizontal lines of various sizes and shapes and a
shirt with a pattern of small birds. In a way, these specific patterns will
return in many scenes and work as a visual rhyme: circles in clouds, as
naps, and so on. The most figurative, but least frequent pattern is the
one with the birds; it can be found on the following pages:
p. 4: on a bottle
p. 59: birds in the air
pp. 132-33: birds in the air
p. 180: just one bird on the shirt of a bystander
Like the train, the world outside is also strongly stylized and even
modified in comparison to our world. This occurs for example when
the train passes a house (Figure 2), with somebody standing in a rigid
frontal pose in every window, looking straight at the passing train.

321
Moreover, this is repeated as a visual rhyme at other locations along
the railway (on page 50 and 161). As in Fritz Lang’s film Metropolis
there is sometimes also a robotic feel to the characters and extras. The
environment of the railroad is put in scene as if it were a set designed
for the theatre rather than the accidental appearance of a slice of nature
or human culture. This may suggest that the reader should not take the
represented world as a realistic depiction of our world, though many
details, taken in isolation, may look quite naturalistic.
A few times an almost identical view is repeated, as in these rhyming
close-ups of mundane activities:
• p. 2: buying a ticket
• pp. 41-3: buying cigarettes
• pp. 120-22, 126 and 129: smoking the cigarette
Such visual rhymes (Lefèvre 2006) create translinear relations be-
tween panels that are physically spread over various parts of the book
(Baetens and Lefèvre 1993, 7); this operation is also called “braiding”
(Groensteen 2009, 144).
In fact, the abstract qualities of these representational images func-
tion as variations on a theme (see Groensteen 1988, Bordwell and
Thompson 2010, 368-69): think of the series of close-ups of faces, or
a series of similar long shots of the exterior. There seems no evident
narrative motivation for these decisions (though readers can make up
their own). The mise en scène, framing of the diegetic world and the
author’s notes invite the reader to pay attention to the various types of
designs, textures, and so on. In addition to representational patterns,
there are also numerous patterns that tend toward an increased degree
of abstraction. Especially natural phenomena like sunlight reflections,
harsh shadows, rain and smoke provide views that would be hard to
identify without the semantic context. This is a list of such rather ab-
stract sequences:
• pp. 33-35: sunlight
• p. 71: rain on the windows
• p. 83: speed
• pp. 84-7: sunlight and smoke (see Figure 3)
• pp. 118-19: mountain
• pp. 123-25: smoke
• pp. 146-47: structures
• pp. 178-83: wall

Figure 2 Yuichi
Yokoyama, Travel
(2008, 50). © 2008
Yuichi Yokoyama.

323
In sum, the insistence throughout the book on patterns (represen-
tational or not) and their formal variations is central to Yokoyama’s
Travel. This holds not only for static design patterns (like those on
clothes or carriage floors), but also for fleeting patterns, such as those
caused by light rays, smoke, and water reflections, among others (Fig-
ure 3). Since the reader does not have to deal with the dramatic or
practical purposes of the elements put on the scene, he or she can focus
on the formal, abstract qualities and “see relationships that we would
seldom bother to look for during the practical activities of everyday
life” (Bordwell and Thompson 2010, 369). In this process, the abstract
qualities become interesting for their own sake, but it remains a rather
cold, distant, almost autistic perspective. There is not much room for
empathy.

Conclusion
This chapter began with two basic considerations. On the one hand,
I pointed out that the differences in the first stages of visual percep-
tion do not depend on whether one looks at natural, figurative scenes
or purely abstract images. On the other hand, handmade drawings
or paintings often include marks or traces without a direct repre-
sentational mission. Subsequently, I outlined the main categories of
nonrepresentational panels or sequences in graphic narratives: firstly,
a combination of abstract and figurative zones within the frame of
one panel, secondly, ‘blank’ panels, thirdly, panels with rather abstract
shapes, and lastly, representational panels/sequences that resist narra-
tivization. The difference between abstract and figurative images was
nuanced by demonstrating that panels that initially may look abstract
can become figurative as the reader learns about the context and can
retrospectively make an adjusted interpretation of such panels or se-
quences.
Finally, an analysis of Yokoyama’s Travel demonstrated that while the
majority of its panels are clearly representational, there is not much
in it for a purely story-oriented reader. On the contrary, the choice of
the panels and the construction of sequences invite the reader to con-
sider the more abstract qualities of reappearing patterns and variations.
Though apparently representational, this work by Yokoyama invites us
to notice and enjoy formal variations.

Figure 3 Yuichi
Yokoyama, Travel
(2008, 85). © 2008
Yuichi Yokoyama.

325
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Kodama Kanazawa.

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328
The Possibility of a Ligne Claire Abstraction:
From Jochen Gerner and Siemon Allen to
Floc’h, Pierre Le-Tan and Patrick Caulfield
Hugo Frey

When the American experimental writer Frederic Tuten brought out

his original novelization based on the Tintin series of comics, Tin-
tin in the New World (1993), the hardback first edition of the work
was graced with illustrations from one of the fathers of pop art, Roy
Lichtenstein. The dust jacket illustration features the screen-print Tin-
tin Reading, in which the eponymous boy-hero is depicted pouring
over a newspaper while all around him are the sounds and images of
action and adventure. Behind his seat a door opens and just above it
we can read the words ‘Crac’ framed by wobbly action lines that em-
phasize the echoes of sound. There is also a dagger flying through the
air that one may infer has been aimed at Tintin. In the same work,
Milou is pictured sitting at Tintin’s feet with his eyebrows raised in
anticipation of a new adventure. The portrait of the canine companion
corresponds to Lichtenstein’s reimagining of Tintin himself. His repre-
sentation of the boy-journalist implies that a new mystery reported in
a newspaper column has grabbed his attention. Hanging on the wall
behind the boy and his dog Lichtenstein includes his own interpreta-
tion of Matisse’s The Dance (1909) intimating that the Belgian strip
is comparable to high art. In the same novel, a second illustration by
Lichtenstein serves as the frontispiece. Therein, Lichtenstein continues
to emphasize the narrative qualities of the original Tintin strip by re-
peating the word ‘Crac’ and drawing Tintin and Milou engrossed in
thought. These pastiches of the Tintin books offer a loyal homage to
the original works and their creator. In each case the importance of
the hero is emphasized and a strong narrative context is evoked. The
works are far more traditional and positive about their subject matter
than Lichtenstein’s blow-ups of the Disney, war and romance comics
that had made him first famous in the 1960s. In those pictures the ap-
propriated comic images were radically changed by the artist’s editorial
intervention. In so doing Lichtenstein played with the possibility of a
critique of mass consumer culture, leaving open a suggestion of con-
tempt for the original comic strips (especially for the banality of their
stories). By contrast, Lichtenstein’s later representations of Tintin and
Milou celebrate the pairs’ adventures and maintain Hergé’s ligne claire
aesthetic style without a significant challenge. This was not appropria-
tion through the classic enlargement of the original (with reduction of

329
content detail) but instead in the form of a composite of typical Hergéan iconography
that celebrated the stories and started to tell a new one. Lichtenstein’s admiration for
Hergé is further underlined by the inclusion of the Matisse painting in the background
which further associates comics with ‘high’ fine art.
The ligne claire style is rarely separated from strong narrative emphasis. Since Hergé’s
death this has mainly occurred through satirical re-workings that flatly ignored the fa-
ther of Tintin’s testament that proclaimed ‘no more new Tintin books–ever.’ Such titles
have been a consistent element of the underground press. For example, in the UK there
was the left wing The Adventures of Tintin: Breaking Free (J. Daniels 1988) that used
the original characters for rhetorical purposes to support anarchism. As Jan Baetens
and I have discussed at length elsewhere (Baetens and Frey 2016), it is also the case
that artists from the US and Canadian graphic novel community have adopted their
own approaches that renew the heritage of Tintin through primarily intertextual and
narrative based reformulations. Thus, for Seth in his It’s a Good Life if You Don’t Weaken
(1996), the Tintin strips form an important backdrop to the core autobiographical
storyline and are evoked to generate a sense of nostalgia for older comics. Therein the
referencing of Hergé is also part of a deeper romanticized notion of the idea of the art-
ist. Using a different tone to Seth, Charles Burns upgrades Tintin and the ligne claire
style into his own nightmarish visions of contemporary North American youth culture
(see Burns 2010; 2012; 2014). Nonetheless, Burns remains firmly wedded to situating
his exploration of Tintin-like material inside a narrative context: a nightmarish horror
satire mashed up with teen romance themes. Roy Lichtenstein is another important
fine artist who has reworked images from Tintin, by also predominantly engaging with
the original story worlds of the albums and then remixing them with a new explicit
theme. I am also thinking of Anton Kannemeyer whose provocative works fuse com-
mentaries on the politics of post-apartheid South Africa with an ironic pastiche of
material from the Tintin books (see Kannemeyer 2010). In fact, returning to Tintin
au Congo to comment on its underlying imperialist-conservative vision has become
somewhat of a well-trodden path. A personal favourite of this type of political satire is
Claire Bretécher’s pastiche of the original Congo album cover and her reinvention of
its title into ‘Heidegger in the Congo’ (1988). Her blurring of the Nazi party member
and philosopher, Heidegger, with Hergé’s colonial propaganda comic, is a brilliant joke
that not only makes us smile but points up the troubled political history of both figures.
In light of the predominance of narrative material in the works discussed above is a
more ‘abstract’ ligne claire tradition ever a real possibility? What does a ligne claire
style in the abstract resemble? Are the bright colours, realist but bold black outlines
of Hergé’s graphic style eternally to be married to narratives of action, detection, or
satires and pastiches (political or otherwise)?1 All of the well-known artists and graphic
novelists who are appropriating material from the Tintin strips today continue to use
1  For heuristic purposes, I will equate Hergé’s work on the Tintin books with ligne claire, and
vice versa. Of course, this does not mean that I am unaware of the variety of sub-styles within
the much wider school, or the important contributions of Hergé’s contemporaries, E.P. Jacobs,
Jacques Martin, and Bob de Moor, among others.

330
narration alongside the ligne claire style. Even for a creative force such
as Charles Burns who indulges in an extreme détournement of the
Tintin books, there remains a very strong narrative impulse. After all,
there is a purified realism about the Hergé style that makes it espe-
cially suited for communicating stories. The black lines, the bold and
contrasting colours, all work together to directly show the reader what
is happening, what has occurred and what will make sense for the
reader next. The detail that the form provides also means that as read-
ers we can very quickly engage with the fictional characters because
they live in a world that is just like ours–albeit where objects, places,
and things are clean, clear, bold and simplified. Our ability to read sto-
ries told through the ligne claire mode, to engage with the characters,
is always helped and never hindered by this aesthetic. Pictures, words,
style, everything is aligned to achieve a functioning communication of
a narrative message: action-adventure, comedy, implicit, and explicit
political values, usually a mixture of all three. Conversely, when one
turns away from the traditional sites of graphic narrative (underground
comics; contemporary graphic novels and so on) to survey the border-
land spaces that exist between the worlds of fine art, graphic design,
poster art, or dust jacket design, it seems to me that one begins to find
traces of two kinds of ligne claire abstract art. The subject of the rest of
this chapter is precisely this zone of artistic activity. Here, there have
been works of abstract-like appropriation of the Tintin strips. Equally,
there are fascinating cases of artists whose works make uncanny con-
nections to the ligne claire style.
To my knowledge, two major and successful abstract appropriations
of Hergé’s oeuvre have emerged to date. Here I am thinking of TNT
en Amérique (2002) by the French fine artist and OuBaPo member
Jochen Gerner, and Siemon Allen’s fine art installation In the Land of
Black Gold. Each artist and their work demonstrate that ligne claire
materials can and do inspire forms of abstract art–generally in the form
of new abstract comics. For Gerner this meant redrawing the album
Tintin en Amérique so as to remove all visual material and original text.
Famously, his new work is composed of page after page of black panels
that only include iconic symbols (daggers, exclamation marks, and so
on) or single words to indicate any kind of narrative content. Here
abstraction also means an implicit political critique of what has gone
before. Now, the charming worlds of the Tintin books are removed
from view completely and instead they are reduced to nearly nothing.
Fan readers who so wish can however continue to read the work by
comparing its blacked out and restricted content with the original full
panels. For me there is a real beauty about the work precisely because

331
it so directly engages against the core of ligne claire–its detail, realism, and storytell-
ing–making it a fascinating alternative to more typical satires or pastiches that literally
reprint or redraw Tintin. What is perfect about the work is that the removal of all the
traditional imagery makes us think thoroughly about what was once in its place and
that process poses the question as to the ideology of the strips, as much as their aes-
thetic.
A similar analysis can be made of Siemon Allen’s work of just two years later. As the title
of his piece indicates, the focus here is the album Tintin au pays de l’or noir. What Allen
creates is a huge (8 feet by 16 feet approx.) collage installation of Tintin panels that he
has re-mixed so as to place side by side the panels from the several different editions of
the album (it was amended through a number of reprints, notably in 1950 and 1971).
To emphasize the changes to the images all text is removed from the panels. What is left
is a spectacular wall-mounted set of multiple panels that cannot be read in any kind of
traditional mode. Instead, the viewer is invited to ‘read’ the work as something akin to
a tapestry or painted cloth, taking in well over 500 different panels running in sequence
with each other; to repeat, the earlier and later panels are set next to each other in rows.
One cannot but also consider the work as looking like a mounted animation film reel–
all the panels in multiple sequences being all viewable all at once just like a film spool
on a table, rather than to be read week after week or page after page in the normal deliv-
ery systems (newspaper, magazine, or book) the strips were originally intended for. As
in Gerner’s work, the process of making Tintin into an abstract form holds an ideologi-
cal subtext: Allen’s systematic collage of the multiple versions of Pays de l’or noir reveals
the changing Western attitudes towards the representation of Israel, Palestine and the
Middle East. At the same time the dual representation of the different editions critiques
the notion of any stable or pure ‘first edition.’ Contrary to Walter Benjamin’s famous
critique on mechanical reproduction as the end of art, Allen is celebrating the instabil-
ity and flexibility that comes when machines can print and reprint multiple versions of
works. It no longer matters which of the Tintin books is correct; what is interesting is
two processes. First, the abstract image of the whole piece (a tabular reading) is there to
consider. Second, the micro detail of historical and cultural change that stands out in
the differences or similarities between the parallel editions.
There are also several artists and works that have a more uncanny connection to ligne
claire. What do I mean by uncanny? These artists make no explicit reference to the Tin-
tin books at all, but are evocative of them through resemblances of style or echoes of
coincidentally shared content. In my opinion, this very uncanny neo-abstract imagery
is evidenced in subtle ways in the works of Patrick Caulfield, Pierre Le-Tan and Floc’h.
Much of their work shares a very loose connection to the ligne claire mode without
telling any new stories or evoking the ones from the past. While they do not make up
any kind of collective group, one can identify similarities between each artist, and with
Hergé, in terms of their subject matter and technique. To my knowledge this is the first
time these three important figures have ever been discussed together so for now it will
be a priority to build up a better picture of how we can begin to read them together

332
as an informal group and in so doing explain what constitutes their
relationship to an abstract ligne claire form.
Patrick Caulfield (1936-2005) was a fine artist, loosely associated with
the British pop art movement, but whose works were more influenced
by the European tradition (notably, Juan Gris, and Fernand Léger) than
any of his contemporaries (see Finch 1971; Livingstone 2005; Wallis
2013). He is known to have enjoyed comics–specifically a British daily
newspaper strip, Frank Dickens’s ‘Bristow’ (see Dickens 1966). Ac-
cording to art historian and biographer Clarrie Wallis, he was never
really interested in European comics, although he did collect and use
postcards and ephemera such as recipe card illustrations or architec-
tural photographs as models for his work, some of which he picked up
hitchhiking across Europe in 1960 (see Wallis 2013, 11-12; 19-20; 56;
77; Wallis 2015). Caulfield’s subjects were often objects and spaces of
seemingly no importance–hotels, bars, villas, tables and chairs–yet by
rendering these in bright colours, complete with bold black outlines,
they captured a sense of respect and acceptance for everyday modern
life, including its simple fantasies and pleasures (among further recur-
ring themes there are also restaurants, bars, food and drink). Although
lacking any direct reference, the look and impression of the work so
strongly suggests the world of Tintin that it compelled art historian
William Feaver to point out this similarity on two occasions in his
extended obituary of Caulfield for The Guardian newspaper (2005).
Pierre Le-Tan is an illustrator and fine artist who has worked in
partnership with the French novelist Patrick Modiano, providing
illustrations for two of his works (Modiano and Le-Tan 1981; Modi-
ano and Le-Tan 1983). I mainly focus on Le-Tan’s cover illustrations
to the paperback editions of Modiano’s novels that were published
by the Folio house in Paris until a change of design post-2000. These
cover-images attracted a loyal following and when Folio ended the
collaboration in favour of black and white photographic stills for their
new reprints of the same novels some disappointment was expressed
(see website Reseau Modiano).
For specialists of the bande dessinée, Floc’h’s work is by far the best
known of our three subjects here, particularly for his collaborations
with the writer François Rivière. Together they have co-authored
graphic novels, written an illustrated a novel together on the life of
Somerset Maugham, and the artist’s work is frequently used for dust
jacket covers for publications of the same writer’s detective fiction.
These often interconnected collaborations have been frequent and
longstanding, the best known of which remains their comic strip satire
on Tintin and other detective comics that used the ligne claire style,

333
Une Trilogie Anglaise (see also Frey 2008). That work will not be referred to further in
this essay, but instead, I will discuss Floc’h commercial illustrations, and more specifi-
cally the many single image covers he has designed for the French men’s luxury fashion
and lifestyle magazine Monsieur.
Generally speaking, Caulfield, Le-Tan, and Floc’h make images that share aspects of
the style of the ligne claire. They share a preference for precision and detail, they iso-
late and magnify objects and places. They hold some residual affinity to photography,
the source material that Hergé himself used to capture information and detail for his
drawing. They offer neutral images of spaces, places, objects, furniture, clothes and
costume, without ever making too clear a story. As one would expect, bold colours
and colour schemes are essential to Caulfield and Floc’h’s image making, a little less
so for Le-Tan whose images are usually night-time scenes. As noted above, each artist
seems strongly influenced by photography. Caulfield used similar research techniques
and several works have their origins in photorealist material.2 Floc’h’s cover images for
magazines look like photographs and are designed as such, competing with the classic
magazine covers of fashion photography. Le-Tan similarly has played with the idea of
his work being linked to photography (notably, see his cover to Modiano’s Villa Triste).
This connection allows him to evoke Modiano’s own concerns with lost memories, the
photograph being the artefact par excellence for that theme.
There are further subtle thematic intersections and overlaps as well. Caulfield is espe-
cially fascinating precisely because a number of his works seem to almost accidentally
slip into the very topography of the Tintin universe. Both Caulfield and Hergé share a
fascination with what might be called European exoticism. In Hergé this can be found
in his imagined Central European Syldavia–an invented Balkan state. It was also pro-
vided in his touristic depictions of Switzerland, all mountains, lakes and railways (see
L’Affaire Tournesol; and perhaps the first pages of Tintin en Tibet). Caulfield demon-
strates a comparable fascination with the Alpine, including direct representations in
two works: After Lunch (1975), which features a postcard of Lake Geneva and a fondue
set, and Inside a Swiss Chalet (1969), a quasi-architectural depiction. Similarly, there
is his later detailed representation of a Bavarian beer krug, Souvenir (1999). There are
further overlaps between the two artists in their mutual interest in the modern world
around them. Caulfield’s focus on modern leisure environments in works that focus on
restaurants and café bars often evoke similar spaces that feature as meeting points for
future adventures in the Tintin series. In fact, these spaces are a regular location in the
post-war comics, featuring significantly in Coke en Stock (cinema, hotels, hotel recep-
tion desks) and the beginning of Vol 714 (the airport lounge). In particular, Caulfield’s
treatment of an exotic restaurant–Tandoori Restaurant (1971)–might remind Tintin
aficionados of the Syldavian eating-house in Brussels featured in Le Sceptre d’Ottakar.
Finally, another clear intersection between the worlds of Hergé and Caulfield con-
cerns drinking and alcohol. Caulfield’s symbolic imagination repeatedly returned to

2  According to Wallis (2013), it was the printed black outlines in 1960s postcards that attracted
the artist to the style.

334
bar rooms, glasses, waiters and wine bottles. In other words, the same
subject matter Hergé endlessly played with in his characterizations of
his heavy drinker, Captain Haddock.
In summary, while Caulfield’s oeuvre occasionally plays upon ligne
claire aesthetics, it also includes passing overlaps with some of the same
material spaces and objects found in the Tintin books. It is this coinci-
dence that probably encouraged Feaver to make the connection. With
Caulfield it is not an exaggeration to say that we are provided with
paintings of a world where Tintin could have lived and had adventures
but in which he is absent: Caulfield gives us images of emptiness, or of
objects without people. This is precisely what I mean by an uncanny
abstraction of the ligne claire because it is unnerving how close and
apart the two artists seem to be, yet always missing each other because
of one’s narrative need to entertain and the other’s penchant for still-
ness and bare spaces.
En passant, Floc’h’s magazine covers for Monsieur echo some of the
above intersections. Monsieur magazine is targeted at high living or
aspirational readers and the images Floc’h creates are always suitably
exotic. This is the world of private luxury hotels, seaside or ski desti-
nations. The images are displays of expensive things and fantasies of
luxury lifestyles. Ligne claire without any Tintin has a powerful dis-
position to capture some of our capitalist dreams. Caulfield of course
was not doing this in any kind of commercial sense, but rather like in
Hergé’s backdrops, he was cataloguing sociology rather than comment-
ing on it or adding to commerce in the way glossy lifestyle magazines
do. There is an irony about Floc’h’s contract for Monsieur. By provid-
ing clear line drawings for a glossy picture magazine he is inserting this
aesthetic form back into the visual world Hergé used as a resource to
inspire his images. After all the Hergean ligne claire repeatedly redrew
images taken from photographs in magazines.
If Caulfield and Floc’h are both concerned with clear line representa-
tion of objects, all three artists are shaped by a poetic that emphasizes
emptiness, absence, and, by implication, loss. More specifically, Caul-
field and Le-Tan use their emphasis on clear drawings of objects or
places without people to suggest this emotion. In their depictions of
empty space or single bold objects, we can say that they are implicitly
asking us as viewers ‘what is left?,’ ‘is there more than this to know?’
Maybe unintentionally Floc’h’s advertising images are sometimes too
beautiful and clear to be real, thereby suggesting a comparable tone of
sadness (unintended but inevitable given that not all readers of Mon-
sieur can afford its luxury lifestyle). This is the reason why the work of
these three artists is concerned with nostalgia. Le-Tan’s covers for Mo-

335
diano are the primary case in point. These pictures usually capture empty street scenes
and night-time light, they evoke the passing of time, and as such they are redolent with
Modiano’s thematic predilections on memory and regret. Grosso modo, many of the
works by each artist hold this same relationship to time: the emptiness of the images or
the isolation of the viewer’s eye on a single clear image of an object implies a condition
of historical change. Seeing these images, we cannot but think of what has passed or
what will be. Action has occurred or will come soon, though it seems much less likely in
our historicist culture where we are first disposed to ask what has happened rather than
what will be. Yet in most cases we cannot begin to infer a narrative resolution to the
question. Stories are prompted but they are never fixed, let alone resolved or explicitly
explained.
Once again, the idea of the world of Tintin comics is never included in the direct ways
in which Gerner and Siemon maintain that relationship. Nonetheless, there are echoes
and allusions. This is especially pronounced in the work of Le-Tan and Caulfield. For
Le-Tan there is always an explicit acknowledgement of a debt to the tradition of draw-
ing and illustration. Thus, for La Ronde de Nuit there is just a very thin drawn shape of
a figure (maybe male but maybe female), while for Rue des Boutiques Obscures there is a
cartoon-like depiction of a person with their hands in their pockets. Caulfield’s relation
to the comic strip is far less deliberate than Le-Tan’s overt style that shouts out ‘drawing
and illustration.’ In fact, it is probably just another uncanny coincidence. Bringing
Caulfield and comics together in one place, one discovers that along with the Hergéan-
like ligne claire style, and some broad thematic overlap on the ground of the European
exotic, the artist also had a disposition toward using grids and grid-like patterns in his
pictures. Obviously, Caulfield is not writing comics and has no use for panels in any
technical sense, yet throughout his career his realist works are penetrated by and shaped
through patterns akin to the nine panel style grids so essential to framing a classic comic
page. Thus, one can quickly see the motif forming as a backdrop to his early Landscape
with Birds (1963; Figure 1); occurring as floor tiles in Smokeless Coal Fire (1969) and
repeated as multiple and coloured window tiles in Stained Glass Window (1967). What
is really fascinating is that Caulfield was not only working with a formal style akin to
Hergé’s bold black outlines and bright colour palette, but that also in his world there
was a repeated engagement with grids, meshes and panel shapes. It is therefore almost
as if Caulfield’s ‘abstract comics look’ took all these different elements from ligne claire
albums but then refused to align them neatly together. To repeat, in Caulfield one finds
bold lines, bright colours, photographic substrata, and the repeated grids and panel im-
agery, but nothing is aligned or made whole. Instead, each aspect is disconnected while
remaining inside the same work.

336
Let us pause briefly at Caulfield’s Lit Window (1969), which exempli-
fies much of what I have indicated. This is a picture of a window frame
with an orange light shining into a black night, a window divided into
fifteen smaller, grid-like panes. The look is classic Caulfield: precise,
bold, combining colour and black outline. In addition, through the
small panels in the window an abstract grid (think Piet Mondrian) or
a comic like page layout (think Hergé) is metaphorically also included
into the total design. In fact, the image would not look at all out of
place in a Tintin comic, especially in one from the later and finest pe-
riod of the 1950s to 1960s. Caulfield’s window resembles the famous
panel from Castafiore in which Tintin looks into the black night to
pronounce in words the existential theme of emptiness so prevalent in
Caulfield’s picture, “Mais il n’y a rien”–“There is nothing there.” What
is different from Lit Window is that for Hergé the window frame is a
direct echo of the panels on the page. In Caulfield’s work the implicit
panel has no real meaning other than to provide the work with greater Patrick Caulfield,
visual power, to hint at modernism without repeating Mondrian. Landscape with Birds,
1963. Pallant House
Caulfield’s images have even been reprinted and arranged in book form Gallery. Wilson Gift
in such a way that they have come to resemble comic strip pages–com- through The Art
Fund, 2006. © Janet
pletely by chance. This is the case in Clarrie Wallis’s fascinating recent Nathan Caulfield

337
study (2013). Let me explain. In 1973 Caulfield produced a series of screen print as
illustrations to selected poems by the French writer Jules Laforgue (1973). Printed in a
luxury, small run edition, the work is an exceptional example of how Caulfield’s limpid
and still images of close-ups of daily life objects complement the poet’s vision. Either
intentionally or accidentally, Wallis’s recent monograph on Caulfield reprints and edits
twelve of these prints into a new single page (2013, 36), the individual images being
tiled three by four into a twelve-panel grid (Laforgue’s texts removed entirely). In this
powerful editorial act, Wallis remixes Caulfield’s art into what can only be called an
original abstract comic page. Thus, we see Caulfield’s depiction of a lampshade, next to
a menu on a table, beneath a green railing bar. All connections or intentions between
images are left to our imaginations. Our ideas bounce between the panels but no single
message takes the upper hand. My point here is in fact not a flippant one at all. What
I am showing is that through one small editorial decision by Wallis, Caulfield’s oeuvre
is now directly an abstract comic in its own right. An act, and imposition, that lends
weight to my suggestion to read Caulfield as a special kind of abstract inheritor and
manipulator of the ligne claire style, no doubt via Mondrian, and Léger, but ending up
rather close to a world of Tintin without Tintin.
To conclude, this chapter has sketched the abstract after-life for the ligne claire. Let me
emphasize again, pastiche narrative, satire or celebration of the comics of the 1930s to
1960s, are still the most common formats, as the success of Lichtenstein, Burns and
others indicates. However, when fine artists, illustrators, and graphic designers take a
different stance, there are cases of abstract and neo-abstract development. Gerner’s and
Allen’s approach provides us with a classic example of almost complete reduction of
narration. Images are made black and therefore blank (Gerner), or words and standard
sequences removed (Allen), the Tintin stories and their political subtexts are obliter-
ated; though as viewers we cannot but also appreciate their haunting presence since the
new works do depend on a working knowledge of the original series and its ideology.
Quite differently, I have also been arguing for the importance of Caulfield, Le-Tan and
Floc’h. These artists–especially Le-Tan and Caulfield–specialize in making worlds of
absence, images of moments that have passed, objects left behind, remembered photo-
graphs re-discovered, stage sets or meeting places awaiting people, bar rooms at opening
time. Here, adventure has been replaced by regret and reflection on the banality of
modern life. At the end of his career, Hergé did not want to continue the Tintin series,
but pressed on nonetheless to keep his readers happy. For this critic, the work of Le-
Tan and Caulfield holds open the possibility of a Hergéan art without the burden of
character or explicit plot.

Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Jan Baetens, whose ongoing collaborations greatly influenced this es-
say, and to Clarrie Wallis for her kind interest and feedback on the Caulfield-European
comics connection. Neither is responsible for the argument and content above.

338
References
Baetens, Jan and Hugo Frey. 2016. “​Modernizing ​Tintin: From Myth to
New Stylizations.” In The Comics ​of Hergé: When the Lines Are not
so Clear, edited by Joe Sutcliff Sanders, 98-112. Jackson, MS: Uni-
versity Press of Mississippi.
Bretécher, Claire. 1988. Aggripine. Paris: Casterman.
Burns, Charles. 2010. X’ed Out. New York: Pantheon.
___. 2012. The Hive. New York: Pantheon.
___. 2014. Sugar Skull. New York: Pantheon.
Caulfield, Patrick, and Jules Laforge. 1973. Quelsques poèmes de Jules La-
forgue/planches de Patrick Caulfield. London: Petersburg Press.
Daniels, J. 1989. Breaking Free. London: Attack International Organization.
Dickens, Frank. 1966. Bristow. London: Constable.
Gerner, Jochen. 2002. TNT en Amérique. Paris: Ampoule.
Feaver, William. 2005. “Patrick Caulfield: Obituary.” The Guardian 3 Oc-
tober. Available online:http://www.theguardian.com/news/2005/
oct/03/guardianobituaries.artsobituaries (last accessed 17 Decem-
ber 2015)
Finch, Christopher. 1971. Patrick Caulfield. London: Penguin.
Frey, Hugo. 2008. “Trafic d’Outre-Manche: réflexion sur Une trilogie anglaise
de Floc’h et Rivière.” Lendemains: Études comparées sur la France 33
(129): 43-60.
Kannemeyer, Anton. 2010. Pappa in Afrika. London: Jacana Media.
http://lereseaumodiano.blogspot.co.uk (last accessed December 2015).
Livingstone, Marco. 2005. Patrick Caulfield - Paintings. London: Lund
Humphries.
Modiano, Patrick, and Pierre Le-Tan. 1981. Memory Lane. Paris: Hachette
POL.
___. 1983. Poupée Blonde. Paris: Hachette POL.
Seth. 2003. It’s a Good Life, If You Don’t Weaken. Montreal: Drawn & Quar-
terly.
Tuten, Frederic.1993. Tintin in the New World. London: Marion Boyers.
Wallis, Clarrie. 2013. British Artists: Patrick Caulfield. London: Tate Pub-
lishing.
___. 2015. E-mail message to author.

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 Significations

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Significations

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342
Abstraction and Non-Sequitur 
Jakob F. Dittmar

Introduction
This essay examines abstract meaning and references in comics to better
understand the limitations on storytelling in comics that might result
from increased narrative abstraction. The central question is under what
conditions a sequential reading of juxtaposed images stops working. By
examining a number of examples, I will investigate what necessary fea-
tures a group of images must have to be identified as a comic.
Given that there are different definitions of the abstract, I will combine
literary and art historical definitions to discuss what abstraction in
comics can be. With individual images, applying the definition of the
abstract used in fine arts is easy enough: Abstraction is not concerned
with concrete figurative representation. But with sequences of images,
the form and content of each image is as important as the form of the
sequence itself. The diegesis of a comic is created through its sequenc-
ing of images, in the interweaving of representations of forms: images
link and relate to other images. In comics, formal or narrative abstrac-
tion can be understood as the lack of connection between individual,
neighbouring images. This is in essence the quality that has been de-
scribed as “non-sequitur” by Scott McCloud for sequence-building
in comics narration (McCloud 1993, 70ff.). However, I argue that
non-sequitur does not really exist. Readers always construct some kind
of meaning into sequences of images as examples of non-intended se-
quences show.
Formal abstraction in comics is also possible: the panel grid and frames
of a page can be abandoned for an abstraction of their forms. In comics
theory, four page styles have been identified, with many mixed forms
existing in practice. Pages are either regulated (or constant), for in-
stance by using a uniform panel grid; decorative, designed as if the page
could stand as graphic art on its own; rhetorical, giving as much room
to each image as needed to ensure the best effect for the development
of the story, or productive, with productive pages dictating the devel-
opment of the narrative, for instance when objects begin in one image
and influence the following or previous images by overlapping. In the
latter, shapes continue through several images while the narration fol-
lows a different sequence on the page (cf. Paillarse 1988, 10ff.; Peeters
2003). Some of these “productive pages” can seem rather abstract com-

343
pared to standard comics pages (cf. Peeters 2003). Abstract forms or content in comics
makes for markedly different styles and narrative. In the following section I will present
definitions of abstraction from literature and the fine arts to gauge which approach is
most suited to the study of comics and their narrative techniques.

Storytelling in Comics
How abstract a comic can become before its story becomes incomprehensible mainly
depends on the individual reader’s cultural and intellectual background. References to
topics and cues for meaning are read into material that was not intended to carry these
significations, but are activated if readers find them in the signs and images used to tell
the story. Under what conditions does the reading of sequentially juxtaposed images
stop making sense?
Very little is needed to have readers contextualise images with other, juxtaposed images,
and arrange these in sequences and thereby awaken narrativity. Readers make sense of
whatever image sequences are set up within the same narrative: an interrelation of im-
ages presented in close proximity is what the reader expects and is therefore constructed
into the material. This becomes clear when looking at different sequences of images:
Intended as a narrative or not, they are viewed in the same overall context that unites
them. Vasily Kandinsky’s Zarte Bagatellen (1937), an upright strip of paired images in
six rows, proves my point: relations between the images are easily constructed owing to
the return of individual forms and colours which link or rather interweave the specific
places within the piece.
As with all comics, this example shows that the structural basis for comics storytelling
is rather simple, while complexities arise through interweaving (tressage, cf. Groensteen
1999), that is to say, by the way in which images link and relate to other images on the
same and/or other pages, setting the tone and quality of each comic. This juxtaposition
of images into a context generates meaning and detail; it constructs relations between
individual places in the narrative through placement on the specific page (spatio-topie
in Groensteen’s terminology), and between narrative elements and themes in the devel-
opment of the story (arthrologie) (Groensteen 1999): “The first is about spatial relations
and the second about semantic relation” (Magnusson 2005, 42). This is what we deal
with when we analyse or plan the dramaturgical development of comics. This is equally
what we expect as a logical background when encountering sequences of images, which
might have been intended as abstract comics or which just happen to allow for reading
them as comics (chance sequences continue to be one of the major problems in the
placement of ads, for instance).

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Abstraction
The abstract is the opposite of the concrete. But what do these terms
refer to when we look at comics? Comics are graphic literature and
deliver dialogue embedded in pictorial information indicating that the
text presented is spoken out loud–just as theatre scripts. But the fol-
lowing definition used for literature seems difficult to apply to comics.
As Cuddon explains:
abstract (...). Not concrete. A sentence is abstract if it deals with a class
of things or persons: for example: ‘All men are liars.’ On the other
hand, ‘Smith is a liar’ is a concrete statement. The subject of a sentence
may also be an abstraction, as in ‘The wealth of the ruling classes.’
Something may be said to be abstract if it is the name for a quality, like
heat or faith. Critics use the terms abstract and concrete of imagery
(...). For the most part poetry is the language of concreteness; prose
that of the abstract. At any rate prose tends to be better able to deal
with the abstract because it is more precise; not necessarily, therefore,
more accurate. (Cuddon 1991, 3)
Images usually depict specific states and relations between things, inani-
mate objects, and people. They seem to illustrate more abstract concepts
by giving them concrete shape. Apart from information graphics that
use pictograms and the like, images in comics seem to make concrete
statements. However, as the limitations already indicate, comics vi-
sualise and narrate on an abstract level as well. The question whether
comics are closer to poetry than prose cannot be decided since most
use reduction of details in their imagery, thus suggesting personhood
while they in fact engage in typification, i.e., abstraction in Cuddon’s
sense. If one would follow this idea dogmatically, the amount of visual
detail would determine individuality and thus the concreteness of im-
ages, while on the other hand, the reduction of figures to types would
indicate abstraction. However, most comics–apart from photorealistic
ones–reduce visual details and narrate by means of (stereo-)typical fig-
ures. Consequently, keeping the definition as it pertains to literature
in mind, Batman, Tintin and many other comic characters are to a
greater or lesser extent abstract figures. Many of the stories featuring
these figures follow the typical paths of fairy tales and have become
staple characters in Hollywood mainstream cinema.
In visual art, abstraction refers to the purposeful design of a work of
art as a means to suggest the essence of something–the work becomes
gestaltet, so to speak, assuming a specific, concrete form. At a fun-
damental level, each piece of abstract art refers to and depends on a
context. It is never without expression as expression is always given

345
in form, with the modulations and ductus of the artistic tools and materials (Lützeler
1967, 78-88). While the creator of abstract art might have intended a specific reference
or message, it is the audience’s reading of the artefact that matters in a narrative sense, as
meaning is based on cultural knowledge and the specific framing of the work. As with
all forms of communication, the dependency on shared cultural knowledge between au-
thor and reader, i.e., in encoding and decoding applies here as well (cf. Hall 1980). The
artwork itself invites description and the contemplation of its form, its measurements
and balance–or lack thereof. Its cultural connotations are produced depending on its
specific setting, which may give rise to contradictory interpretations given the variety
of the audience’s cultural background and experience with forms, colours, and so on.
Moreover, the specific process of production is of importance in this regard, as surfaces
for example give an insight into the way the artefact was made. With abstract drawings
or paintings for example, traces of production tools on the surfaces and the finish of de-
tails are crucial style elements. The style of image production used for a comic is central
to its aesthetic frame of reference. The way in which images are placed alongside each
other determines the rhetoric and stylistic qualities of the resulting comic, no matter
whether the image sequence was intended as a comic or not.

Examples
To examine formal abstraction, I will now turn to a few examples and discuss the nar-
rative function of abstract images and pages.

346
Jarl Hammarberg (who publishes in Esperanto as Jarlo Martelmondo)
experimented with sequential visual storytelling by blending concrete
poetry with images that otherwise contain very few drawn pictorial
elements. These images are put into sequences, with often six images
per page, printed into the bleed, that is to say, without an outer frame
on the page but the end of the page functioning as the frame to the
outer edges of the images. In each strip, the textual elements are set
in the same type, placed in accordance with a strategy that cannot be
deduced from the resulting images. Hammarberg himself points to the
influence of concrete poetry in his comments at the end of rutapåruta
(1993, 103). The words in the images are sometimes synonyms, refer-
ring to the same topic, sometimes only connectable by association, and
sometimes not related to each other at all. While neither a clear message
nor a general meaning can be read into the example, the style creates a
specific atmosphere that emerges through possible associations awak-
ened in the reader upon seeing the typeface; the words, drawings, the
placing and composition of the images might invoke concrete poetry
in certain readers, for instance (Figure 1). Where drawn elements are
given, these are usually extremely reduced and only partly recognisable
as references to a specific sign or object. Cuddon’s characterization of
concrete poetry also applies to this work: “In the more way-out ex-
amples of this kind of verse sense is abandoned; there is no syntax or
grammar” (Cuddon 1991, 184).
Swedish artist Elis Ernst Eriksson was familiar with comics, and pro-
duced a number of exceptional and important artistic comics that refer
in their partly reduced, seemingly chaotic events and machinery con-
structions to George Herriman’s Krazy Kat, while individual pages can
be seen as precursors to Chris Ware’s complex logic of references on
the same page (see Eriksson’s Pavanhäftet of 1965; Figure 2). Eriks-
son worked with abstraction of visual content as well as abstraction
of the accompanying or inserted texts: The illustrated novella Tårar
(2002) shows several rectangular entities living in an urban setting. Figure 1 Page from
Even though we all look different from these forms, we can recognise rutapåruta by Jarl
Hammarberg (1993,
them as representations of human beings, abstracted from individu- [41]). In this example,
als to be condensed into types with reduced individuality. In 2003 sound words and
Eriksson exhibited and published Åkk, a sequence of framed black wordplay are mixed
with drawn forms,
and white images and texts dealing with the Israeli occupation of Pal- which may or may
estine. In this work, the sequence of images was constructed from the not refer to symbols
from physics, astrology,
individual parts of the series, and while its narrative infrastructure re- and visual telegraphy.
sembled that of a comic it was not intended as such. The exhibition Jarl Hammarberg,
displayed juxtaposed images that were placed individually but made rutapåruta, page
41. © 1993 Jarl
up a sequence, while the printed version emphasized the sequentiality Hammarberg.

347
that informs the narrative pulse of Åkk. Here, too, pictorial and textual
content complement each other in each image and within the series of
images; they invite the reader to make sense of each individual image
on its own and in the context of the sequence. Some of the images
contain small bits of typed text on paper that is glued on, while oth-
ers are written in large block letters, and still others merely consist of
texts listing references, incidents, and so on. As Cuddon indicated, text
allows for abstraction. Abstract concepts can be expressed by simply
using the words that stand for it. Concepts like ‘democracy’ can be
written down easily, but are much more difficult to express in drawings
or illustrations.
Allan Haverholm follows a completely different approach by experi-
menting with comics genres and structures. In the anthology When the
Last Story Is Told (2015), he focuses on the page as a whole, as he partly
presents pages filled with frames full of similar crosshatchings or other
painted structures or patterns. There is no development nor are there
substantial differences between the images placed in direct juxtaposi-
tion, apart from a few pages where the panel grid has been filled with
paper squares of different paper quality and hues. A few pages simply
show a panel grid drawn on top of a photo-collage or overlaying one
large image. Considering the title, it is possible that Haverholm in-
tended emptiness as the main theme of the anthology. All pages show
almost exactly the same panel grid, and the book does not even play
on different page styles–with page styles allowing for different styles
of story development in comics–nor does it invite reflection on the
process of storytelling itself since there is nothing to put into the form
at all. The repetition of the same formula throughout the book does
not lead anywhere; it does not lead to increased insight. The same ap-
proach to page construction works well in manga and longer narratives
that show content that can be read as a development of a narrative,
Figure 2 A page from
but in When the Last Story Is Told, this visual strategy falls short. This is Elis Ernst Eriksson’s
mostly because Haverholm avoids filling the frames with content, and Pavanhäftet (1965)
illustrating his reduced
as a result, the pages of the anthology remain experiments on textures and rather special
and patterns without stimulating the reader’s imagination. While on a narrative style. Here,
formal level the style suggests that the pages are comics, their content the hero and his horse
roll themselves up
does not tell any story, nor does it invite any flights of association. No while commenting
developments can be read from the sequence of images; no sense but on the tightness of
repetitiveness can be made of the sequence of individual images. the resulting rolls.
Then they accelerate
This is completely different in Clay Ketter’s photographs of frames and and get into a pipe
going through a
panel grids which reproduce a host of objects such as shelves, kitchen mountain. (Eriksson
cupboards and wall and tile patterns left behind in demolished houses in Hultberg 2006,
(cf. Ketter 2016). The reader is thus able to simultaneously recognise 265). © 1965, 2006
Elis Ernst Eriksson.

349
the original objects as well as grasp the reference to panel grids and
sequences of frames so characteristic of comics. The details invite the
reader to imaginatively reconstruct the ruined building. Remnants
of wallpapers, differently tiled sections and the like are recognisable
and enable cultural referencing, and create a relation to the content of
the image, while many of the images can even be read as sequences.
Thus, in this case as well, we see abstract patterns that do not amount
to comics but only allude to this literary form via page layout and
framing. Whereas Ketter manages to get the reader to relate to the
material, Haverholm’s work does not allow for this because of the lack
of hooks for the readers. Haverholm’s anthology highlights the limita-
tions for abstract content: There needs to be visual content that invites
the reader to engage mentally, to decode it in whatever way possible,
to recognise something in the forms and colours. The employment of a
uniform panel grid without any other reference to the nature of comics
storytelling–i.e., juxtaposed sequential images of some kind–does not
suffice on its own to turn visual material into a comic.
Olivier Marbœuf takes the opposite approach in his comic La Sainte
Face. It too employs a uniform panel grid. However, it starts as a rather
classical comic only for the visual style established at the outset to
dissolve later in the story. La Sainte Face is one of three comics ad-
aptations of Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck that are featured in the comics
magazine Le heval sans tête (no. 1) and employs increasing reduction of
detail. The visual style is first reduced from overall dark images in black
and white (using crosshatching for grey tones). White and black lines
profile simplified forms and take over the visual style of the pages. The
story ends with the panel grid over an almost empty page, resembling
the result of a glass bead game that has taken over the discourse of the
story’s figures, transforming them into ink-blots at the extremities of
the lines that seem to record (or indicate) movement (Figure 3).
The breakdown of the visual style, or rather, its change from one style
to another while keeping the page structure intact, is also an allusion
Figure 3 Final page of
to Woyzeck’s main theme. As the visuals are significantly reduced, their “La Sainte Face” by
references change with this process. But the content of the story, the Olivier Marbœuf. It
resembles the outcome
message of the play that is used as the basis for the comic, is kept intact of a glass bead game
and is narrated in a way that is unique to comics. In this case, it is not while keeping the
the story that dissolves, but the reduction of the visual style that is used comic’s uniform
panel grid as its main
as a narrative device. The comic in fact poses a dilemma: is it abstract structuring device.
at first, to become concrete in the final recording of movements on Olivier Marbœuf,
paper, or is it concrete in its depiction of a dreary landscape with shad- “La Sainte Face”, Le
Cheval sans Tête n°1,
owy figures, only to become abstract in its reductionist figuring of the page 88. © 1996
story’s message? Olivier Marbœuf.

351
Units of Storytelling
As comics are drawn or assembled and finally printed on more or less flat surfaces or
presented on screens, they all share this dependency on surfaces. Abstract comics are
in no way different: a defined space is used for the juxtaposition of multiple images.
They are recognisable as a sequence of images; if the work only had one single image it
would not be a comic. No narrative plot or story is necessary, a synthesis of the differ-
ent images is a possibility but not a requirement, but the reader must at least be able
to differentiate between pictorial units contained by the ‘page’ (let us consider such a
unit as a page, even if it might be placed on a wall or in any other setting). The page
is a basic unit in the structure of comics storytelling (cf. Groensteen 1999, 26ff.), and
each page is an image containing multiple images. Accordingly, pages are referred to
as “hyperframe” (hypercadre, cf. Peeters 2003), “meta-panel” or “super-panel” (Eisner
2004), while the narrative constructed from the different pages can be seen as a “multi-
frame” (multicadre, multicadre feuilleté ; cf. Van Lier 1988). This is the comic’s skeleton
around which its narration develops and against which all its other decisive qualities are
defined (cf. Magnusson 2005). Consequently, the rhetoric of each comic is grounded
in the use and combination of frames: they allow for the punctuation of the story, for
the visualization of narrative rhythm and structure. Otherwise the material might just
be a collage instead of a sequence of images.

There Is No Such Thing as ‘Non-Sequitur’

One side effect of the way in which we read meaning into sequences of images is that
McCloud’s definition of “non-sequitur” (McCloud 1993, 72) is impossible in comics
storytelling because the reader makes sense of whatever sequences of images appear
in the same narrative. Interrelations between images are expected and therefore con-
structed into the material, especially in the case of short cartoons, but also in longer
visual narratives. The fact that images are placed in juxtaposition within the frame of
a page or under a shared title creates an expectation in the reader who now constructs
relations between images that might never have been intended to make sense together.
I will give just two examples to illustrate my point: today, the placement of advertise-
ments in newspapers, blogs and other media is decided by a publisher’s algorithm. Thus,
unfortunate combinations of articles on whatever subjects alongside advertisements
for all kinds of products and services can be seen side by side, and readers will make
links between the two. These incidents usually result in free additional advertisement
for the same company as a way to compensate for the ‘misplacement’ of the original
article (one of the most striking examples of the algorithmic misplacement of adverts
is perhaps the appearance of gas company ads next to holocaust-related texts). Another
example is Mikael Fisk’s Odd Panels: A Comic Strip Generator Prototype. The genera-
tor combines pre-produced single images, and randomly adds comments and speech
balloons. Each resulting strip is presented on a webpage in slot-machine style (Figure
4). The reader (or user) only has to determine whether the strip should consist of two,

352
three or four images and if it should contain comments and/or speech
balloons. The rest is done by random selection, and the reader always
makes sense of the resulting strip. It seems there is no way around the
expectation and performance of narrative in the reader’s imagination.

Conclusion
The meaning of ‘abstraction’ differs in literature and fine arts. While the
first is concerned with generalisations and conceptualisation, the other
focuses on the visual aspects of abstraction in terms of non-figurative
expression. In comics, both concepts can be applied meaningfully, es-
pecially as abstraction in the sense of generalisation from individual
to typical forms is used in the design of most comics characters, be
they fictional or non-fictional. Also, many comics concern themselves
with reflections on abstract qualities that are important for societies.
As mentioned earlier, text readily accommodates generalisations, while
it is considered difficult to express abstract concepts in pictures. Many
comics negotiate abstract issues on the pictorial plane as well, visibly
not content with restricting themselves to the specific.
With regards to abstract storytelling, the examples discussed show that
comics need to offer material for possible connotations and/or asso-
ciations in terms of content, and, to a lesser extent, in terms of form.
Eriksson’s Åkk shows that it is not the placing of images in specific Figure 4 One example
juxtapositions that makes a sequence of images a comic: the juxtaposi- of a comic strip
produced by random
tion of images itself is sufficient. When the Last Story Is Told teaches us selection from a stock
that it is not sufficient to use comics-specific page structures without of images, comments,
and speech balloons
providing the content that would incite at least some flights of the in the Odd Panels
imagination. It must be stressed that abstraction is a quality attributed Comic Strip Generator
to descriptions or visualisations that depend on the individual reader’s by Mikael Fisk. “Odd
Panels: A Comic Strip
background, which the work of Hammarberg attests to. The uncertain Generator Prototype.”
references of the drawn elements together with the text placed in the http://oddpanels.
tradition of concrete poetry invite the reader’s imagination to make bitballoon.com/. ©
2014 Mikael Fisk.
sense of the mystery and make the comic more interesting.
353
Background knowledge of certain codes and signs determines whether something is
meaningful or not. There can be no communication when signs are used that are un-
known to the reader or not relatable to known forms. Marbœuf ’s Woyzeck adaption
attacks a conventional pictorial style with overlays of mock tribal line work, abstracting
from realistic representation of figures, before the picture plane dissolves into a record-
ing of disoriented gestures within the orderly pattern of the comic’s grid. It shows how
abstract concepts such as identity can be visualised in comics.
In sum, humans are storytelling animals (cf. MacIntyre 1981, 216); we are trained to
invent and discover stories in all kinds of materials and contexts, be they concrete or ab-
stract. We read structure into the chance sequences of advertising and media in general.
Our penchant for narrative is exemplified by the ways in which we construct a kind of
hypertext out of snippets of information (cf. Murray 1998); interrelations are forged on
the basis of what is seemingly incongruous. This ability to create strings of information
is only limited by restrictions in signification: every individual reader improvises and,
according to the specific context, puts two and two together as he or she sees fit.

References
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Eisner, Will. 2004. Comics and Sequential Art. Tamarac, FL: Poorhouse Press.
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ited by Teddy Hultberg, 417–27. Stockholm: Schultz Förlag.
–––. 2006b. “Pavan.” In Håll tjeften. Elis Ernst Eriksson, 247-79.
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Strip Generator Prototype. http://oddpanels.bitballoon.com/.
Groensteen, Thierry. 1999. Système de la bande dessinée. Paris: Presses universitaires de France.
Hall, Stuart. 1980. “Encoding/Decoding.” In Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers in Cul-
tural Studies, 1972-79, edited by Stuart Hall, Doothy Hobson, Andrew Lowe, and
Paul Willis, 128–38. London: Hutchinson.
Hammarberg, Jarl. 1993. Rutapåruta: 3 serier. Stockholm: Författares Bokmaskin.
Haverholm, Allan. 2015. When the Last Story Is Told. Malmö: C’est Bon Kultur.
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Ketter, Clay. 2016. “Clay Ketter.” Clay Ketter: Works. http://www.clayketter.com/works.html.
Lützeler, Heinrich. 1967. Abstrakte Malerei. Bedeutung und Grenze. Gütersloh: Bertelsmann.
MacIntyre, Alasdair. 1981. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. London: Duckworth.
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Marbœuf, Olivier. 1998. “Woyzeck, La Sainte Face .” Schreibheft, no. 51: 151–56. Originally
published as “La Sainte Face.” Le cheval sans tête, 1996, no. 1.

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Murray, Janet H. 1998. Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in
Cyberspace. Cambridge, Mass: The MIT Press.
Paillarse, Dominique. 1988. Eine Grafische Kunst: Der Französische Comic.
Berlin: Elefanten Press.
Peeters, Benoit. 2010. Lire la bande dessinée. Paris: Editions Flammarion.
Van Lier, Henri. 1988. “La Bande Dessinée, Une Cosmogonie Dure.” In
Bande dessinée, récits et modernité, edited by Thierry Groensteen,
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Tic Tac Comic
Tomás Arguello
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Abstraction and Comics from
a Semiotic Point of View
Fred Andersson

One particular question framing this publication caught my immediate

attention: “How do comics modify our understanding of the abstract?”
(Rommens 2015). Note that this question is not about ‘abstract comics’
specifically, but rather about comics in general. The question invites us
to address not only ‘the abstract’ as a Modernist and historically specific
phenomenon in visual art and design, but also more general notions
of abstraction. This chapter will therefore address ‘abstract comics’ and
cognitive abstraction from a semiotic point of view.

Abstraction and
the Six Functions of Communication
What I have in mind can be seen in Funtus, a comic drawn by Rolf
Sandqvist which appeared in Finnish and Swedish dailies in the fif-
ties and sixties (Figure 1). In this episode, Funtus is surprised because
he suddenly faces what seem to be two previous moments of himself
after accidentally falling through time and space in the three-panel
sequence, the latter always providing the strict material limit of his
appearances.

Figure 1 Rolf
Sandqvist, strip
reproduced in Nya
Argus, Vol 105 (2012),
no 10-11, page 279. ©
2015 Tom Sandqvist.

371
In semiotic and functional terms, this strip evinces the meta-linguistic function in com-
munication, i.e., it is drawn in a visual language which refers to itself. The gag is funny
because it makes fun of the very semiotic code that compels us to accept black lines on
paper as borders between different moments and/or places. Simple as it is, the gag thus
also presupposes a capacity for conceptual abstraction.
Instead, the word ‘abstract’ usually refers to the prominence of the aesthetic and expres-
sive functions. In the functional theory semiotics inherited from the Prague school and
Roman Jakobson, the aesthetic function is related to the sign vehicle in communica-
tion, or in other words, the ‘message’ proper (cf. Jakobson 1960, 350-77). It refers to
how the communicated meaning is inflected by the way in which an image–or rhetoric
in language–is composed. Refining the message qua message can even become the main
objective of communication.
If we see a black square on a white surface, and if we accept that this is a statement on
the universal value of certain shapes, we have by the same token accepted the domi-
nance of the aesthetic function in the reception and understanding of the work. If, on
the other hand, we look at Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm and feel that this abstract
visual ‘rhythm’ expresses the unity between nature and humanity allegedly summarised
by Pollock himself as “I am nature” (Krasner 1967), then we are dealing with the ex-
pressive function.1 The expressive function is related to the sender of a message and
sometimes calls for an emphatic identification with the sender as an individual being
with emotions and intentions.
Some works called ‘abstract’ might also show a prominent phatic function, i.e., the
sharpened sensitivity and attention at the receiving end. In such cases, the structure of
the work is less indicative of a meditative or emphatic attitude, and more akin to the
quick decoding of basic colours and shapes which characterises the function of ordi-
nary traffic signs and similar semiotic systems. For example, certain paintings by the
American artist Kenneth Noland are similar to shooting targets. They are not used for
target practice but elaborate the visual structure of the target in the context of aesthetic
appreciation. If such examples are evocative of the inner workings of a visual structure
or a creative mind, and sometimes of a reduction of communication to simple signals
and responses, it is much harder to find external references in abstract art or to translate
its manifestations into verbal messages aimed at rational understanding. Consequently,
the remaining functions of reference (to things external) and conation (adaptation to the
receiver) are weak in abstract art. This is no doubt due to certain aesthetic ideologies
taking shape during the formative years of abstract art in Europe and the US, as in the
art philosophy of Clement Greenberg for instance, which viewed the development of

1 As Lee Krasner recalls in an interview dated December 14, 1967: “I brought Hofmann to
Pollock’s studio, as I knew Hofmann, I had studied with him; and I thought he would certain-
ly, you know, dig this. And this is the initial visit that he’s confronted with Pollock’s work. He
said, ‘Ach! You work by heart, not from nature.’ And Pollock’s answer: ‘I am nature.’” Transcript
from Oral History Interview with Lee Krasner, November 2, 1964–April 11, 1968. Archives of
American Art, Smithsonian Institution. http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-histo-
ry-interview-lee-krasner-12507

372
Modern painting as a historically necessary reduction of the means of
painting to its two-dimensional essence.
To simplify, the tradition of the ‘abstract’ in visual art can be seen as a
highly coded and specialised form of communication–a form in which
the aesthetic and expressive functions are so dominant they are now
regarded as almost synonymous with abstraction. This is no different
in the case of ‘abstract comics.’ In an equally schematic manner, one
can say that the aesthetic and expressive functions are associated with
two different and antagonistic tendencies within ‘the abstract.’ These
tendencies can be exemplified by, on the one hand, Kazimir Malev-
ich’s Black Square from 1915 (Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow), and on
the other Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm (Number 30) from 1950
(Metropolitan Museum, New York). As a symbol of radical reduction,
escaping comparisons with individual expression, external reality, con-
ventional symbolism or utilitarian functions, Malevich’s square has
become the emblem of an extreme aestheticism approaching absolute
anonymity. By contrast, Pollock’s free and gestural painting, in which
the chirographic traces of every sensory-motoric impulse during the
painting process are on display, is seen as a form of art expressive of
individual existence.
Against the backdrop of both extremes within a highly specialised
field, I now introduce my second case study (Figure 2), a work by the
Canadian cartoonist Benoît Joly from 1987, featured in Andrei Mo-
lotiu’s acclaimed anthology Abstract Comics (2009, n.p.). In his search
for artists who at some point in their career had made what could be
defined as ‘abstract comics,’ Molotiu found people like Joly and Patrick
McDonnell, who, in their student years, had created pages such as this
one without always publishing them (Rudnick 2009). What we see
here is a mere placement of panels, ink blots, small strokes and circles:
this structure corresponds to the aesthetic function rather than the
expressive. It is evocative of tracks, trails or cinematic movement and
zooming. The title of the work is Parcours [tracks].
Just like Sandqvist’s Funtus strip, it is a comic commenting on draw-
ing comics, but it is not a meta-linguistic joke that breaks the rules of
fiction because it contains no fiction to begin with. What it offers is
materiality, just like Malevich’s painting with the square. Still, there is
a different level of abstraction present here, constituted by the read-
er’s habit of reading successive frames as pictures with a continuous
rhythm and movement. Making sense of the structure of Joly’s work
creates an oscillation between seeing it as only ink on paper and as
some sequential narrative. Maybe the young Joly was occupied with

373
finding the simplest and most basic conditions for something to be
experienced as a comic or almost a comic, conditions I will turn to
further on in this essay.

Abstraction and Visual Information

Whether and how comics can modify our understanding of the ab-
stract could be further advanced if we add different conceptions of
what abstraction can mean. When other kinds of images are classified
to be retrievable in databases or on the Internet, it is commonplace
to base the classification on a taxonomy of image content. One such
taxonomy, proposed by British information scientists Briggs, Burford
and Eakins, defines nine levels of visual information (2003, 123-61).
Of these, four are considered levels of ‘abstraction,’ i.e., levels of con-
tent which are not available in the picture but must be abstracted by
the viewer against the background of previous knowledge and experi-
ence. Consequently, the levels commonly referred to as ‘abstract’ in art
criticism–colour, lines, geometrical shapes, and so on–are not abstract
according to Briggs, Burford and Eakins. For them, abstraction is a
feature of higher levels of the cognitive process, not of the visual ob-
ject. More basic levels of the cognitive process, such as the perception
of depth cues in a picture or the identification of simple semantic units
such as ‘house’ and ‘man,’ do not require abstraction in this sense.
Basic visual elements, geometrical elements, depth cues and semantics
are instead referred to as “perceptual primitives,” “geometrical primi-
tives,” “visual extension” and “semantic units” (ibid.). In the context
of cognitive science, it is a purely logical choice not to regard them
as abstract. They are on the contrary quite concrete in that they can
be apprehended at a glance with little cognitive effort. Contextual ab-
straction requires a capacity for recognising a specific scene from reality
or from other images. Cultural abstraction is possible if the viewer is
familiar with the mythological, historical and other culturally-specific
themes in images. Emotional abstraction presupposes empathy and an
ability to interact with fellow humans, whilst technical abstraction can
be a highly developed cognitive skill in someone who teaches art, or
someone who can name every piece of machinery in images of steel
factories for instance. This taxonomy underlines the relevance of the
question posed by many artists who called themselves Concretists or
Constructivists: Why call a type of art abstract when it could just as
well be defined as the most concrete? Figure 2 Benoît Joly,
“Parcours” in Abstract
Today, even the most elusive products are accessible electronically Comics, page [42]. ©
2009 Benoît Joly.
through systems based on the theories of computer and information

375
science. It is therefore important to take this systemic thinking seriously for under-
standing the dissemination and reception of visual culture in general. The impact of
digital reproduction and retrieval is often dicussed in contemporary art criticism and
visual culture studies, but rarely in academic art history. It is also interesting that a
theoretical framework such as that of Briggs, Burford and Eakins seems to harmonize
with Concretist ideas, the latter having become completely marginalized by the general
notion of ‘abstraction’ in visual art.
Still, there may be other reasons for the persistence of the term ‘abstract art’ than a
general confusion concerning the abstract and the concrete. As a matter of fact, even
the art which “depicts nothing” may involve abstract content in the sense of Briggs,
Burford and Eakins. In interpretations of works similar to Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm,
an emotional abstraction is often operative, regardless of whether it agrees with the art-
ist’s intentions or not. Whenever an artist works with the symbolic function of colours
and geometry, cultural abstraction is important. If a work is intended as a visual inter-
pretation of a musical piece for instance, the intention cannot be understood without
cultural abstractions concerning the ruling norms in music composition and appre-
ciation. Regarding contextual abstraction, reading comics involves a constant mental
construction of imagined contexts whose depicted scenes represent only fragments.
What remains of this when ‘reading’ a page such as Joly’s Parcours is the capacity for
contextual abstraction.

The Abstraction of Content versus the Abstraction of

Expression

376
There are many ways in which a phenomenon or a cognitive process
can be defined as abstract. To highlight the complexity, I will intro-
duce some additional semiotic concepts and turn to my third example
(Figure 3).
It is a spread from Roland Sabatier’s hypergraphic novel Gaffe au golf
(1964). Today we speak of graphic novels as a more literary form of
comics, but when such novels break the gridded regularity of straight-
forward narrative, they sometimes approach the hypergraphies of
Sabatier and other practitioners of Lettrism. The term hypergraphie is
derived from hypergraphia, which was originally a psychiatric diag-
nosis applied to patients obsessed with scribbling words and symbols
with no apparent sense and with no other objective than the fulfilment
of a drive to write. In its most genuine manifestations, Lettrism dis-
posed of all semantic content in poetry–even words. What remained
were letters and other signs from varying, decontextualized semiotic
systems which were then recombined. This means that what we see on
Sabatier’s pages is neither a narrative, nor a rebus that should be inter-
preted according to a hidden code, but a suggestion for the possibility
of codes yet to be invented.
Still, the pages are not devoid of content. Certain kinds of content
might be absent, but semiotic analysis can account for other kinds.
Most semiotic analyses treat the sign as comprising two aspects or sides,
united in solidarity, like the two sides of a sheet of paper. These aspects
are the signifiant and the signifié, which is mostly translated as signifier
(or ‘expression’) and signified (or ‘content’). I will henceforward refer
to them as expression and content, but it must be stressed that the
term expression should not be confused with the expressive function or
with emotional aspects of language. What we see in the speech bubble
are shapes reminiscent of letters, written in an inexistent language and
hence incomprehensible. Those shapes have no linguistic content. If
they had, it would be impossible to view them as mere shapes. They
would then turn into readable ‘letters,’ i.e., they would no longer be
apprehended as material shapes but as linguistic signifiers/expressions.
Even without the possibility of linguistic signs, we can still recognise
signs here–but these are different kinds of signs. One recurring shape
is similar to that of a keyhole. This is then a pictorial sign, i.e., a sign
that depicts. Some shapes are neither legible, nor recognisable as pic-
torial signs, but still describable as for example triangles and squares.
These elements are referred to as plastic signs, i.e., signs of colour and Figure 3 Roland
shape. The term ‘pictorial’ may seem strange for francophone readers Sabatier, Gaffe au Golf,
used to the established dichotomy of signes icôniques and signes plas- pages 26–27. © 1979
Roland Sabatier.
tiques. However, if we use the terms ‘icon’ and ‘iconic’ in C. S. Peirce’s

377
sense, both pictorial and plastic signs are to be considered iconic. A more precise but
cumbersome terminology would lead us to speak of ‘pictorial iconic signs’ and ‘plastic
iconic signs.’ Depending on their context and their appearance in different kinds of
sign systems, pictorial and plastic signs may also function as indexical signs, but never
as symbolic signs.
Both pictorial and plastic signs have an expression side and a content side, respectively.
This simply means that an object in a picture is not the real object but a representa-
tion of the object, and that any drawn or painted circle is not the circle (as an idea or
a cognition) but an attempt to represent it. The difference between perceived optical
information and systematic visual concepts can be compared to the difference between
sounds and phonemes: “Between the typical shape and the perceived shape, the typical
colour and the perceived colour, the typical object (which could be further defined as
icon) and the perceived object, there is the same relationship as that between the pho-
neme and all the sounds which might be associated with it” (Groupe µ 1992, 97; my
translation).2
This division between the expression side and the content side of both pictorial and
plastic signs is important for the semiotic analysis of abstraction in pictures. On the
left page in Sabatier’s spread we see a lot of pictures. They are organised as a table,
almost as if the page were taken from a comic with the famous standard ‘waffle-iron
grid’ layout. Not all pictures in the table contain pictorial and plastic signs–we can also
see French words, cuneiform Mesopotamian script, musical notation, Morse code and
alphanumeric braille. In the middle of the third row is the braille sign for ‘W.’ The four
Morse signs in the previous panel stand for “ANMI,” which does not make any sense.
The pictorial signs are simplified when they resemble pictographs or even traffic signs.
Obviously, the table is a text message in which both linguistic, musical, numerical and
visual écriture is used.
That an image is turned into a simplified pictograph and used in visual writing implies
abstraction. However, it does not refer to ‘abstraction’ in the sense of pictorial signs be-
ing dispensed of in favour of plastic signs, as in most accounts of ‘abstract art.’ Rather,
the abstraction of pictographs must be thought of as mentally climbing a semantic
ladder–from the more specific to the more general. The ‘ladder’ is ‘semantic’ because
the place where this ‘climbing’ takes place concerns the content of the pictorial sign (the
signified). Impersonality and generality result from this abstraction, leaving little space
for the individual stylistic traits and connotations that belong to the expression side of
the sign. In plastic signs, achieving geometrical refinement and purity is likewise a result
of climbing the semantic ladder. For example, the general idea of a circle is very dif-
ferent from the crude and therefore individual circles we see in Figure 2, or later on in
Figure 9 (Roberto Altmann). In the most uncompromising instances of geometrical art,

2 “Entre une forme type et la forme perçue, la couleur type et la couleur perçu, l’objet type
(qui sera plus loin défini comme icône) et l’objet perçu, il y a donc le même rapport qu’entre le
phonème et tous le sons qui peuvent lui être associés.”

378
as in Figure 8 (Mark Gonyea), the plastic sign is almost identical to its
geometrical content. About such signs, C.S. Peirce observed that the
similarity (i.e. iconic relationship) between them and their ideal models
in geometry is so close that they are “almost instances” of the models
(Peirce 1998, 13). Here, the expression side of the sign has very little
salience, and there are very few traces of any individual style.
This analysis adds a qualification to the two antagonistic tendencies
of ‘abstract art.’ In a work like Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm, the attentive
viewer may identify plastic signs, but they are imprecise and circum-
stantial. Abstract expressionism as practiced by Pollock and his fellow
Americans (and André Masson before them), stresses the material pro-
cess of painting and the global or ‘overall’ organisation of a surface. If
this is abstraction, it does not occur at the content side, as the works
lack clear pictorial or plastic content. The expression side is salient. If
a Lettrist creates illegible letters that still look like letters, the abstract
expressionist creates unrecognisable visual structures that still look like
pictures. Such works challenge the viewer to recognise things which
are not clearly there but which might be there. As an act of abstraction,
this effort to recognise the unrecognisable takes place at the expression
side of a phenomenon that oscillates between signification and brute
materiality.
The phenomenon qua phenomenon occurs as a result of the con-
frontation between the abstract pattern and the individual spectator.
Paradoxically, when the spectator is unable to see anything but mere
matter–and when the phenomenon lacks signification for this indi-
vidual mind–the perceived visual pattern never reaches the semiotic
status of an expression/signifiant. Compare this to Joly’s page (Figure
2), where semiotic stability is secured by the drawn frames and their
conventional status as signs of spatiotemporal division. However, the
blotches and markings enclosed within the frames are more readily
interpreted as cut-outs or zoomed-in details of arbitrary gestures with
ink, brush and pen on a surface, lacking consistent signification. To
imagine some kind of consistency or even narrative in accordance
with the title Parcours would be to mentally reconstruct a path and a
rhythm in the process of making these material traces–to read the page
as a document of the creation of patterns which might (or might not)
function semiotically as expressions/signifiants.
If this imaginative act consists in trying to abstract a larger context or
a continuous series of events from a collection of material fragments, it
is both an act of mental abstraction and an act in which we remain pre-
occupied with the expression side or signifiants of semiotic processes.
Compare such works and imaginative acts with Malevich’s square or

379
works by El Lissitzky (Figure 6) and Mark Gonyea (Figure 8) where plastic signs and
their content are immediately present for the spectator. The difference shows that the
common notion of ‘abstract art’ confuses two completely opposite kinds of abstraction:
on the one hand abstraction as the abstract or ‘typical’ content of plastic signs, and on
the other abstraction associated with an intensified salience of the expression/signifiant,
conveniently indicated by the established art historical term abstract expressionism.

Triadic Models of Visual Abstraction

For another account of abstraction in pictorial and plastic signs, especially in comics,
I now turn to an image taken from Scott McCloud’s work Understanding Comics (Mc-
Cloud 1993, 51; Figure 4). Incidentally, this must be one of the most meta-linguistic
works existing in comics–a theory of comics as a comic.

The image is a simplified version of a collage filling the next spread in the book (cf.
McCloud 1993, 52-3). In the collage, McCloud has taken drawn faces from differ-
ent comics and classified them in systematic rows, showing combinations of different
degrees of generality and de-figuration along separate axes. The simplified version visua-
lises McCloud’s idea that pictures and shapes and letters are images, albeit differentiated
along the three axes of his triangle.
In the bottom left corner, we see a realistic picture of a face, and at the bottom right
corner we see the word “FACE.” A simplified, pictographic face is shown as the last

380
pictorial step before linguistic generality. At the apex of the triangle we
see elements of The Picture Plane–i.e. what I refer to as plastic signs.
Wittily, McCloud abstracted the drawing in the previous panels of
himself as a comic figure, walking the ‘stairs’ towards the apex, until
nothing remains of him except the three shapes there. The black square
represents his black hair, the white circle his white face, the checked
triangle his characteristic checked jacket. Representing the narrator,
the three shapes speak, telling us that “This is the realm of the art ob-
ject, the picture plane, where shapes, lines and colours can be themselves
and not pretend otherwise” (McCloud 1993, 51; emphasis in original).
As the shapes actually ‘pretend’ to be McCloud and speak, the mes-
sage is ambiguous, which is not the only ambiguity in the diagram.
McCloud never explains to what extent letters and language may also
undergo transformations along the right axis between “language” and
“picture” to become pure shapes on the picture plane. Maybe Sabat-
ier’s image (Figure 3) provides a key to the answer. We may also ask
whether the ‘realistic’ picture in the ‘reality’ corner is supposed to be
a realistic picture or reality. As we can see, the word “FACE” at the
opposite corner represents language itself. The faces along the axis be-
tween “reality” and “picture” represent an increasing degree of what art
historians tend to describe as ‘formal abstraction.’ Nevertheless, what
does this formal abstraction mean?
We can see that the faces become more and more sketchy and hard
to recognize; they are ‘abstracted’ in a ‘cubist’ or ‘planar’ fashion. This
means a loss of individual detail, not that different from the ‘con-
ceptual abstraction’ along the bottom axis which ends with the word
“FACE.” Obviously, the ‘abstraction’ along the Reality-Picture axis in-
volves both a ‘conceptual abstraction’ resulting in a generalization of
pictorial content and a ‘formal abstraction’ in which pictorial signs are
gradually dissolved into a multitude of plastic signs. Thus, the ‘formal
abstraction’ here implies both a simplified pictorial content and a com-
plication of the pictorial expression. It seems that these ambiguities
could have been avoided if McCloud had developed separate models
for pictorial, plastic and linguistic signs.
Information scientist Alan D. Manning wrote a favourable review of
Understanding Comics, claiming that McCloud’s triad language, reality,
picture plane could be regarded as equivalent to one of the trichotomies
on which C. S. Peirce based his semiotic theories (Manning 1998, 66- Figure 4 Scott
McCloud,
9). The trichotomy in question is that between types, tokens and tones Understanding Comics,
(also called qualisigns). Peirce’s type, token and tone can be regarded page 51. © 1993
Scott McCloud
as three different ways in which a signifiant or expression can manifest and HarperCollins
itself within the commonplace significant-signifié distinction, thus only Publishers.

381
bearing on the expression plane of signs. However, I believe that Manning’s comparison
is a misreading of McCloud’s theory: the latter is intuitive and does not have the ambi-
tion to provide a rigorous semiotic model.
Peirce’s scientific theory of the sign is a part of his larger philosophical system and is
often referred to as his doctrine of signs. It shows great subtlety, part of which seems
to have escaped Manning’s attention. This is not to say that Manning’s equation of
the language corner of McCloud’s triangle to Peirce’s type has no validity. According
to Peirce’s doctrine, the expression side of the sign (be it a type, a token or a tone) is
determined by the generality of the content which the sign is intended to express. If
the content is very general, the expression will also be general. It will be a type. As an
expression, the neutral ‘smiley’ sign in McCloud’s language corner is a type. However,
the shapes on the picture plane, which according to Manning would be examples of
tones or qualisigns, are also types in Peirce’s sense. They are plastic types, expressing the
content of concepts in geometry.
Peirce summed up what he had in mind when he identified certain elements as tones
or qualisigns in this succinct definition: “a Qualisign is any quality in so far as it is a
sign” (Peirce 1998, 294). This becomes evident if we consider the colour red and all the
things it can signify in culture and ideology. However, not every perceived or sensed
quality is a sign as there must be a content the quality can express. The quality need
not be immediately visible or audible; it suffices that the mere idea of ‘red’ signifies
‘socialism’ or ‘love’ in a process of inner reasoning. This is also the main reason for
its difference with other kinds of expressions in the Peircean model. The ‘tone’ is an
expression which need not be realised to exist. This makes it distinct from the ‘token’
(also called sin-sign) which exists only if it is realised–think for example of a footprint
or an arrow signifying a direction (Peirce 1998, 294; 296; 483; 488). When Alan D.
Manning and Nicole Amare equate McCloud’s picture plane to Peirce’s tones, calling
them “decoratives,” they disregard both the immaterial character of the Peircean tone
and the primacy of content for its status as a sign (Amare and Manning 2013, 9; 27-59;
cf. Peirce 1998, 296).
To identify the creative and interpretive processes manifest in ‘abstract art’ and ‘abstract
comics,’ I believe Peirce’s concepts are indispensable. The difference between a structure
with only vague areas of transparent colour and one with eidetic shapes is encapsulated
in the distinction between tone (as in an aural tone) and type. As for the token, any
visual structure can have shapes whose placement and direction make us follow certain
paths and make certain inferences. They thus function as tokens as they only function
in a specific context and position. The most obvious example in comics is the speech
balloon, instantly connecting thoughts and words to their source. When the blots and
strokes in Figure 2 compel us to recognize them as foot tracks they also function as
tokens.
The only sign among the three categories that can be transformed and ‘abstracted’ in
the way visualised by McCloud is the type. There are, however, important differences

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between types that are plastic signs and those that are pictorial signs.
Plastic signs “have no referent by definition” (Groupe µ 1995, 584):
they have no reality to refer to. Plastic signs simply do not conform to
the triadic model in McCloud’s drawing, which is valid for pictorial
signs, but only with the important modifications in Figure 5, the latter
illustrating the signe icônique as put forward by Groupe µ (1992, 136).3

Instead of McCloud’s picture plane, we find the type at the apex of the
triangle. As clarified by the inscribed arrows and terms in Figure 5, the
type is recognised [reconnaissance] in the visual stimuli provided by the
signifiant at the bottom right corner. It is stabilised [stabilisation] in
relation to the référent at the bottom left corner as it conforms to the vi-
sual appearance of certain objects in reality. The signifiant can however
be more or less conceptually abstract or language-like, and therefore
the axis between référent and signifiant is one of transformation. This
corresponds to the equivalent axis in McCloud’s scheme. However, it
makes no sense to imagine iconic signs (or the special kind of iconic
signs called pictorial signs) as being closer to types than others, since
types are the same in all signs conforming to them. This is indicated
by the arrows and terms to the left and right in the diagram, signalling
that both the type-référent and the type-signifiant relationship is one of
conformité. Imagine, for example, the difference between a portrait of
a ‘real’ person and a simplified ‘smiley’ sign, as in McCloud’s diagram.
Although different, they both belong to the same category because
both contain the type ‘human face.’
My sixth example, though it features colour, has a palette restricted to
red, grey, black and white, due to technical limitations and the subject
of the narrative. The work might be one of the earliest examples of ‘ab-
3  Incidentally, the use by Groupe µ and most francophone authors of the term
‘icon’ or icône as synonymous with depiction is problematic from a Peircean Figure 5
perspective, as an iconic sign in Peirce’s sense need not be representational Groupe µ,
or even visual. I therefore prefer to view Groupe µ’s diagram in Figure 5 as a Traité du Signe
demonstration of the special kind of iconic signs dubbed ‘pictorial signs.’ Visuel, page 136.
© 1993 Seuil.

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stract comics:’ El Lissitzky’s story about two squares, Pro dva kvadrata. Suprematicheskii
skaz v 6-ti postroikakh (Of Two Squares: A Suprematist Tale in Six Constructions)–the
constructions referring to the number of pages–made at UNOVIS in Vitebsk, and later
printed by Skythen Verlag in Berlin in 1922.

The thin but wide booklet, printed on twelve sheets in 28 x 22,3 cm quarto, starts
with a dedication “to all children” and continues with a typographical poem stating
“DO NOT READ / TAKE / PAPER, BEAMS, WOOD / FOLD, PAINT, BUILD”
(Lissitzky 1990). In letters and shapes, the six “constructions” then tell the story of

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one Red and one Black square which “fly to Earth” where they meet
a “black anxiety.” They smash the black anxiety. Next, Black is intact
but Red is deconstructed, and “RED IS STRONGLY BUILT UPON
BLACK.” Last, Red has been reborn as a square and Circle/Earth has
absorbed the colour Black, whilst a new Black square has appeared in
outer Space: “HERE / IT ENDS / AND CONTINUES.” Figure 6
shows the second “construction” in which the Squares fly to Circle/
Earth which is still Red but features Construction/Society is Black,
White and Grey. In the last two “constructions,” Society turns Red
and White. All colours and shapes have political meanings, conveyed
to children together with the simple verbal elements.
Molotiu mentions Lissitzky’s work in his introduction to the anthol-
ogy Abstract Comics (Molotiu 2009, n.p.). Its “constructivism” is at
least partly in accordance with Molotiu’s principal definition that “ab-
stract comics can be defined as sequential art consisting exclusively of
abstract imagery” (ibid.). However, Molotiu both expands and restricts
his definition, complicating it significantly. It is not entirely clear what
he has in mind when he uses the terms “sequential art” and “abstract
imagery.” According to Will Eisner’s and Scott McCloud’s well-estab-
lished definitions, a sequential work of art is a series of pictures in
which each new picture contains elements from previous pictures in
such a manner that a story can be inferred. Thus defined, sequential
artworks cannot be abstract comics in Molotiu’s sense, because he also
imposes the restriction that elements must “not cohere into a narrative
or even into a unified narrative space” (ibid.). Yet, he clearly seems to
think that a work can have a sequential character without being narra-
tive, which would differentiate abstract comics from abstract art:
While in painting the term [abstract] applies to the lack of represen-
tational objects in favor of an emphasis on form, we can say that in
comics it additionally applies to the lack of a narrative excuse to string
panels together, in favor of an increased emphasis on the formal ele-
ments of comics that, even in the absence of a (verbal) story, can create
a feeling of sequential drive, the sheer rhythm of a narrative or the rise
and fall of a story arc (ibid.).
Because of Molotiu’s restrictions, El Lissitzky’s story about two squares
cannot be an abstract comic in this sense. Not only because it clearly
tells a story with an ideological message, but also because of Molotiu’s
additional stipulation that “[w]hat does not fit under this definition
are comics that tell straightforward stories in captions and speech bal-
loons while abstracting their imagery into vaguely human shapes, or Figure 6 El Lissitzky,
even into triangles and squares” (ibid.). On the other hand, he does Pro dva kvadrata, sheet
accept comics with “some representational elements,” as long as they 5. © 1922 Skythen
Verlag. © 1990
“do not cohere into a narrative” (ibid.). Apart from showing historical Artists Bookworks.

385
affinity with the work of artists like El Lissitzky, Kurt Kranz and even Willem de Koon-
ing, Molotiu considers abstract comics as “a genre without a proper tradition” which
did not begin until 1968 with a page that was already an amusing parody of the genre
(ibid.). The latter is Robert Crumb’s “Abstract Expressionist Ultra Super Modernistic
Comics” (extract in Figure 7), first printed in Zap Comix in 1968, which opens the an-
thology Abstract Comics. Crumb’s parody is an emblem of the general attitude towards
‘abstract art’ in popular culture and society at large.

386
Because of the vagueness of the term ‘abstract,’ many artists have
instead chosen labels such as the Russian Konstruktivism and/or Su-
prematism (El Lissitzky et al.), the French Art concret (van Doesburg et
al.), or the Dutch Nieuwe Beelding (Mondrian and De Stijl). In the six-
ties, the art world was abuzz with the Minimalism of a new generation
of American artists who were ‘hardcore’ in their preference for geome-
try and a systematic approach. As opposed to this new generation, the
older artists saw their constructivism not only as the construction of a
new kind of art, but also of a new kind of design, architecture, city and
society: in short, a new way of life.
In art history, it is virtually impossible to maintain clear and straight-
forward distinctions between abstract, concrete and constructivist art
because these terms were used by various artists in different contexts
and with widely divergent aims. The Konstruktivism of El Lissitzky and
his Soviet comrades should not be confused with the Arte Construc-
tivo or Universalismo Constructivo developed by Joaquín Torres-García
in Paris and Montevideo at roughly the same time. The concrete idea
that a modern work of art should neither represent, nor signify or tell,
but create a visual sensibility does not chime with today’s sensibilities
because it wants to ban all aspects not pertaining to visual and spatial
design. This also relates to a highly utilitarian view of the role of art in
society, which, incidentally, caused the schism between two groups of
artists in Paris during the Spring of 1930, one side known as Cercle et
Carré and the other as Art concret, associated with Torres-García and
Theo van Doesburg, respectively.
Initially, van Doesburg and Torres-García had tried to gather all rad-
ical, non-figurative tendencies in art. However, talks broke down
due to ideological differences that had surfaced much earlier in van
Doesburg’s conflict with his former De Stijl friend, Piet Mondrian.
Compared to artists like Mondrian and Torres-García and critics like
Michel Seuphor, van Doesburg wanted an extremely rationalist and
even mathematical program for art and education. In protest, the
majority of non-figurative artists joined Mondrian, Seuphor and Tor-
res-García in Cercle et Carré, and participated in the exhibition with
the same name at Galérie 23 during April and May 1930. Only four
artists (Carlsund, Hélion, Tutundijan and Wantz) joined van Does-
burg and signed the uncompromising Art concret manifesto deriding
the exhibition. The manifesto was published in the first and only issue Figure 7 Robert
of the journal Art concret (April 1930) and comprised only six short Crumb, “Abstract
Expressionist Ultra
paragraphs, aimed specifically at the mysticism van Doesburg observed Super Modernistic
in the work and theories of Kandinsky, Mondrian and other Cercle Comics,” excerpt from
et Carré artists. The second and fifth paragraphs are crystal clear: a Abstract Comics. ©
2009 Fantagraphics.

387
concrete work of art must be executed mechanically according to a preconceived plan,
while it can leave no room for what a semiotician would call the expressive function:
1) The work of art should be entirely conceived and formulated in the mind before its
execution. It should retain nothing of the formal observations from nature, nor any
sensuality, nor any sentimentality. We want to exclude the lyricism, the dramatism,
the symbolism, etc. (...) 5) The technical means should be mechanical, in other words
exact, anti-impressionistic (quoted in Doesburg et al. 1930, n.p.; my translation).
However, this sectarian stance was hard to maintain. The Cercle et Carré and the Art
concret groups soon dispersed, and members from both groups later joined the more
inclusive Abstraction-Création group uniting artists with a program centred around ab-
straction, création and art non figuratif. As the original statement of 1932 released by the
organising committee of Abstraction-Création in 1932 states:
we have chosen these words as names for our group and for our activities, because we
have found no others which are less obscure or less controversial. the collection of repro-
ductions in this book can serve as a definition of these terms. we are not committed to
them in other respects.
non-figuration a purely plastic culture which excludes every element of explication, an-
ecdote, literature, naturalism, etc...
abstraction, because certain artists have come to the concept of non-figuration by the
progressive abstraction of forms from nature.
creation, because other artists have attained non-figuration direct, purely via geometry,
or by the exclusive use of elements commonly called abstract such as circles, planes, bars,
lines, etc... (quoted in Harrison and Wood 1992, 357-58).
Here, the term “creation” is reserved for the more radically non-figurative works, and
the writers acknowledge that purely plastic elements are often referred to as ‘abstract’
in common parlance. Obviously, the distinction between mere abstraction and works
which are genuinely creative was important for the group.
In Abstract Comics, Molotiu pays little attention to such distinctions. While writing
that abstract comics should consist “exclusively of abstract imagery” (Molotiu 2009,
n.p.) he later refers not only to non-figurative art but also to pictures with abstracted or
fragmentary traces of figuration, which are hence not non-figurative. The contributions
by Derek Badman and Gary Panter for instance are a case in point. However, Molotiu
secures a safe exit for himself by writing that “the use of ‘abstract’ here is specific to the
medium of comics, and only partly overlaps with the way it is used in other fine arts”
(ibid.).

The Conditions of Sequentiality

If abstract comics are indeed comics, and if we accept Molotiu’s restrictions that neither
narrative nor verbal elements can be included in an abstract comic, then we must also
accept that the condition which Molotiu terms “narrative space” (Molotiu 2009, n.p.)

388
cannot be a necessary one for the definition of comics. But what are
these conditions?
Thierry Groensteen must be credited for having advanced the analysis
of comics as a semiotic system, focusing on other criteria than narra-
tive ones. In Groensteen’s perspective, comics are a system for dividing
and organising two-dimensional space. Seen as a system, comics gen-
erate effects of rhythm and order, giving rise to the spatiotemporal
relationships which we infer when we read the elements of a layout as
images in a sequence (cf. Groensteen 2007, 24-57). Instead of limiting
the definition of comics to cases with a manifest narrative, we may
then look at formal conditions which exist before a narrative is realised
or apprehended. We may refer to these conditions as quasi-narrative or
infra-narrative.
The term infra-narrative is Groensteen’s, as defined in Bande dessinée et
narration (Groensteen 2013, 17), where he identifies five sub-categories
of infra-narrativity, two of which are akin to Scott McCloud’s catego-
ries aspect to aspect and non sequitur (McCloud 1993, 72-9). Robert
Crumb’s page (Figure 7) is essentially a parody of non sequitur comics,
or what Groensteen terms amalgame. In aspect to aspect sequences, the
panels show successive parts or details of the same object or environ-
ment without forming a narrative. For Groensteen this corresponds to
his term décomposition. In the category he calls inventaire [inventory],
the pictures are not random but united by a thematic appeal to amuse
or inform. In the 19th century, this could be found in the macédoines
of European cartoonists and in Katsushika Hokusai’s manga albums.
The categories of inflection and seriation are closely related and both
suggest that pictures are repeated in a regular manner. In seriation, the
pictures are identical replicas, and this creates a ‘wallpaper effect.’ In-
flection adds changes either at the content side or at the expression side
of the pictorial sign. Changes at the expression side may involve alter-
ations of colour and/or contrast, as famously exemplified in Warhol’s
Marilyn and Electric Chair series. Inflection and seriation are akin to
serial composition, which exists not only in visual art but also in music
and poetry. In visual constructivism and avant-garde music, serialism
involves the repetition and variation of a constellation or module, of-
ten resulting in replacements and other manipulations of elements
in the work. We can see this in constructivist works such as Viking
Eggeling’s Diagonal Symphony (1924), which is one of the earliest ex-
amples of ‘abstract cinema,’ composed in analogy with the sonata form
in music (Edlund and Werner 1997, 59-91). If presented as sequences
of film stills, works by Eggeling, Walter Ruttman and others would
be similar to some of Kurt Kranz’s experiments in graphic design at

389
the Bauhaus school in the thirties–experiments which Andrei Molotiu
counts among the early precursors of ‘abstract comics.’
For a more recent and somewhat different example of serial methods in
visual composition, we now turn to a ‘story poster’ by Mark Gonyea,
who is also a cartoonist (Figure 8). Gonyea’s ‘story posters’ are playful
and instructive visualisations of various kinds of knowledge, and he
sells them cheaply online. This example is a brilliant demonstration
of numbers and counting, probably well-suited as a teaching aid for
schoolchildren with learning problems. The ‘objects’ visible within the
‘frames’ are not depicted objects as in pictorial signs, but the mathe-
matical objects of geometry. The meaning of natural numbers from 1
to 100 is made concrete and visible by means of the number of circles.
One of the most obvious parallels between Gonyea’s poster and the con-
structivist/concretist art of Eggeling, Kranz and their contemporaries
is that it has no connection whatsoever to external reality or picto-
rial signs. Constructivist visual composition is closer to mathematical
problem-solving and the analytics of digital image manipulation. It has
a bearing on the selection and manipulation of a selected number of
parameters such as shape, size, orientation, position, hue, brightness,
saturation and so on. To execute all possible combinations of a limited
number of elements or parameters is in effect a permutation in the strict
sense of the term. In Gonyea’s poster, some parameters are constant–all
shapes are circles and almost all arrangements are symmetrical (except
for the one representing the number eleven). The variable parameters
are size and number–the numerical variation being strictly linear, from
one to a hundred (or from one hundred to one, if the poster is viewed
upside-down).
Molotiu’s Abstract Comics also features works by Gonyea. Although
clearly constructivist in style, they are different from Figure 8 in that
they are in colour and more reminiscent of the art and methods of
Josef Albers. As a visual artist and educator, Albers became famous for
his works on the theme “Homage to the Square,” all based on the same
constructive grid with the square as its unifying principle. The divi-
sion of the painted surface thus being constant, the serialism of these
works consists in the artist’s variation of colour combinations and his
almost scientific study of how different colours influence one another.
Similarly, the works by Gonyea in Abstract Comics experiment with the
colour variations of a ‘squares within squares’ structure which is serially
repeated, magnified and reduced, with the variations looking like the Figure 8 Mark Gonyea,
panels of a comic page (Molotiu 2009, n.p.). One to One Hundred
Circles, poster. © 2015
When viewing these works in Molotiu’s anthology, one might be Mark Gonyea (www.
tempted to accept them as exceptionally pure manifestations of what storyposters.com).

391
he dubs the “feeling of sequential drive, the sheer rhythm of a narrative” (ibid.) in
abstract comics. But is the “drive” which Molotiu speaks of really a sequential one? Is
it not merely serial, as in the serial principle of constructivist art? Indeed, I maintain
that Groensteen’s five categories of infra-narrativity–with the categories of seriation and
inflection akin to serial composition–help explain crucial differences between the works
by Gonyea and all the other ‘comics’ I have discussed thus far (keeping in mind that
Groensteen does not refer to abstract or constructivist art in his examples of seriation
and inflection).
Both seriation and inflection are based on the repetition of elements, with inflection
adding a variation which can occur at the expression side, the content side, or both.
When changes only occur at the expression side, the perceived object (i.e., the pictorial
content) remains the same: Marilyn is seen in different colours, but she is still Marilyn.
Changes at the content side affect the perceived object, which is altered in ways that
change its essence. A living man can turn into a statue, and a human character may
suddenly appear with an animal’s head. We may likewise regard the serialism of Gonyea
(Figure 8) as a case of inflection, albeit not of pictorial signs but of plastic/geometrical
signs. The series involves a constant repetition of the same geometrical object–the cir-
cle–and the inflection is visible as the linear progression of the number of circles and
the inventiveness of the patterns formed. This process only concerns the mathematical
content side of the work, whilst the expression side remains unchanged as it consis-
tently shows the same neutral contrast between black and white. By contrast, the serial
works by Albers evince no variations in geometrical structure, and the inflection solely
concerns the colours. To some extent, the same could be said of Gonyea’s contributions
to Abstract Comics.
If we compare this work to those of Joly (Figure 2), Sabatier (Figure 3) and Crumb
(Figure 7), we notice that none of these engage the systematic and serial methods of
Gonyea or Albers. There is no consistent repetition of motives; consequently, there is
no inflection. Nor do we see the ‘wallpaper effect’ Groensteen associates with pure seri-
ation. The thematic consistency which he observes in the inventory is probably present
in the ‘table’ at the left side of Sabatier’s spread (Figure 3), at least if we regard it as a
kind if inventory of signs. The successive aspects of the same object or environment im-
plied by Groensteen’s term décomposition are absent in both Sabatier and Crumb, and
in Joly’s work it is present only in a metaphorical sense. Of Groensteen’s five categories
of infra-narrativity, amalgame (or non sequitur) is the one that most fittingly describes
the works by Joly, Sabatier and Crumb.
Concerning the (overly?) common notion of comics as ‘sequential art,’ Groensteen ad-
vocates a more unbiased definition of comics and a stricter delimitation of the realm of
sequentiality. He does not regard the infra-narrative alternatives as narrative sequences
in a proper sense. This becomes clear from his distinction between three additional
general categories which, as he emphasizes, should not be confused: the sequence, the
series and the suite (Groensteen 2007, 146). We speak of a sequence when a visual area is
subdivided and filled with images which are sufficiently related to create a syntagm and

392
a reading experience. A series is only a succession of images governed
by a theme or a principle, as an inventory or an inflection. A suite, fi-
nally, has no apparent consistency or order. It seems to be synonymous
with amalgame. If we accept these premises, it would follow that in all
their diversity, Joly’s, Sabatier’s, Crumb’s and Gonyea’s works may all
be called art or even comics, but do not qualify as ‘sequential art.’

Abstraction as Comedy
To conclude I return to the comical aspect of comics with which I
began, Rolf Sandqvist’s Funtus. That modern comics originated in the
‘funnies’ of newspapers and satirical magazines is easily forgotten when
discussing such unfamiliar topics as ‘abstract comics.’ This is the light-
hearted play with words, images and situations which we find in very
simple examples such as this extract from a work by Roberto Altmann4
who participated in the Lettrist movement in the sixties and organised
artistic events in his Liechtenstein hometown Vaduz. In 1967 he fin-
ished a manuscript with the title Geste hypergraphique, which could be
translated as either ‘hypergraphic gesture’ or ‘hypergraphic play.’5 The
page (Figure 9) is taken from a thirteen-page excerpt in the Cuban
journal Signos (Altmann 1970, 241). What can be deduced from the
‘hypergraphic language’ of this excerpt is a story of a feudal society
whose inhabitants assume various kinds of funny shapes depending on
mood and identity, and where an extra-terrestrial language is spoken.
Human semiotic debris like question marks, numbers, stars, arrows,
musical notes, astrological symbols, logotypes, chemical formulae and
a-semantic exclamations like “EHÖ” are still recognisable.
What seems to take place are lively debates, or perhaps even a political
revolution or civil war. Ideas and feelings sometimes float around in
an amorphous mud of curved lines and shapes, now and then coag-
ulating into symbols and letter-like forms that disturb the debates.
One could just as well say that we see semiotic tones (in the Peircean
sense) coagulating into types. On the title page, a disc or ball formed
by this ‘emotional mud’ seems to be carried as a tribute to the King. As
grotesque as Altmann’s pages are, they still fit the idea of comic theatre
implied by the French word geste in the title Geste hypergraphique. The

4  Not to be confused with film director Robert Altman.

5  At least two editions of Geste Hypergraphique can be found in library cat-
alogues. One has 87 pages and was published in Vaduz (Centre interna-
tionale de creation, 1968). The other has 91-92 pages and is published in
Paris (Bouffant, 1967). Both editions are rare. Copies of the Paris edition can
however be found at Bibliothèque Kandinsky and Bibliothèque Nationale. One
copy was sold at the Kahn-Dumousset auction in Paris in April 2014 for 250
Euros.

393
word geste therefore does not refer to a merely random gesture, but to
the notion of theatrical performance, here realized in the medium of
pictorial and typographic hypergraphia. There might even be an in-
teresting parallel between this geste and Alfred Jarry’s absurd Ubu Roi
plays.6
That Altmann’s Geste hypergraphique is not an abstract comic accord-
ing to Molotiu’s definition is evident, because it clearly tells a story in
a narrative space. However, if taken seriously, Molotiu’s restrictions
would exclude many genuinely funny abstract comics–and in fact even
some comics printed in his own anthology. I am thinking in particular
of Ibn al Rabin’s, Andy Bleck’s, Mike Getsiv’s and Lewis Trondheim’s
contributions, which clearly have narrative and/or meta-linguistic ele-
ments. It seems that in practice, not even Molotiu is able to reject the
importance of narrative as a defining characteristic of comics, includ-
ing so-called ‘abstract’ comics.

References
Altmann, Roberto. “Zr + 4HCl -> ZrCl4 + 2H2, U + 3Fe2 -> UF6.” Revista
Signos Vol 1 (no 3 1970): 230-243.
Amare, Nicole and Alan D. Manning. A Unified Theory of Information De-
sign. Amityville: Baywood Publishing Company, 2013.
Burford, Bryan, Pam Briggs and John P. Eakins. “A taxonomy of the image:
On the classification of content for image retrieval.” Visual Com-
munication Vol 2 (2003): 123-161.
Doesburg, Theo van et al. Art concret: Journal et revue fondés en 1930 à Paris
no 1 (1930).
Edlund, Bengt and Gösta Werner. Viking Eggelings diagonalsymfonin: Spjuts-
pets i en återvändsgränd. Lund: Novapress, 1997.
Groensteen, Thierry. The System of Comics. Jackson: University Press of Mis-
sissippi, 2007.
––– . Comics and Narration. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2013.
Groupe µ. “Toward a general rhetoric of visual statements: Interaction be-
tween Plastic and Iconic signs” [extracts from Traité du signe visuel].
In Advances in Visual Semiotics, edited by Thomas A. Seboek and
Donna J. Umiker-Seboek, 581-599. Berlin and New York: Mouton
de Gruyter, 1995.
––– . Traité du signe visuel: Pour une rhétorique de l’image. Paris: Seuil, 1992. Figure 9 Roberto
Harrison, Charles and Paul Wood, ed. Art in Theory 1900-1990. Oxford and Altmann, from “Zr
+ 4HCl -> ZrCl4 +
6 A direct connection is not wholly unlikely considering Jarry’s role as the 2H2, U + 3Fe2 ->
founding father of the mock science pataphysics, and the fact that many UF6” in Revista Signos,
avant-garde artists and poets active in Paris were honoured members of the Vol. 1, page 241. ©
Collège de ’Pataphysique. 1970 Revista Signos.

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 Cambridge, Mass: Blackwell Publishing, 1992.
Jakobson, Roman. “Closing Statement: Linguistics and Poetics.” In Style in Language, edited by
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Krasner, Lee. In interview, December 14, 1967. Transcript from Oral history interview with Lee
Krasner, November 2, 1964–April 11, 1968. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian
Institution.
Manning, Alan D. “Scott McCloud. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art” [review]. IEEE
Transactions on Professional Communication Vol. 41 (March 1998): 66-69.
Markovich Lissitzky, Lazar [“El Lissitzky”]. PRO DVA KVADRATA. Forest Row: Artists Book-
works 1990 [facsimile of the original edition from Skythen Verlag, 1922].
McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperCollins Publishers
1993.
Molotiu, Andrei, ed. Abstract Comics: An Anthology 1967-2009. Seattle: Fantagraphics, 2009.
Peirce, Charles Sanders. The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings Vol. 2. Bloomington
and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1998.
Rommens, Aarnoud. E-mail message to author, March 3, 2015. Hardcopy in the research ar-
chive of Visual studies, Åbo Akademi, Turku.
Rudnick, Nicole. “500 Words with Andrei Molotiu.” ArtForum (online), August 10, 2009.
Accessed September 24, 2015. http://www.artforum.com/words/id=23422.
Sabatier, Roland. Gaffe au Golf. Aubervilliers: Publications PSI, 1979.

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Comics Machine
Gene Kannenberg
Dust Storms

399
 Cover Version

400
Darkness Falls Across the Land

401
 States of Being

402
Spots of Dialog

403
 I Need the Noises of Destruction

404
I Liked It So I Put A

405
 Zebraville Station

406
Mille viae ducunt homines per saecula Romam

407
 Short Story

408
I Love You More

409
 Welcome to Paraville

410
Few Can Inform

411
 Quality Control

412
Where Everything Ends

413
 You Don’t Say

414
416
L’Image bande dessinée, entre figuration et
abstraction. Le paradoxe qui fascine
Jean-Louis Tilleuil

S’interroger en 2016 sur les affinités de la bande dessinée avec l’abstrac-

tion, est-ce bien raisonnable ? La consultation du numéro spécial que le
magazine d’information Le Vif/L’Express a consacré à l’année 2015 fait
apparaître que c’est le « réel » – ce qui existe concrètement (opposé à ce
qui est abstrait) – qui a fait l’actualité de l’année écoulée :
La fiction a décidément du souci à se faire en bande dessinée : le réel
prend chaque année un peu plus de place dans les rayons. Une “bande
dessinée du réel” qui a le vent en poupe depuis plusieurs années, mais
qui, en 2015, pousse le curseur un peu plus loin encore : elle ne se con-
tente plus de témoigner ou de raconter, elle enquête, fouille et parfois,
dénonce. À l’image du magazine La Revue dessinée qui n’hésite plus à
mêler journalistes et dessinateurs, auteurs et enquêteurs (Van Vaeren-
bergh 2015, 149).
Il n’y a pas que la presse d’information qui tape sur ce clou du concret
dans la bande dessinée. Des ouvrages de vulgarisation se sont multi-
pliés ces dernières années pour confronter la fiction bande dessinée
aux événements du réel qui l’inspirent. La critique savante n’est pas
en reste pour célébrer dans des articles le mariage de la bande dessi-
née et du reportage (Geneix et Guennoc 2011 ; Bourdieu 2012) ou
pour étudier les inférences du contexte de production, tel que l’exem-
plifient les ouvrages collectifs Objectif bulles (Porret 2009) ou Hergé
reporter (Grutman et Prévost 2010). Ces deux derniers titres offrent un
bel enchaînement pour un rapide retour sur l’histoire du genre bande
dessinée, puisque, dès ses premiers pas, il est manifestement question
d’impliquer la réalité contemporaine dans l’imaginaire du récit : on
pense bien évidemment au Tintin au pays des Soviets (1929).
Au rayon des évidences à rappeler pour contextualiser ma propre ré-
flexion, on ajoutera que la fiction, quelle qu’elle soit, ne peut se passer
du réel, mais que cette réalité se trouve toujours transformée. Texte et
image, dans la bande dessinée, prennent, avec leurs moyens spécifiques,
leur distance avec la réalité sociale qui s’ancre en eux. Pour user d’un jeu
de mot somme toute facile, ils font sémiotiquement abstraction du réel,
même lorsque l’intention est, comme aujourd’hui, de renouer avec lui
de manière existentielle, qu’il soit dramatiquement historique ou im-
prégné de la banalité du quotidien. C’est à cette pratique d’abstraction
sémiotique, dans le représenté comme dans la représentation, à l’échelle
de la vignette comme de la séquence, que je voudrais me consacrer.

417
Le texte dans la bande dessinée :
les vertus subversives du dialogue
« Le langage tend à l’abstrait », précise le Nouveau Petit Robert. Précision supplémen-
taire : la relation texte-abstraction est bien ancienne. Elle est même consubstantielle à
la naissance de l’écriture. Pour assumer sa fonction de « mémoire des hommes » (Jean
1987) et ainsi rendre possible le savoir historique, l’écriture a progressivement aban-
donné sa capacité de figuration. Jusqu’il y a peu (c’est-à-dire fin dix-neuvième, début
vingtième siècle pour l’Europe occidentale francophone), cette maîtrise de l’abstraction
écrite a été réservée à une élite, sociale et intellectuelle, qui avait fait sienne l’équation
– toujours d’actualité – entre savoir et pouvoir. Parmi les effets collatéraux de cette
distinction symbolique du texte écrit, l’image figurative, restée (trop) proche du réel et
pour cette raison (pédagogique) souvent sollicitée lorsqu’il s’agit de toucher un public
plus large (populaire ou enfantin), aura à se mettre aux ordres de ce langage dominant,
tant fonctionnellement parlant (l’image qui illustre le texte, souvent, au mieux, ne fait
que le doubler), que formellement (l’image est séparée, voire isolée du texte).
Il est toujours important de rappeler cette axiologie différenciée entre texte et image
quand on s’intéresse à l’histoire du genre bande dessinée et à ses spécificités. La bande
dessinée, qui fait ses premiers pas avec les aventures de Zig et Puce dans Le Dimanche
Illustré (1925), celles de Tintin dans Le Petit Vingtième (1929), mais mieux encore avec
la diffusion du Journal de Mickey (1934), doit son originalité sémiotique à sa prise de
distance à l’égard de l’histoire illustrée, qui a été pratiquée par Rodolphe Töpffer dès la
première moitié du dix-neuvième siècle ou plus largement par l’imagerie dite « d’Épinal »
dans la seconde moitié et au début du vingtième siècle, et qui fera de la résistance dans
la presse illustrée pour la jeunesse jusque dans la seconde moitié du vingtième siècle1.
Lorsqu’elle interroge les raisons du succès du dispositif narratif de l’histoire illustrée,
Annie Renonciat fait état d’un argument, soutenu par les prescripteurs de l’époque, qui
repose sur les vertus pédagogiquement distinctives de l’abstraction textuelle :
La formule d’Épinal présente l’avantage, aux yeux des parents et des éducateurs, de fa-
voriser l’apprentissage et la pratique de la lecture, de maintenir la part du texte dans ses
formes et fonctions traditionnelles : une sollicitation de l’esprit, des facultés abstraites et
intellectuelles, de la mémoire et du jugement, à la différence de l’image, dont on estime
qu’elle ne touche que les sens (Renonciat 2002 : 41-42).2
Avec la bande dessinée se produit ce qui relève d’une véritable révolution copernicienne,
qui mettra longtemps à être appréciée à sa juste valeur. Le texte n’est plus le centre d’at-
traction du récit, l’image a pris le relais par l’intégration de celui-là dans son espace à
elle. Indice d’une modernité qui doit beaucoup au modèle culturel américain, cette
réduction des espaces (image/texte sous l’image > tout dans l’image) favorise une lecture

1  Parmi les supports de la presse spécialisée pour la jeunesse, toujours adeptes, après 1945,
de l’histoire illustrée, on peut citer les français Bernadette, Pierrot, Vaillant ou Le Journal de
Nano et Nanette.
2  Je remercie mon collègue Benoît Glaude de m’avoir fourni cette référence.

418
plus rapide des informations fictionnelles et narratives. Pour compléter
l’inventaire des bouleversements liés à ce déplacement sur le texte, il
faut ajouter que ce dernier prend essentiellement la forme du dialogue
dont la proximité fonctionnelle avec l’oral diminue d’autant les préten-
tions au caractère « écrit » du texte bande dessinée. Mais la plus grande
spontanéité de ce texte, qui doit sans doute beaucoup au succès de ces
nouveaux médias que sont alors la radio et le cinéma parlant, n’achève
pas là son programme révolutionnaire. Les implications ne sont plus
sémiologiques ou linguistiques, elles sont désormais idéologiques. Ex-
ception faite des récitatifs, le texte n’est plus porté par un narrateur
extradiégétique et omniscient, il responsabilise des personnages qui se
construisent devant les lecteurs. En d’autres mots, il s’est démocratisé3.
Et il peut être pertinent d’avancer que ce bouleversement qui touche
cette fois à la narration textuelle et à ses enjeux politiques est pour
quelque chose dans la marginalisation persistante de la bande dessinée
dans le champ des pratiques culturelles du vingtième siècle.
En fait, la bande dessinée s’impose, dès le milieu des années 1930,
comme un lieu privilégié pour l’observation de la concurrence de pa-
radigmes qui marque le siècle dernier. Cette fonction emblématique
repose précisément sur son opposition générique avec l’histoire illus-
trée. Mais que faut-il entendre par paradigme ? Le concept n’est pas
nouveau et a fait l’objet, ces dernières décennies, d’un grand usage qui
a pu en réduire l’intérêt épistémologique. Une évidence pour entamer
la description de l’acception : la nature ne parle pas d’elle-même. Pour
le scientifique qui en parle, un paradigme correspond à un modèle de
pensée, une façon de voir les choses, qui fait que ce chercheur pourra
voir certaines choses… et pas d’autres. D’un point de vue diachro-
nique, les paradigmes participent à notre compréhension de l’évolution
des sciences, entendu que celles-ci progressent au sein d’un même pa-
radigme qui, par définition, reste fermé sur lui-même ou par ruptures,
par changements de paradigme :
Avec l’accumulation d’anomalies et d’incohérences théoriques, les
sciences passent parfois par des périodes exceptionnelles de crise du-
rant lesquelles le paradigme est progressivement remis en question. Le
problème ne consiste plus à résoudre les énigmes posées par le para-
digme mais à repenser le paradigme lui-même. Le chercheur remet en
3 Ces différences entre histoire illustrée et bande dessinée ont été très bien
décrites par Irène Pennacchioni (1982, 121-123) dans son ouvrage intitulé
La nostalgie en images. Consciente des modifications narratives et sociocul-
turelles introduites par la bande dessinée, Pennacchioni ne recourt cependant
pas à la formule de « révolution copernicienne » et au terme de « démocrati-
sation », leur préférant celle de « résistance culturelle » et celui d’ « émancipa-
tion ». Question de contexte de publication, qui se doit d’être relativisé par
rapport aux ambitions épistémologiques que l’on est en droit d’avoir en ce
début de vingt-et-unième siècle.

419
 question les règles du jeu et se retourne contre les autorités de sa tradition. On observe
alors une effervescence intellectuelle durant laquelle les scientifiques se passionnent
pour la recherche de nouveaux paradigmes. Finalement, un nouveau paradigme s’im-
pose (Vink 1995, 96).
Nous n’en sommes sans doute pas encore à l’imposition du nouveau paradigme, mais il
est pertinent de poser que tant dans nos stratégies de connaissance du monde (sciences)
que dans nos façons de le raconter (fictions), nos sociétés d’Europe occidentale ont
de plus en plus tendance à remettre en cause le culte d’une Vérité indicible, invisible,
longtemps dominant, pour favoriser la croyance en l’accessibilité du sens, en la trans-
versalité des savoirs plutôt que le primat de l’intransitivité ; le dialogisme généralisé
plutôt que le monologisme autosuffisant. Cette dernière possibilité de rendre compte
de la concurrence entre paradigmes4 nous remet sur la piste du texte de bande dessinée,
de sa polyphonie définitoire qui prend ses distances par rapport au monologue omnis-
cient du narrateur extradiégétique de l’histoire illustrée. L’originalité sémiotique de la
bande dessinée sera davantage perceptible si on la compare à la pratique de la narration
dans le roman de Jean-Paul Sartre, La Nausée, publié, faut-il le rappeler en 1938 et
donc contemporain des premiers pas du Journal de Mickey et de ses clones en France
et en Belgique. Pour prendre position dans le champ littéraire de son époque, Sartre
abandonne la narration omnisciente, caractéristique de la fiction réaliste légitime, pour
lui substituer l’autonomie énonciative qui permet à son personnage principal, Antoine
Roquentin, de s’affirmer comme conscience libre. Dans son étude sur le champ litté-
raire français au vingtième siècle, Fabrice Thumerel (2002, 168-210) a très bien mis en
évidence cette stratégie esthétique subversive qui permet d’en apprendre sur la socialité
sartrienne. Notre synchronie et son nouvel « implicite social » paradigmatique nous ont
donné l’occasion de compléter aujourd’hui notre analyse sociocritique des initiatives
en matière de narration textuelle prises par la bande dessinée classique de l’entre-deux-
guerres et, corollairement, de réévaluer l’histoire du genre. D’autres faits, relevant cette
fois de l’observation scientifique, ont aussi fait l’objet, en cette fin de vingtième siècle
et ce début de vingt-et-unième siècle, de réorientations qui paraissent relayer celle opé-
rée par la concurrence des pratiques énonciatives de l’histoire illustrée et de la bande
dessinée dans le deuxième tiers du vingtième siècle (cf. Tilleuil 2005). Philippe Coulan-
geon (2005, 9) a également repris à son compte le couple démocratisation/démocratie
culturelle pour décrire les transformations des politiques culturelles en France, davan-
tage adeptes désormais du second terme (il revient aux individus de proposer, « d’en

4  L’inventaire non achevé des couples de contraires incite à les rassembler sous les formules
subsumantes de paradigme de l’idéalisme abstrait et de paradigme du pragmatisme réaliste,
ce dernier adjectif étant à libérer de ses connotations artistiques immanentes. Dans son article
intitulé « Le roman du peintre », Annie Mavrakis (1998) défend, en termes très poétiques, l’état
de crise qui frappe l’ancien paradigme : « L’artiste qui a affaire aux formes, aux couleurs, aux
sons, perd le contact avec le public dès lors qu’obnubilé par l’idée il néglige la fenêtre du
monde. Il n’y a plus alors d’harmonie céleste mais des grincements à faire fuir les chats, plus
de déesse incarnée mais une “muraille de peinture“. » Dans la phrase qui précédait ces deux-
ci, Mavrakis envisageait une conciliation, pour peu que l’on inverse l’ordre des connaissanc-
es : « La fenêtre donnant sur le monde y communique sans efforts avec la fenêtre ouverte sur le
ciel. » (1998, 431).

420
bas », leur propre modèle culturel) plutôt que du premier. De son côté,
s’intéressant au « récit d’histoire nationale », Anne-Marie Thiesse a fait
état du débat international qui concerne la science historique et qui
voit les partisans du discours monologique omniscient traditionnel de
plus en plus contestés par de nouvelles voix, hostiles à l’énonciation de
surplomb et à la fallacieuse neutralité du discours scientifique :
Il faudrait alors substituer, à la focalisation zéro du discours savant, celle que
produit le narrateur externe à son récit, la complexité des points de vue. C’est-
à-dire renoncer au confortable monologisme du discours scientifique pour
s’inspirer des techniques de la polyphonie narrative expérimentées par la fic-
tion littéraire du XXe siècle (Thiesse 2008, 107).

Outre qu’elle atteste la hiérarchisation revue et corrigée entre science

(historique) et littérature, cette citation nous invite à revenir à notre
problématique de la polyphonie énonciative de la bande dessinée et d’y
apporter quelques compléments d’information. Au fil des décennies,
le texte des personnages a gagné en expressivité. On pourrait s’arrêter
longuement sur l’exploitation de plus en plus variée et étonnamment
créative, de l’onomatopée. À ce propos, un parcours historique à tra-
vers l’œuvre d’un des grands animateurs de la bande dessinée classique,
à savoir André Franquin, offrirait un fil conducteur des plus convain-
cants. On se contentera d’une illustration qui condense les multiples
usages d’un type de message (Fig. 1), dont la proximité avec le langage
de l’image autorise des effets de signification qui mélangent eux-mêmes
iconique et plastique : lettre qui compose l’image, cadre le personnage,
programme la lecture narrative, etc.

Fig. 1. André Franquin,

Gaston Lagaffe. T. 12.
Le gang des gaffeurs,
Marcinelle, Dupuis,
1976, p. 46, v. 9.
Si l’onomatopée constitue une des grandes spécificités graphiques de la (Gaston, Labévue
et l’O rouge). ©
bande dessinée, elle côtoie d’autres pratiques strictement linguistiques Dupuis 1976

421
qui ont contribué, au fil du temps, à rendre le texte bande dessinée plus expressif, à le
rendre plus concret, plus proche de l’oral, en s’appuyant sur des conventions par dé-
finition abstraites. Un des indices de la « modernité » des productions bande dessinée
francophones des années 1960 et 1970 réside dans cette volonté de mimer au mieux
et à l’écrit la dimension vocale de la parole en variant les registres de sa communica-
tion verbale. Avec Hergé, l’esthétique classique passait aussi par un usage maîtrisé de
la langue : ce souci d’énoncer ses pensées avec clarté et simplicité s’impose d’autant
plus que Tintin est confronté à des personnages qui, à l’occasion et à des fins comiques
qui leur échappent, pratiquent le dérèglement linguistique. Comme Haddock, grand
créateur de jurons, mais dont Albert Algoud (2004, 12) nous rappelle qu’ils n’ont rien
de grossier et visent même à remettre en circulation des mots vieillis ou inusités. Ou
comme les Dupont/d, qui pratiquent le lapsus avec un réel bonheur (pour le lecteur),
ou Tournesol, parfois tenté par une rhétorique pompeuse, ou la Castafiore, incapable
de prononcer correctement le nom du capitaine Haddock.
Lorsqu’au début des années 1980, Enki Bilal, animateur de la première « modernité » en
bande dessinée, s’inspire de la fiction policière pour composer un récit complet en deux
planches (Bilal et Grange 1981), le registre linguistique est foncièrement familier (« la
garce », v. 1-2), voire vulgaire (« tronche de nave », v. 3-4)5. D’autres possibilités seront
de circonstance avec la « nouvelle bande dessinée classique », qui se met en place dans
la deuxième moitié des années 1980 ; il s’agira par exemple de diversifier les indices qui
transcrivent, à l’écrit, les variations de la vocalité. Ainsi, lors de leur première rencontre
dans La Conque de Ramor (Le Tendre et Loisel 1983, 21), les dialogues de Pélisse et
Bragon multiplient les marques prosodiques, par un travail soutenu sur la ponctuation
(points d’exclamation pour marquer l’insistance, v. 1+2+3+4+5+8 ; points d’interro-
gation pour signifier l’étonnement, v. 3+4+6), la présence de ratés (v. 6), le recours à
l’interjection (« mhm ? », v. 7) pour souligner le ton ironique d’une réponse… Afin de
donner une plus grande épaisseur prosodique au texte écrit, on peut aussi accentuer la
graphie par un élargissement du caractère, coloré d’une manière particulière (rouge ou
noir, v. 2+3+4+6+8). Mais l’indice empiète une nouvelle fois sur le territoire de l’image.
Dans cette même perspective d’un renouvellement du texte qui s’appuie sur des critères
plastiques, il faut encore noter l’originalité du placement des textes. Dans La Mort
permissionnaire, comme dans La Conque de Ramor, la continuité narrative est moins
installée par la suture iconique et/ou plastique (qui triomphe dans la bande dessinée
classique) que par la présence fréquente de blocs de texte à cheval sur deux vignettes
successives. Se substituant fonctionnellement à l’image, le texte de bande dessinée « mo-
derne » ou « nouvellement classique » peut envahir l’espace d’une autre manière. On
sait que les personnages de bande dessinée maîtrisent leurs discours, mais il leur arrive
souvent d’occuper des lieux en marge de l’image, traditionnellement (classiquement)
réservés à des informations à caractère narratif non communiquées par les dialogues ou
les dessins. Dans le récit de Bilal et Grange, l’essentiel du texte de la première planche

5  Il va sans dire qu’il n’y a pas que le lexique qui se popularise ; la syntaxe, pour le coup, n’est
pas en reste.

422
prend ainsi place non dans des ballons/bulles/phylactères, mais dans
une forme revisitée du récitatif. Dans son programme de démocratisa-
tion de la parole, le texte de bande dessinée s’approprie ainsi le dernier
espace réservé à la transcendance extradiégétique. Si l’on s’intéresse au
contenu de ces mots du personnage de Simon (Bilal et Grange 1981,
70), on constate qu’il s’agit non pas de paroles, mais de ses pensées et
que la forme, empruntée au récitatif, qui nous les restitue rend en-
core compte d’une distance : celle qui sépare l’être physique de Simon
(d’abord dans un bar, puis dans une rue) de son être mental (ailleurs,
c’est-à-dire dans un passé vieux de onze ans et un futur qui se rap-
proche : Simon va profiter de sa permission pour se venger de Suzy, qui
l’a trahi). Distance intradiégétique entre deux figures de Simon, mais
proximité avec le lecteur dont la dimension de « lisant » expérimen-
tera d’autant plus facilement l’identification secondaire au personnage
de Simon que la narration textuelle fonctionne sur le mode de la fo-
calisation interne. Vincent Jouve (1992, 121-131), auquel on doit la
distinction de cette instance, ajoute que ce mode joue un rôle fonda-
mental dans la valorisation affective du personnage, et ce, malgré les
indices d’antipathie éventuellement attribués à ce même personnage
(en l’occurrence : bar louche, vêtement défraichi, projet et exécution
d’un meurtre). A priori, la relation texte-lecteur s’établit autrement
dans la planche de Loisel et Le Tendre (1983, 23). On pense moins aux
textes dialogués, cette fois, qu’aux textes identifiables à des récitatifs.
S’agit-il pour autant d’un retour à une pratique « classique » ? Certes,
ces textes manifestent une grande économie de moyens prosodiques,
ce qui souligne leur caractère plus « écrit », voire littéraire. Mais le dé-
calage de ton, entre une grande retenue dans les récitatifs et une grande
spontanéité dans les ballons, induit plutôt une intention parodique qui
remet en cause l’usage classique du récitatif. Par ailleurs, si la présence
d’un narrateur extradiégétique paraît dans un premier temps (celui
de la lecture de la planche) attestée et renforcée par l’autorité qu’il se
donne par rapport aux événement rapportés dans la planche (il nous en
donne le fin mot), la lecture du quatrième tome (début et fin du tome)
révèle que ce narrateur est bien intradiégétique : c’est Touret, le valet de
ferme, présent au premier plan de la première vignette de la planche.
Il faudrait bien évidemment compléter ces analyses ponctuelles par
beaucoup d’autres, en allant voir notamment du côté du renouveau
de la bande dessinée qui se crée à partir des années 1990. Mais je fais
l’hypothèse, m’appuyant précisément sur une expérience de lecture de
bandes dessinées qui ne s’est bien sûr pas arrêtée à ces quelques études
de cas, que le texte de bande dessinée n’est pas seulement un vecteur
clé pour décider de la naissance du genre, mais que l’histoire de ses

423
variations contribue grandement à en faire l’histoire. Elle permet en effet de suivre
l’évolution du profil du lecteur de bande dessinée dans le développement de son hy-
perlecture et induit une implication de plus en plus soutenue de celui-ci dans son acte
de lecture. Au terme de leur ouvrage collectif consacré à une réévaluation de la rhéto-
rique à la lumière du structuralisme, le Groupe µ (1970, 173) avançait qu’il devait être
possible d’étudier l’évolution des normes de la bande dessinée, en portant son attention
sur les rapports entre l’image et le texte. Ici se clôture provisoirement ce qui peut en être
dit à partir du seul texte. Il nous faut maintenant y associer l’image.

L’image dans la bande dessinée : pour une relecture de sa

polysémie ontologique
De l’image, il a déjà été question dans les précédents développements relatifs au texte, et
ce, pour cause de porosité des frontières entre ces deux langages, attestée somme toute
dès la naissance du genre bande dessinée, qui les voit étroitement associés à la destinée
figurée et dialogale des personnages. De cet entre-deux-guerres à aujourd’hui, l’image a
gagné de l’espace et du galon dans les biens culturels produits et consommés en Europe
occidentale francophone (au moins). On ne compte plus les prises de position qui vont
en ce sens. On se contentera de celle-ci, qui nous intéresse parce qu’elle implique la
destinée du texte dans son face-à-face avec l’image :
L’expérience n’a plus d’existence qu’attestée par les images qu’on en rapporte. Les mots, face à
la crédibilité dont on cautionne l’image, ne sont plus qu’un instrument détourné qui canalise le
monde dans des significations a priori, correspondant de moins en moins à cette connaissance
devenue iconique (Clerc 1989, 295).

L’objet d’étude sur lequel Jeanne-Marie Clerc observe les effets de ce « règne généralisé
des doubles iconiques » est le roman contemporain. Pour ce qui nous concerne, il s’agit
bien sûr de la bande dessinée qui, à la différence du roman, impose la cohabitation de
l’image et du texte et dont les enquêtes menées depuis 1973 sur les pratiques cultu-
relles des Français font apparaître une implication certaine de ce mode d’expression
dans leurs changements de comportement à l’égard de la culture et des médias6. Dans
son analyse des « images modernes », Jeanne-Marie Clerc soulignait cette fonction de
l’image, enviée par le texte « enfermé dans le carcan abstrait de ses concepts » (1989,
295), de présenter à l’horizon de l’homme contemporain la possibilité d’une repré-
sentation, certes trompeuse, de la réalité. Un projet que la production bande dessinée
contemporaine n’aurait pas perdu de vue. Mais ces indices d’émancipation du genre
6  Dans les résultats d’enquête valant pour les années 1973-1989, « [l]a bande dessinée n’est
pas seulement le genre que lisent le plus les 15-19 ans […] : elle fait désormais largement
partie des habitudes de lecture des Français puisqu’elle est présente dans 47% des foyers (41%
en 1981) […] » (Donnat et Cogneau 1990, 96). Pour les résultats de l’enquête 2008, la bande
dessinée, qui reste une lecture plus masculine que féminine, est citée comme genre préféré
(par les hommes) jusque vers 30 ans, mais « désormais environ un quart des lecteurs de 45-54
ans en lisent » et, sur le plan sociologiquement qualitatif, cette lecture de bande dessinée et de
mangas concerne prioritairement « les catégories de population les plus fortes lectrices » (Don-
nat 2009, 154-158).

424
bande dessinée, touchant à sa forme analogique et à sa réception, en
côtoient d’autres, de nature à relancer le jeu de tensions entre illusion
réaliste (pour l’image) et culte de l’abstrait (pour le texte).
En effet et au risque du paradoxe, on observe que les théoriciens qui
s’intéressent aujourd’hui à la figuration de l’image s’accordent pour lui
reconnaître des dimensions abstraites. Il a été rappelé d’emblée que
l’image matérielle intentionnelle transforme, comme toute re/pré-
sentation, ce qu’elle nous donne à voir. On doit au Groupe µ (1992,
115-119) d’avoir imposé, à la fin du vingtième siècle, la distinction,
qui n’était pourtant pas nouvelle, entre signes iconiques et signes plas-
tiques. En d’autres mots, d’avoir libéré le plastique de sa subordination
à l’iconique en les constituant théoriquement tous les deux en classes de
signes autonomes. Cette prise de position a contribué de manière non
négligeable au déplacement du centre de gravité des réflexions portant
sur l’image : plutôt que « fenêtre ouverte sur le monde », l’image relève
d’une abstraction et sa prétention au réalisme est déclarée non perti-
nente (Comar 1992, 95). Envisagée de plus en plus souvent dans une
perspective interdisciplinaire, l’image est notamment étudiée dans ses
spécificités perceptives, ce qui conduit à la différenciation entre l’objet
perçu dans la réalité et sa perception dans l’image : la chose imagée,
entièrement donnée dans son apparence visible qui la manifeste et syn-
thétise toutes les apparences possibles, est quasi hors du temps et hors
de l’espace – en un mot : irréelle – , alors que la chose réelle ne dispense
jamais d’une exploration complète, ne se découvre que peu à peu et par
le temps (Meunier 1980, 28-33, 39). Mais c’est précisément parce que
l’image figurative ne se confond pas avec l’objet qu’elle est intéressante ;
c’est dans la différence que se faufile le sens de l’image (Comar 1992,
94). Le renouvellement du discours sur l’image doit aussi beaucoup à
l’apparition de l’art abstrait, qui remet en cause l’exigence ontologique
de représentation de l’image. C’est à la sémiologie plastique, attentive
à l’expressivité de l’image, d’analyser ses modalités de « présentialité »,
avec comme corollaires éventuels la mise au jour de nouveaux para-
doxes : l’image abstraite se fait concrète, voire plus concrète (parce
qu’immédiatement tangible : elle est un matériau, qui a de l’épaisseur,
de la couleur, etc.) que le concret, c’est-à-dire que l’image attachée
à la transparence de la réalité (qui suppose le respect de conventions
abstraites) (Aumont 1990, 202-212). Plus récemment, Jan Baetens est
revenu de son côté sur la question de l’iconicité de l’image, mais c’est
pour mieux souligner ses prédispositions à l’abstraction. Son propos
retient tout particulièrement mon attention, car il porte sur des corpus
bande dessinée. Contrairement à la photographie, le dessin de bande
dessinée « n’est pas forcément déterminé par son rapport plus ou moins

425
ressemblant à une donnée externe ». Par conséquent, « la possibilité d’une bande des-
sinée abstraite paraît tout à fait plausible » (Baetens 2013, 55). Immanquablement, le
rapide passage en revue de ces quelques positions théoriques en faveur d’une abstraction
de l’image figurative fait apparaître une convergence, à savoir une avancée conséquente
dans le processus de légitimation de l’image, en général, et de la bande dessinée, en
particulier. Ce qui induit de manière tout aussi évidente une réévaluation du dialogue
sémiotique entre l’image et le texte, la première comblant ainsi une part importante de
son retard symbolique sur le second.
Mais il est un autre discours théorique, sans doute plus ancien, qui, ayant aussi l’abstrac-
tion comme enjeu, entretient la possibilité d’un rapprochement a priori contre-nature
(sémiotique) entre représentation analogique et représentation digitale. Il suffit, pour ce
faire, de changer de point de vue et de se focaliser plutôt sur ces règles de transformation
visuelles qui permettent de reconnaître certains « objets du monde » dans la représenta-
tion iconique (Joly 1994, 96) ou, en d’autres mots, d’interroger les mécanismes grâce
auxquels l’image figurative crée son propre espace. Il nous faut en fait revenir à la fa-
meuse métaphore de la fenêtre pour constater que, si elle ne nous offre pas à voir le
monde, l’imitation qu’elle nous en donne a de quoi tromper. Nous touchons là – une
première fois – à la fascination de l’image, c’est-à-dire à son pouvoir de nous faire
prendre des vessies pour des lanternes, qu’il nous faut considérer de manière positive,
non pour le stigmatiser, mais pour en (ré)apprécier les subtilités de fonctionnement.
Un devoir élémentaire de réflexivité épistémologique me conduit à identifier ce souci
comme résultant de la concurrence paradigmatique décrite précédemment…
Un des mots clés de cette interrogation est bien évidemment celui de « ressemblance »
dont on sait qu’elle repose sur l’usage de la couleur et de la lumière (pour les images de
grande diffusion). Les lois de la géométrie ont aussi une part importante dans la pro-
duction de l’illusion représentative. Tout d’abord parce que le support de l’image est un
espace géométrique et qu’il en subit dès lors les lois (on rappellera à ce propos que « [l]
es points naturels de l’image se situent très exactement à l’intersection des diagonales et
des grandes lignes de force issues de la règle des tiers » ; Duc 1992, 143) ; ensuite, parce
que la géométrie, qui s’y entend bien en matière d’abstraction, est à considérer comme
la science même des ressemblances :
C’est là son objet principal : établir entre les formes des similitudes, des affinités, des correspon-
dances, tout un monde sous-jacent de relations qui permettent de mieux comprendre, à la fois, les
formes elles-mêmes et la nature de l’espace où elles se déploient (Comar 1992, 13).

Quand il est question de rapprocher historiquement géométrie et fenêtre, il est difficile

de passer à côté de la perspective à centre, qui, s’appuyant sur des procédés de la géomé-
trie euclidienne, réduit notre expérience subjective de la vision directe des objets et de
l’espace réels à une projection centrée où tout système de droites parallèles coupant le
tableau converge vers un même point de fuite situé sur l’horizon (celui-ci rassemblant
tous les points de fuite issus de tous les systèmes de droites parallèles). Mise au point
au quinzième siècle, la perspective centrale a accompagné, voire contraint la figuration
de l’espace dans la peinture occidentale jusqu’à la seconde moitié du dix-neuvième

426
siècle (Panofsky 1975, 19-20). Les réserves qu’il faut formuler à son
encontre sont bien connues : il existe d’autres pratiques perspectives7
et celle, portée sur les fonts baptismaux par Alberti, ne reproduit pas
notre vision des choses, mais en propose une transformation philoso-
phiquement marquée. Cela étant, c’est précisément cet ancrage dans
la révolution culturelle renaissante qui offre à la « fenêtre d’Alberti » ce
supplément d’âme dont peuvent profiter le créateur de l’image comme
son spectateur, à la fois présents (convoqués par l’image) et absents (ex-
clus de la réalité iconique), pour rivaliser avec la transcendance divine.
Cerise supplémentaire sur le gâteau d’un sujet déjà bien triomphant,
l’image perspective (à centre) modifie le rapport qu’il entretient avec
le monde. Donné comme inaccessible, ce monde devient mesurable,
cohérent, unifiable grâce aux lignes d’horizon et aux points de fuite.
Une maîtrise certes artificielle, mais qui constitue un indice manifeste
de l’orgueil humaniste, à prendre en considération pour relancer une
deuxième fois le pouvoir fascinant de l’image.
D’une légitimité tout aussi « moderne », mais plus terre à terre, il faut
distinguer cet effet de réel, souvent associé à la représentation perspec-
tive, qui profite à l’image qui illustre le livre. Les innovations techniques
mises en place à l’aube des temps modernes (on pense aux techniques
de gravure sur métal) ont pour conséquence de retourner désormais à
son avantage ce qui l’avait pénalisé jusqu’alors : sa meilleure proximité
avec le réel rend l’image plus crédible, lui accorde une fonction do-
cumentaire qui l’autonomise par rapport au texte, trop distant. Avec
l’époque contemporaine, la technique photographique poussera plus
loin l’illusion référentielle. Elle s’imposera progressivement dans les
supports de grande diffusion (d’abord ceux de la presse écrite, si l’on
s’en tient à l’image fixe) et incitera la peinture, libérée de l’obsession-
nelle ressemblance, à retrouver l’abstraction légitimante. Autre temps,
autre philosophie : au sujet triomphant et centré, installé depuis la Re-
naissance, adepte d’une image comme construction, s’oppose le sujet
crisant et décentré d’une nouvelle modernité, préférant l’image comme
expression (Aumont 1990, 165-168). Dans son ouvrage de synthèse
sur l’imagination, Jean-Jacques Wunenburger rassemble plusieurs des
arguments exposés précédemment (vision ≠ perspective ≠ expression)
et revient sur ce que ce changement de point de vue philosophique a
eu comme conséquence sur les modalités d’expression figurative légi-
times :
Si la peinture classique occidentale, née des règles de la perspective géométrique
au XVe siècle, semble avoir soumis l’imagination à une représentation des ap-

7  Perspective à axe (central), perspective aérienne ou atmosphérique, per-

spective parallèle ou militaire, et autres.

427
 parences de la réalité perçue, ce canon figuratif n’est qu’une fiction, qui ne dérive pas de l’espace
vécu, et qui fait place, dès la fin du XIXe siècle, à un autre système de représentation encore moins
réaliste (impressionnisme, expressionnisme, art abstrait) (Wunenburger 1991, 12)

La production bande dessinée francophone n’échappe pas à la synchronie du débat

opposant image-construction et image-expression. Et ce, d’autant plus que la bande
dessinée dispose depuis la fin du vingtième siècle d’une légitimité suffisante (à défaut
d’être achevée) pour entretenir des modalités d’appropriation plus égalitaires, voire
concurrentielles avec ses modèles tant picturaux que littéraires, longtemps dominants
dans le champ culturel. Encore que, comme dans les années 1960 et 1970, on puisse
rencontrer de ces auteurs hybrides reconnus pour leur pratique classique et moderne
(comme Jean Giraud, alias Moebius, dessinateur de la série de western classique « Blue-
berry » et animateur du journal Métal Hurlant) ; en ce début de vingt-et-unième siècle,
Manu Larcenet par exemple (dessinateur de Retour à la terre et du Rapport de Brodeck), a
pris le relais de cette créativité qui refuse les frontières symboliques. En fait, tout artiste
de bande dessinée, qu’il pratique le récit réaliste ou comique, classique, moderne ou ex-
périmental, a à se situer par rapport aux codes analogiques pour figurer ses personnages,
représenter ses décors et géométriser leur spatialisation respective. Parce que le dessin,
à l’opposé de la photographie, relève de la caricature (elle est toujours dé/formation
régulée du réel), il suppose une maîtrise technique, fut-elle élémentaire et subjective.
« L’appareil photo prend sans considérer. Le dessin oblige l’œil à apprendre », se plaît à
souligner Zep (cité dans Bagault 2012, 30).

De l’image unique aux images en séquences : l’abstraction

comme trou noir de la fiction
Le mot s’est glissé de manière discrète, au détour de typologies très générales des pro-
ductions, à la fois synchroniques et diachroniques, exposées en fin du développement
précédent : la bande dessinée, c’est du récit. Raconter une histoire constitue même un des
traits définitoires du genre. Cette narrativité est observable dès l’image unique et fixe.
La présence de texte la prédispose à se gonfler d’une durée potentiellement nécessaire
au fonctionnement basique du récit (un état et sa transformation, virtuelle ou réalisée).
Vide de texte, l’image bande dessinée peut cependant user de l’espace pour figurer du
temps, par une articulation judicieuse des choix iconiques avec l’exploitation du para-
mètre de la profondeur (loin/près = avant/après ou l’inverse), du paramètre du cadrage
(en jouant sur l’opposition montré/caché) ou encore du paramètre de la composition
(effet narratif de complétude/d’incomplétude). La tentation d’une narrativité centri-
pète pourrait même constituer un critère de distinction des bandes dessinées ayant pris
leur distance à l’égard de l’esthétique classique (c’est-à-dire « modernes », « nouvelle-
ment classiques » et « nouvellement modernes »)8. Sans pour autant remettre en cause
8  Ce qui est vrai pour l’image unique peut être extrapolé, à l’occasion (« moderne », « nouvelle-
ment classique » ou « nouvellement moderne »), à la planche ou à la double planche de bande
dessinée.

428
fondamentalement l’inertie centrifuge de la vignette bande dessinée,
indispensable à l’installation de la continuité narrative.
Quoique l’attention que je voudrais avoir pour ce dernier moment de
ma réflexion porte sur les modalités du micro-montage des vignettes
(l’articulation de vignette à vignette) au sein d’une planche bande des-
sinée, je ne souhaite pas revenir sur des considérations désormais bien
connues relatives à la logique métonymique qui y préside et qui repose
sur l’opposition suture/rupture, entendu que l’illusion d’une coulée
« naturelle » des images, qui nie leur statut fondamentalement dis-
continu distingue – une nouvelle fois – une pratique classique du récit.
Le fil conducteur des analyses qui vont suivre est constitué par la nar-
ration comme « acte de raconter », par le texte et par l’image, et donc
conséquemment par les relations entre énoncé et énonciation (pour le
texte), iconisé et iconisation (pour l’image). Petit rappel théorique : au-
cun texte ne s’énonce tout seul et ne peut échapper aux marques laissées
par cette énonciation dans son énoncé ; il en va de même pour l’image
qui ne s’iconise pas toute seule et porte les traces de son iconisation
dans son iconisé (Tilleuil 2005, 107-117). Ces actes d’énonciation et
d’iconisation sont pris en charge par un narrateur (extra- ou intradié-
gétique) qui s’adresse à un narrataire (extra- ou intradiégétique), deux
instances virtuelles qui opèrent dans les limites du texte et de l’image et
dont les traces qu’ils laissent de leurs implications respectives dans les
narrations servent à la construction des éthos (du narrateur comme du
narrataire). Si, depuis Rimbaud, nous sommes tous bien convaincus
que « Je est un autre » – qu’une frontière existentielle sépare la personne
civile du personnage et du monde fictif9– , il n’est pour autant pas
impossible que ces jeux de narration ne puissent nous apprendre aussi,
en amont comme en aval (du texte et/ou de l’image), sur l’auteur réel
et le lecteur réel, ainsi que sur les contextes de production et de récep-
tion : « Tout énoncé, et tout récit, porte les marques de sa situation de
production, de ses conditions d’énonciation et fait entendre la voix de
celui qui l’énonce » (Verrier 1985 : 174).
Cette dialectique fiction/réalité qui vient d’être mise au jour nous met
sur la piste d’une nouvelle expérience de l’abstraction dans notre lec-
ture de la bande dessinée. Pour ce faire, j’ai d’abord besoin de m’arrêter
devant un effet d’archi-discursivité (la remarque qui suit vaut pour
tout type de discours) que j’identifie, à la suite d’Alain Bergala, au
« moment du code ».
Le moment du code, c’est le moment où les choix ne se posent plus
par rapport à la panoplie objective des paramètres (et au dégradé in-

9  En bonne méthode, « [l]e narrateur […] est à distinguer radicalement de

son auteur » (Genette 2004, 36).

429
 fini et homogène des possibilités qu’ils proposent) mais se réduisent à un paradigme de
quelques choix possibles réellement inscrits dans le langage, marqués par leur retour, leur
répétition, leur reprise, dans l’ensemble des textes qui constituent, à un moment donné,
un état historique de ce langage.
[…]
Le langage iconique (et ses codes) n’est pas inscrit dans les paramètres de l’image : il est inscrit dans
l’ensemble des productions iconiques d’une époque et d’une société, dans les habitudes culturelles
(idéologiques) qui en règlent les figures, les structures, les modèles effectivement disponibles parce
qu’effectivement recevables, lisibles par cette société (Bergala 1979, 12-13).

Appliquée à la bande dessinée, cette prise en compte du « moment du code » conduit à

une réappréciation des variations qui ont marqué par le passé et marquent aujourd’hui
tant les usages des paramètres textuels, iconiques ou plastiques de la bande dessinée, que
ceux de ses modalités narratives qui m’intéressent ici au premier chef.
Tout a déjà été dit sur la fonction subversive du dialogue dans la naissance de la bande
dessinée. Sur le plan de la narration textuelle classique, la généralisation de ces « paroles »
échangées entre personnages fait que ceux-ci s’échangent aussi leurs rôles de narrateurs/
narrataires intradiégétiques en fonction des nécessités du récit. Cette pratique textuelle
contribue à autonomiser la fiction, comme si « les événements […] se racont[aient]
eux-mêmes » (Benveniste 1966 : 241), par la grâce de ces deux instances abstraites,
complémentaires par essence et interchangeables en l’occurrence. Mais les marquages
de leurs énonciations respectives peuvent aider le narrataire extradiégétique, extérieur
au monde de l’histoire racontée tout en y étant implicitement présent, et au-delà, au
lecteur réel que je suis, invité à se modeler sur cette instance virtuelle, à reconstruire les
éthos des personnages en question10.
Ainsi, dans ces deux vignettes qui représentent Tintin et Haddock en discussion lors
d’une promenade (L’Affaire Tournesol, p. 1, v. 9-10), les propos du capitaine ne font
pas que réactualiser le stéréotype du déni d’aventure ; ils entretiennent aussi son rôle
privilégié de déclencheur du comique : il suffit qu’Haddock réclame « le calme, le repos,
le silence » pour qu’un grand bruit se manifeste (p. 1, v. 11) et mette fin à ce moment
de sérénité tant apprécié. La réserve de Tintin (« Vous dites ça, capitaine, mais… ») at-
teste sa science héroïque infuse : il sait bien, lui, qu’une nouvelle aventure les attend…
quoique l’issue même du récit (p. 62 : les plans de la machine à ultra-son du profes-
seur Tournesol, convoités par les Bordures et les Syldaves, sont restés à Moulinsart !)
incite à nuancer le rôle thématique du capitaine, qui dispose d’un pouvoir cognitif et
pragmatique de moins en moins négligeable. Mais la bande dessinée classique connaît
d’autres manifestations textuelles que le dialogue. Comme les bulles de pensée ou de
monologue de personnages, sans oublier les récitatifs qui fournissent des informations
de régie. Dans ces différents cas, la narration s’ouvre exclusivement à l’extradiégétique
et à la curiosité du lecteur concret. Toujours reprises aux aventures de Tintin, qui il-

10  À la suite de Vincent Jouve, dans sa synthèse des théories de la lecture, on peut identifier
ce narrataire extradiégétique ou lecteur virtuel à un relais, voire un double idéal du lecteur réel
(Jouve 1993, 29-31).

430
lustrent exemplairement la bande dessinée classique, les deux vignettes
suivantes recourent tantôt à l’aparté monologale, emprunté au théâtre,
tantôt au texte de pensée et au récitatif (Fig. 2 et Fig. 3):

La narration classique de l’image bande dessinée a aussi sa norme dont

la fonction autonomisante rejoint celle du dialogue. Ce qui est mon-
tré paraît l’être spontanément, comme si la figuration s’animait toute
seule. Les personnages se meuvent et agissent dans un monde qui leur
est propre, a priori sans contact avec le monde du lecteur réel. En
fait, l’image à narration extradiégétique adopte, après transposition et
cette fois à la différence du texte dialogué, « une forme ancienne, naïve
et fondamentale » (Raymond 1988, 115)11, du récit romanesque à la
troisième personne. Cette iconisation qui « naturalise » son acte de re-
présentation figurée, c’est-à-dire qui tente de neutraliser les marques
de son iconisation, induit cependant une relation toute particulière
avec son spectateur (virtuel > réel) qui remet une troisième fois sur le
métier de l’analyse sémiotique de l’image son pouvoir de fascination.
Déjà lectrice indiscrète des paroles et pensées (écrites) des personnages,
la double instance placée en aval du spectacle offert par l’image (abs-
traitement dedans > concrètement dehors) expérimente une forme
complexe de voyeurisme : elle est non seulement amenée à voir quelque
chose qui ne lui est pas destiné, mais elle peut jouir de ce qu’elle voit
sans être vue… qu’elle voit ! L’expérience fantasmatique se complique
encore du fait que l’iconisé, produit de l’iconisation naturalisée, réserve
pourtant sa place à ce voyeur impénitent. Du moins en théorie. Fig. 2. Hergé, Objectif
Lune, Tournai,
Pour saisir ce paradoxe (absent/présent de la diégèse visuelle), il nous Casterman, 1953, p.
faut revenir à l’abstraction géométrisante de l’image perspective : 20, v. 9. © Hergé/
Moulinsart 2016
« Notre présence est requise dans cette construction de l’espace, nous y
avons notre place. Nous devons tenir notre rôle de spectateur » (Comar Fig. 3. Hergé, Tintin
1992, 87). En fait, la perspective centrale invite le spectateur – rappelle au Tibet, Tournai,
Casterman, 1960,
11  Je remercie mon collègue Laurent Déom (Université de Lille) de m’avoir p. 2, v. 4 © Hergé/
communiqué cette référence. Moulinsart 2016

431
Philippe Comar (1992, 43) – « à adopter le point de vue qui a présidé à la construction
du tableau, sans quoi l’image apparaît déformée ». Mais, en pratique, poursuit l’artiste
plasticien et théoricien de la perspective :
le point de vue à partir duquel cet espace plan libère son volume est rarement montré. Sa décou-
verte est laissée à l’appréciation du spectateur. C’est à nous – et à nous seuls – qu’il appartient de
se repérer par rapport au tableau en tant qu’observateur. Nous devons émettre des suppositions
sur la manière de le voir pour nous placer correctement, nous confondre avec le point de vue
(Comar 1992, 87).

Il existe bien évidemment des exceptions à cette règle tout en souplesse, à commencer
par l’expérience inaugurale de Filippo Brunelleschi (début quinzième siècle), qui im-
pose au spectateur de se soumettre à la condition du point de vue unique, à laquelle
on peut ajouter les images en trompe-l’œil ou encore certains tableaux dont la mise en
scène programme par un détail (le miroir bombé dans le Portrait des époux Arnolfini de
Jan Van Eyck ; Comar 1992, 42-43) ou par la représentation dans son ensemble (Les
Ménines de Vélasquez ; ibid. 114-117), la place du peintre et/ou du spectateur. Mais,
pour prendre Comar au mot, on peut avancer qu’une observation attentive de la mise
en espace dans une image unique et fixe, en l’occurrence de bande dessinée, aussi banale
soit cette image sur le plan de la linéarisation du récit, peut conduire au repérage du
positionnement du couple complémentaire narrateur extradiégétique-narrataire extra-
diégétique, ainsi qu’à la reconstruction de leur éthos respectif12. Car, aussi neutralisante
soit-elle, une iconisation n’arrive jamais à faire disparaître toute trace de son acte et,
corollairement, de la construction de l’espace propre de l’image et de l’incarnation des
co-iconisateurs qui y ont pris place. Concrètement, le repérage de ces marquages dis-
crets de l’iconisation dans l’iconisé suppose que l’on soit attentif au traitement iconique
de l’image (la figuration des personnages, du décor, etc.), mais aussi aux usages des
différents paramètres plastiques qui sont faits dans l’image étudiée. Mais le souci qu’a
l’image de bande dessinée classique de masquer son iconisation, combiné à la « vieille »
habitude du spectateur à être confronté aux manipulations d’images qui sont propres
à sa culture, font qu’il se retrouve souvent impliqué dans cette représentation d’espace
sans en être bien conscient.
Des cas de marquage de la narration visuelle peuvent cependant être rencontrés dans
la production classique, qui, vu leur caractère exceptionnel, attirent l’attention. Il en
est ainsi de l’illustration de première de couverture des Bijoux de la Castafiore (1963)
dont l’originalité de la mise en abîme de la situation de communication repose cette
fois non plus sur la relation de personnage à personnage, mais bien de personnage à
personne, via l’instance du narrataire extradiégégétique. Reprenons : c’est bien à lui (et
au-delà, à la personne du spectateur/lecteur réel) que Tintin adresse son regard et son
invitation à faire silence, le faisant ainsi entrer plus encore dans la fiction, comme per-
sonnage virtuel (narrataire intradiégétique). Dans son étude bien connue sur « l’image
manipulée », Pierre Fresnault-Deruelle suggère de prolonger en amont l’implication des
12  Cf. notre analyse de la vignette 3 de la page 56 des Sept boules de cristal, qui conclut au
partage d’une ocularisation zéro omnisciente aux effets cependant symboliquement différenci-
ants pour le narrateur et le narrataire extradiégétique (Tilleuil 1995, 301-326).

432
instances de narration et, dans une étude portant sur l’image publici-
taire, propose de doubler le rôle du personnage qui me regarde de celui
du destinateur, « un groupe de décision ou une firme », avec comme
conséquence fantasmatiquement pertinente de transformer en com-
munication (pseudo-) directe une communication ontologiquement
vécue en différée :
Présentement, le manifeste publicitaire va tout mettre en œuvre pour me don-
ner à croire […] qu’il n’y a plus cette distance entre l’émetteur et le récepteur
matérialisée par l’existence même de l’annonce ; qu’au contraire tout semble
se passer dans l’instantanéité d’une communication transparente (je/tu). Face
à face, sans écran, ni obstacle. (Fresnault-Deruelle 1983, 65).

Ce mime de la communication, qui implique cette fois les instances

tant virtuelles que réelles de la narration, peut s’appuyer, dans le cas
de l’illustration de première de couverture des Bijoux, sur les propos
mêmes de son auteur : « Oui, à travers Tintin, c’est moi qui m’adresse
au lecteur et qui lui dis : “Vous allez voir la comédie… Chut ! Et main-
tenant, place au théâtre ! » (cité dans Sadoul 1975, 115). Si l’on s’en
tient aux aventures tintinesques, d’autres situations similaires de « face
à face » peuvent être rencontrées : Tintin s’adressant par les mots et le
regard à ses « Chers Amis » lecteurs au terme du Secret de la Licorne
(1943, 62) ou Milou par les pensées qu’il nous destine et la tête tour-
née vers nous dans une des dernières vignettes de Vol 714 pour Sydney
(1968, 62). D’autres séries classiques ont utilisé cette forme verbo-ico-
nique de narration ; on citera par exemple les adresses au lecteur/
spectateur assumées alternativement par Spirou et Spip au tout début
de Spirou et les héritiers (1952, 1).
L’inventaire est à compléter, mais, pour les raisons exposées précédem-
ment (la nécessité classique d’une « naturalisation » de la dynamique du
récit et de son corollaire, la conjuration de l’entrée de l’espace hétéro-
gène à celui de la fiction), il restera toujours bien en deçà des pratiques,
fréquentes et variées, de marquage de la narration dans les productions
bande dessinée dites « modernes ». On pourrait même avancer que ces
pratiques constituent un des critères de distinction de cette « nouvelle
bande dessinée », à côté du renouvellement des formes linguistiques,
des contenus thématiques et fictionnels, ainsi que de l’expressivité
graphique : le dessin n’est plus seulement un support du récit, il rend
compte de l’investissement d’un artiste. Cette dernière revendication,
qui procède déjà d’un marquage de la narration, est à l’occasion as-
sociée au clin d’œil du narrateur extradiégétique (textuel) au lecteur,
comme chez Jacques Tardi (dans Le Démon des glaces ou Le Démon
de la Tour Eiffel par exemple). Mais le jeu se complique alors d’une
intention parodique à l’égard du roman-feuilleton et de ses relances du

433
suspense, en fin d’épisode. La créativité tardienne en matière de subversion des relations
traditionnelles narrateur (intra/extra)-narrataire (invoqué) mériterait à elle seule une
étude fouillée.
Lors de ma première étude (Tilleuil 1987) du court récit en deux planches d’Enki Bilal
intitulé La Mort permissionnaire (1981), je m’étais focalisé sur le déroulement du récit et
l’exploitation des figures de rhétorique (expression et contenu). Cette seconde attention
m’avait permis de mettre au jour des effets de sens qui résultaient d’une lecture tabu-
laire des deux planches. Le premier complément d’information que je peux apporter
aujourd’hui consiste à faire de cette tabularité qui fonctionne à fleur de planche, avec
des appels de vignette à vignette tout à fait explicites, un trait distinctif non seulement
de cette courte bande dessinée de Bilal, mais plus largement de la « modernité » dont elle
relève, pour laquelle la coexistence des lectures linéaire et tabulaire suppose un lecteur
plus actif, à même – au moins – de s’interroger sur les enjeux sémantiques (narratifs,
thématiques, esthétiques) de ces croisements de lecture. Pour distinguer davantage ce
que ce récit peut avoir de moderne, je me propose d’adopter une position de lecture
médiane, entre linéaire et tabulaire, pour isoler une suite de vignettes (v. 3-4-5-6-7),
encadrée par les vignettes de début (v. 1-2) et de fin (v. 8) qui installent un premier écho
visuel. Comme on le devine, suite à ce qui précède et qui a installé un cadre de réflexion
inspiré de la pragmatique et de la théorie du discours, le point de vue à privilégier res-
tera celui du lecteur (virtuel/réel), pôle décisif s’il en est – à en croire Jan Baetens (2013,
60) – lorsqu’il est question d’abstraction et de bande dessinée.
L’implication du récit de Bilal dans les développements relatifs au texte de bande des-
sinée visait à pointer une originalité formelle, un espace en marge et à cheval sur les
vignettes qui appelait à doubler la lecture du texte (à la fois à lire de manière horizon-
tale : de gauche à droite, mais aussi verticale : de haut en bas, à travers les vignettes et
les strips). Cette prise de distance à l’égard de la métonymisation classique du récit
était encore entretenue par un contenu qui, dans la première planche (et exception
faite d’une brève information de régie, isolée en tout début de première vignette), était
exclusivement réservé à l’expression des pensées de Simon. Cette sollicitation soutenue
de la dimension lectrice du « lisant » favorisait une identification forte du lecteur au
personnage. On peut maintenant ajouter que la mécanique identificatoire exploite au
mieux les stratégies cognitives du partage du savoir, mais aussi de l’épreuve du manque
(Jouve 1992, 130). En effet, si, toujours dans la première planche, nous sommes au plus
près du passé (la trahison de Suzy et le désir de vengeance de Simon), du présent (la
permission que Simon compte mettre à profit pour se venger), voire du futur (l’acte de
vengeance lui-même) de Simon et du Suzy, ce texte ne nous dit rien sur la manière de
retrouver Suzy après onze ans d’emprisonnement. C’est à l’image qu’il revient de nous
renseigner à ce sujet. En fait, c’est moins par ce que l’image nous montre qu’elle comble
le manque que par la relation toute particulière que celle-ci installe avec son narrataire
extradiégétique/spectateur réel.
De la vignette 3 à la vignette 7, l’iconisation organise un marquage qui absorbe pro-
gressivement les instances extradiégétiques (narrataire et lecteur) dans une aventure

434
spectaculaire dont la fascination, investie cette fois de signification
existentielle, repose sur la qualité de l’expérience perceptive : « Pris au
jeu de la fiction, le sujet percevant ne peut plus se détacher de son
objet. Coïncidant avec lui-même dans une appréhension totale du
spectacle, des choses, des personnages, rien ne le rappelle plus à lui : il
est fasciné ; il lui est devenu presque impossible de se dégager » (Meu-
nier 1980, 150).
Par la captation, je ne suis pas seulement amené à m’oublier mais je suis aussi,
corrélativement, conduit à vivre sans recul, comme plénitude, la vie du per-
sonnage (Meunier 1980, 176).
Tout cela conduit à reconnaître dans l’image un des moyens inventés par
l’homme pour tenter de surmonter son irréductible incomplétude (Meunier
1980, 189)

Dans le cas qui nous occupe, ce qui est exceptionnel, c’est que ce
pouvoir d’immersion fascinante de l’image fait l’objet d’une mise en
abyme scénarisée. L’initiation du destinataire de la narration visuelle
commence à la vignette 3, par ce que l’on pourrait identifier à une sorte
de punctum barthésien inversé : ce n’est pas un détail de l’image qui
m’attire (Barthes 1980, 71), mais je suis aspiré par un détail construit
iconiquement et plastiquement (Fig. 4).

Fig. 4. Enki Bilal et

Dominique Grange, La
Mort permissionnaire,
dans (À suivre), hors-
série : Polar. Noces
Le champ installé par la vignette (Simon me regarde) active la lec- de sang, 1981, Paris/
Tournai, Casterman,
ture (comme le punctum), jusqu’à menacer l’homogénéité de l’espace p. 70, v. 3-4. ©
fictionnel. La menace est conjurée dès la vignette 4, mais par une Casterman 1981

435
convocation moins paradoxale qu’à l’habitude (du champ/contre-champ). En effet le
raccord de demi-espace (champ) à demi-espace (contre-champ) ne se fait pas par l’ap-
parition d’un personnage de la fiction, vu à son tour de face et qui viendrait boucler
sur lui-même l’espace imaginaire de la fiction, mais par la réapparition de Simon, re-
présenté de dos, comme s’il avait poursuivi son mouvement et refusait l’évacuation
conventionnellement attendue du narrataire (extra->) intradiégétisé de la vignette pré-
cédente : celui-ci reste virtuellement impliqué (il n’est pas qu’ « un pur regard, délégué
en miroir et sans fin » ; Bergala 1979, 43), puisque c’est de son point de vue, retourné à
180°, que nous voyons Simon s’éloigner dans la profondeur de l’image.
La poursuite du marquage de l’iconisation est pour beaucoup dans la suture, pourtant
délicate, qui assure la continuité narrative entre la vignette 4 et la vignette 5. Comme
dans la dernière vignette de la première planche, celle qui entame la seconde adopte un
point de vue de dos, mais avec un cadrage resserré sur Simon et, corollairement, avec un
narrataire désormais comme accroché aux basques de celui-ci (Fig. 5).

Simon n’est plus seulement l’organisateur fictif de l’image (qui me fait voir ce que j’ai
à voir depuis la vignette 3), il y ajoute la fonction de médiateur fantasmatique, qui me
sépare du monde extérieur – m’en abstrait ! – pour m’attirer dans un autre, un peu à la
manière du joueur de flûte de Hamlin auquel on ne peut résister. La vision « avec » qui
prévaut dans la vignette 5 et dont l’appellation entretient heureusement la soumission
du narrataire, plus intra- qu’extra-, donne l’occasion de participer à ce moment attendu
depuis onze ans par Simon : se retrouver en présence de celle qui l’a trahi et dont la
consternation, rendue par l’attitude de prostration et par la lucidité laconique des pa-
roles, préfigure une suite tragique… déjà suggérée, faut-il le rappeler, par la référence au
conte de Grimm, à ceci près que c’est Suzy et non pas le suiveur de Simon qui se voit
menacée.
D’abord convoqué (v. 3), avant d’être dépassé (v. 4), puis embarqué (v. 5) et finalement
subjugué (v. 6), le lecteur virtuel/réel connaît en effet l’acmé de son expérience initia-
trice dans cette grande vignette verticale (v. 6) de la seconde planche (Fig. 6). Il ne voit
plus avec, mais aux côtés de Simon et en plongée rapprochée sur le corps dénudé et
désormais sans vie de Suzy, dont il est le spectateur privilégié.

436
Après avoir dynamisé une séquence de vignettes, le fantasme s’appuie
en fin de parcours sur des thèmes symboliques canoniques, Eros et
Thanatos, qui, dans ces circonstances figuratives, ont la potentialité
d’activer toute une chaîne d’images picturales (Le Cauchemar (1790-
1791) de Heinrich Füssli), photographiques (Primat de la matière sur
la pensée (1929) de Man Ray) et photogrammiques (La Marquise d’O
(1976) d’Éric Rohmer). Actualisée par le lecteur, elle relance l’objec-
tivation paradoxale du corps de Suzy, à la fois célébrée et banalisée.
Fig. 5. Enki Bilal
Comme on s’en aperçoit, cette ouverture de la vignette 6 à une interico- et Dominique
nicité riche et variée permet au lecteur réel d’harmoniser ses réactions, Grange, La Mort
comme « lisant » (une dimension très sollicitée depuis la vignette 3), permissionnaire, dans
(À suivre), hors-série :
mais aussi comme « lu » et comme « lectant », tous deux sensibles, mais Polar. Noces de sang,
de manière à la fois opposée et complémentaire (inconsciemment ou 1981, Paris/Tournai,
avec de la distance critique), aux investissements culturels implicites. Casterman, p. 71, v. 5.
© Casterman 1981
Lorsqu’il décrit les effets du punctum, Roland Barthes fournit ce détail
qui intéresse la présente analyse de vignette : le punctum peut « fantas- Fig. 6. Enki Bilal
et Dominique
matiquement [faire] sortir le personnage (c’est le cas de le dire) de la Grange, La Mort
photographie, il pourvoit cette photo d’un champ aveugle », que le permissionnaire, dans
théoricien phénoménologue explicite en usant de la formule de « hors- (À suivre), hors-série :
Polar. Noces de sang,
champ subtil, comme si l’image lançait le désir d’un au-delà de ce 1981, Paris/Tournai,
qu’elle donne à voir » (Barthes 1980, 91-93). Le fait que cette dernière Casterman, p. 71, v. 6.
© Casterman 1981

437
précision concerne une photographie érotique apporte davantage de pertinence à la
référence réitérée au concept barthésien.
C’est avec la vignette 7 que l’expérience de fascination séquentialisée prend fin. Dans
son étude sur la perception de l’image, Jean-Pierre Meunier (1980, 150) insiste sur
la difficulté de se dépendre des choses et des personnages fictifs : « Souvent, il faut le
mot “FIN” pour que nous nous récupérions ». En l’occurrence, la fin, qui conduit au
démarquage de la narration visuelle, est annoncée par un effet de bouclage tabulaire, la
vignette 7 reproduisant le point de vue frontal de la vignette 3, avant que la vignette 8
en fasse de même, tabulairement parlant, avec les vignettes 1 et 2, mais avec un retour
à la norme de l’iconisation masquée (Fig. 7).

En bonne bande dessinée « nouvellement classique », Le Cahier bleu d’André Juillard

reprend certains modes de fonctionnement de la bande dessinée « moderne » illustrée
par La Mort permissionnaire, mais s’en distingue aussi sur certains points. Je voudrais
insister sur l’implication de la narration et ses effets d’immersion abstractive dans ce
processus de différenciation. Mais relevons, pour commencer, quelques similitudes
entre ces deux productions ; celles que je retiens concernent leur pratique du récit. En
effet, même si celui du couple Bilal-Grange doit se contenter de deux planches alors que
celui de Juillard peut miser sur plus de soixante planches, les deux récits partagent cer-
taines caractéristiques : ils nous plongent tous les deux dans la réalité contemporaine13,
ils développent une intrigue amoureuse tragique et proposent une fin ouverte.

13  Ce qui est inhabituel avec Bilal, qui préfère les univers science-fictionnesques et/ou fan-
tastiques, et nouveau pour Juillard, qui s’était spécialisé jusqu’alors dans la bande dessinée
historique.

438
Au rayon des différences, il faut ranger la question du graphisme.
Comme chez Jacques Tardi, autre grand animateur de la bande des-
sinée dite « moderne », Enki Bilal recourt à un graphisme marqué,
caractéristique de l’artiste. Même s’il se prive pour la circonstance de
la couleur (polar oblige), Bilal pérennise dans ce court récit en noir et
blanc son esthétique de la déglingue, selon l’expression de Jean-Pierre
Andrevon (1982), qui traduit son malaise à l’égard de son époque et
qui imprègne en l’occurrence toute la réalité dessinée : bâtiments, vê-
tements, mobiliers… Ce parti pris esthétique, expression de l’éthos
bilalien, participe manifestement à la dramatisation du récit et impose
par voie de conséquence une distance qui abstrait d’autant plus le ré-
cit dessiné de la réalité extérieure. Si la transformation de la réalité à
sa représentation est ainsi affirmée avec Bilal et Grange, elle fait au
contraire l’objet d’une naturalisation qui en réduit l’effet dans l’album
de Juillard, animateur d’une « nouvelle bande dessinée classique ». Son
graphisme soutient l’intention réaliste grâce à l’héritage tout à fait as-
sumé de la ligne claire. L’auteur évite toute ambiguïté à ce sujet : « Le
plus important c’est la lisibilité, la fluidité narrative. La façon dont les
images s’enchaînent les unes par rapport aux autres » (Jans et Douvry
1996, 78). Et au sein de chaque image prise isolément, une même
exigence : « garder la lisibilité de l’image, éviter la surcharge » (ibid. 80).
Le corpus retenu atteste cependant une nouvelle intention de « moder-
nité » intégrée dans une pratique qui renoue, comme cela vient d’être
rappelé, avec quelques grands principes de la « bande dessinée clas-
sique ». Elle touche au découpage du récit et au montage des vignettes :
découpé en trois chapitres, Le Cahier bleu entame son chapitre 1 par
une vignette isolée en bas de planche, sous le titre du chapitre, Louise, et
se prolonge par une planche entière, qui constitue la première planche
du chapitre 114. C’est à cette suite de vignettes-là que je m’attacherai
dans ces derniers développements (Fig. 8).

Fig. 7. Enki Bilal

et Dominique
Grange, La Mort
14  L’originalité du découpage repose aussi sur une vignette mise en ex- permissionnaire, dans
ergue, déjà en bas de planche, avant celle qui mentionne le début du 1er (À suivre), hors-série :
chapitre. On y découvre Louise au sortir de son lit. Cette vignette est censée Polar. Noces de sang,
précéder narrativement la vignette isolée de la planche suivante, mais, com- 1981, Paris/Tournai,
me elle figure hors de la subdivision en chapitres, elle ne sera pas retenue Casterman, p. 71, v. 7.
dans le corpus. © Casterman 1981

439
L’ensemble de huit vignettes fait la part belle à l’image, seuls un point d’interrogation,
circonscrit par une bulle, et une bulle de pensée viennent troubler ce quasi-monopole
iconique et plastique. On peut y voir une récupération supplémentaire d’une attitude
de création fréquemment rencontrée avec la « bande dessinée moderne », mais dont
l’initiative revient originellement à la naissance même de la bande dessinée, qui impose
l’image comme unité première de son langage. Quoique laconique, le texte présent
dans la première planche suffit à rendre compte d’une volonté de marquer l’énoncia-
tion, par la modalité même de sa communication (un état mental : une surprise, une
réflexion). Comme le rappelle Éric Lavanchy (2007, 89), la bulle qui contient un point
d’interrogation (ou un point d’exclamation, voire les deux associés) et une bulle-pensée
participent « à l’expression de la vie psychique des individus » et donc à la focalisation
interne sur le personnage de Louise, ce qui a pour effet d’activer au mieux la dimension
du « lisant » chez le lecteur et de permettre à celui-ci d’être au plus près, mentalement,
de celui-là. Cette possibilité d’identification du « lisant » au narrateur intradiégétique,
offerte par le texte, trouve un écho (si on peut l’écrire) dans l’image qui entame la sé-
quence de vignettes par une iconisation elle aussi marquée. Cet essai de redondance
texte-image est cependant atténué par le fait que c’est le corps de Louise, et non plus
son esprit, qui fait l’objet de la focalisation (externe).
Comme le fait remarquer Lavanchy (2007, 84), les sept premières vignettes du chapitre
1 entament le récit de manière traditionnelle, en le faisant coïncider avec un début de
journée pour Louise. Ce qui n’a pas non plus échappé à la critique est que ce début
de lecture et de journée est proposé au lecteur avec une intensité dramatique particu-
lière, caractéristique du in medias res. Pour le coup, c’est dans l’intimité de Louise que

440
ce lecteur-spectateur est de suite impliqué : « La scène d’ouverture est
une scène de voyeurisme-exhibitionnisme » (Lador 1996, 109). À l’évi-
dence. Mais on précisera que l’érotisation de la scène doit beaucoup
– outre l’iconisé en lui-même : Louise nue – aux usages des différents
paramètres plastiques qui marquent l’iconisation de la présence du
narrataire extradiégétique et du lecteur réel, et activent en eux tant
le « lisant » que le « lu ». La première vignette (isolée en page 6) fait
très fort à ce propos. Un point de vue de dos, un cadrage serré sur les
fesses et privant le personnage de sa tête : l’objectivation corporelle est
élevée et entretient d’autant mieux le fantasme érotique qu’elle place
doublement le spectateur en position de voyeur qui voit sans risque
d’être vu. L’érotisation de la scène se prolonge durant les deux pre-
mières vignettes de la page 7, la vision de dos étant suivie d’un point
de vue de face qui découvre et fait découvrir la poitrine de Louise. Le
détachement affiché par Louise, tant par ses attitudes (elle paraît bien
à l’aise dans son corps, malgré l’absence de rideaux aux fenêtres de son
appartement) que par ses pensées (une initiative à prendre, poser des
rideaux, reportée à un futur hypothétique), entretient par ailleurs une
consommation déculpabilisée de la scène érotique. Il est cependant
possible d’en apprendre davantage sur Louise, sa destinée fantasma-
tique et son partage au bénéfice du spectateur-voyeur si l’on creuse un
peu l’organisation formelle de la première planche du chapitre.
Lorsqu’il commente la deuxième vignette de cette planche, Éric La-
vanchy (2007, 90-92) propose d’y voir fonctionner une vision avec,
c’est-à-dire que nous voyons « avec le personnage » la fenêtre au second
plan de l’image et, au-delà, la rame de métro arrêtée. Mais je doute
aujourd’hui que cette vision avec conduise à une ocularisation interne
attribuable au personnage de Louise pour la 3e vignette de la planche.
Ce qui nous est montré dans cette vignette centrale est destiné à une
instance particulière, immanquablement extradiégétique (virtuelle et
réelle), comme l’attestent l’usage du cadre et le jeu dont il fait l’objet,
mais qui, dans un cas comme dans l’autre, imposent des conventions
qui échappent ontologiquement au personnage de Louise, présent
dans la diégèse. Les conséquences de cette iconisation telle que prati-
quée dans la vignette 3 est que la fenêtre fermée n’ouvre pas seulement
sur un au-delà identifié à la rame de métro et à ses éventuels voyageurs,
mais qu’elle constitue une médiation qui met face à face voyeurs in-
tra- (les voyageurs susceptibles d’assister à la sortie de bain de Louise)
et voyeurs extradiégétiques (narrataire et lecteur réel). En d’autres
mots encore, cette iconisation, par fenêtre interposée, nous renvoie de Fig. 8. André Juillard,
manière spéculaire à ce que nous sommes, des voyeurs, surpris et dé- Le Cahier bleu,
Tournai, Casterman,
noncés parce que confrontés à ceux qui nous ressemblent. Voilà donc 1994, p. 6-7. ©
Casterman 1994

441
une planche de bande dessinée qui fait tout et son contraire (exhiber une érotisation
stéréotypée du corps féminin et surprendre ceux qui s’en ressassent). Mais est-ce là la
seule surprise à laquelle engage la narration visuelle ?
Si l’on relance l’activité du « lectant », celui-ci est à même de repérer une organisation
tabulaire dans la planche, qui, selon une doxa de la critique bande dessinée identifiée
par Jan Baetens (2013, 56), fait « accéder à une forme d’abstraction ». La fenêtre-miroir
de la vignette 3 cumule les distinctions, puisque le paradoxe qu’elle révèle occupe aussi
le centre de la planche. Cette centralité n’est pas sans effet sur la construction de l’éthos
de Louise. Il y a une Louise avant cette vignette centrale, à l’aise dans son corps (v. 1-2),
et une Louise après cette même vignette, la tête libérée de la serviette et enfin nettement
visible de profil, de dos ou de face (v. 4-7). Ces deux images de Louise, dont la com-
plémentarité est soulignée par des indices textuels, iconiques et plastiques, ne font pas
que nous informer sur le personnage, elles annoncent l’essentiel des actions à venir (la
séduction que ces charmes féminins ont déjà opérée sur deux amis masculins, Boris et
Victor ; la résistance d’une tête féminine bien faite, qui se montrera libre de choisir et
de repousser ses amants comme elle l’entend). On peut légitimement se demander si
ce début, qui informe sur un des personnages principaux de l’album tout entier et qui
apporte quelques données essentielles du drame à venir, peut voir son statut d’incipit
renforcé par d’autres commentaires. Il nous faut, pour ce faire, quitter le contexte vi-
sible de la planche pour le confronter au contexte invisible, en l’occurrence les éléments
absents ou fantômes de cette suite d’images15. Plus précisément, il faut engager une
nouvelle aventure intericonique, voire hypericonique, tant les documents à citer im-
prègnent la planche.
Pierre-Yves Lador (1996, 108) ne croyait pas si bien dire lorsqu’il constatait que l’ « [o]n
baigne et on communique dans l’art ! », en lisant Le Cahier bleu. En fait, ce ne sont pas
seulement les décors des appartements, les professions des héros ou leurs passe-temps
qui rendent compte de ce bain artistique. Dès les toutes premières vignettes du premier
chapitre, l’image exerce son pouvoir – trop rarement souligné lorsqu’il s’agit d’images
de grande diffusion – de renvoyer à d’autres images. S’y intéresser ressort tout à fait de
la problématique de cet article, si l’on veut bien se souvenir que Gérard Genette faisait
de la transcendance textuelle de l’œuvre littéraire l’objet même de la poétique (De Biasi
1990, 1105) et qu’il est convenu d’identifier celle-ci à une approche à la fois abstraite et
interne (Todorov 1968, 19). Parmi les premières vignettes, c’est dans celle qui inaugure
le récit du premier chapitre, mais à sa marge, c’est-à-dire la vignette isolée sous le titre
du chapitre que l’on trouve le point d’appui du jeu citationnel. Cette sortie de baignoire
transpose à l’époque contemporaine le célébrissime thème pictural de « la femme au
bain ». Dans la monographie récente qu’il consacre à cette thématique, Jacques Bonnet
(2006 : 29) insiste sur la fréquence avec laquelle, à travers les siècles, ce thème a été ex-
ploité. Pour le seul sujet de « Suzanne et les vieillards » (traité notamment par Massimo
Stanzione, Suzanne et les vieillards vers 1545), que l’auteur étudie aux côtés de ceux du

15  « Contexte invisible », « éléments “fantômes“ » : les formules sont empruntées à Pierre Fres-
nault-Deruelle (1983, 18).

442
« bain de Bethsabée » (cf. entre autres Le Roi David et Bethsabée, Maître
de la Chasse à la Licorne, fin du quinzième siècle) et de « Diane et Ac-
téon » (cf. Diane et Actéon (1607) de Joachim Wtewael), plus ou moins
deux cent œuvres ont été répertoriées.
Les huit premières vignettes du Cahier bleu présentent quelques analo-
gies essentielles avec ces trois sujets picturaux. À commencer par le bain
comme prétexte au déshabillage féminin, à ceci près que la transposi-
tion en bande dessinée, suite à l’évolution des mœurs, est débarrassée
du prétexte mythologique ou historique pour représenter le nu fémi-
nin. Louise, aussi belle et nue que Suzanne, Bethsabée ou Diane, est
montrée dans sa banalité domestique et intime quotidienne, sortant du
bain et s’essuyant. Autre point de rencontre important entre la peinture
et la bande dessinée : la présence des témoins-voyeurs, qu’il s’agisse des
deux vieillards pour Suzanne, de David pour Bethsabée ou d’Actéon
pour Diane ; pour Louise, ce sont les passagers de la rame de métro
immobilisée qui sont concernés. Au-delà de ces points de convergence,
la confrontation, pour être utile à l’étude de ces premières vignettes
comme incipit de l’album tout entier, doit être prolongée par la prise
en compte des textes bibliques et mythologique qui inspirent en amont
ces œuvres picturales, au caractère conventionnellement narratif. On
apprend ainsi que les témoins-voyeurs sont à chaque fois punis pour
leur acte de voyeurisme. Les deux vieillards sont lapidés après avoir été
confondus par le jeune prophète Daniel (Daniel Grec, 3, 13), David
perd l’enfant qu’il a eu de ses amours avec Bethsabée (Livre 2, Samuel,
11-12) et Actéon se voit transformé en cerf, avant d’être dévoré par ses
propres chiens (Livre 3, 138-254). Qu’en est-il des voyeurs du Cahier
bleu ? Deux d’entre eux, présents dans la rame de métro parisien, sont
à distinguer, puisqu’ils auront l’occasion de prolonger leur première
rencontre visuelle à distance par d’autres plus intimes avec Louise, à
savoir Armand Laborie, dit Bobo, et Victor Sanchez. La mort violente
du premier, qui restera inexpliquée au terme de l’album, est à l’origine
des ennuis du second (cf. tout le chapitre 3), un moment emprisonné
parce que la justice parisienne le croit coupable du meurtre de Bobo.
Quant à Louise, objet des regards voyeurs et donc a priori exclue de
la distribution punitive, on peut cependant observer que son parcours
narratif de femme amoureuse n’est pas des plus heureux, à l’exemple
de la destinée de Bethsabée : elle choisit de quitter Boris pour Victor,
mais elle se sépare douloureusement de ce dernier lorsqu’elle prend
connaissance du contenu du cahier bleu déposé par Boris dans sa boîte
aux lettres (cf. chapitre 2) et découvre que sa rencontre avec Victor,
qu’elle croyait fortuite, a été soigneusement préméditée par celui-ci16.
16  Dans l’interview qu’il a accordée pour Juillard. Une monographie, l’auteur
lui-même confesse qu’il a voulu créer, avec Louise, une héroïne qui « croyait

443
En fin de récit, elle prend la décision de retrouver Victor, mais, comme expliqué pré-
cédemment, elle se fait distancer par Héléna, sorte de double opposé de Louise. Il
nous reste une instance à commenter, celle du voyeur extradiégétique (virtuel et réel),
pour conclure ce que ce jeu de citations (iconiques et textuelles) apporte comme com-
plément d’information à notre lecture de la zone inaugurale du récit et de sa suite.
Jacques Bonnet a remarqué que Susanne, Bethsabée et Diane étaient souvent davantage
déshabillées pour le spectateur du tableau que pour le(s) voyeur(s) diégétisé(s). Cette
situation privilégiée reste de circonstance dans Le Cahier bleu. Mais, à la différence de ce
qui se passe dans le corpus retenu par Bonnet, le spectateur-voyeur de la bande dessinée
ne sort pas tout à fait indemne de son intrusion dans l’intimité de Louise. Certes, il
partage, mais brièvement (p. 7, v. 2), avec le spectateur-voyeur des tableaux bibliques et
mythologique, cette sorte d’impunité qui résulte de sa découverte, dans la mise en scène
érotisée, d’acteur(s) voyeur(s) dont la présence (dans le tableau ou la rame de métro) le
dédouane aussi de sa curiosité. Mais dès la vignette suivante (p. 7, v. 3), le voyeur de la
bande dessinée est mis face à son semblable dans la diégèse, ce qui est de nature à le ré-
veiller (un peu ? beaucoup ?…) de son expérience fantasmatique. Par défaut, Héléna se
chargera elle-même, par un effet d’iconisation intradiégétisée, de rafraîchir la mémoire
du spectateur par le regard non convenu qu’elle lui adresse, au début (p. 59, v. 6) et à la
fin (p. 62, v. 6) de la séquence qui lui érotise le corps dans la chambre de Boris…

Conclusion
L’abstraction qui poétise la bande dessinée au moyen de citations iconiques et plastiques
a relancé l’analyse narrative du Cahier bleu, sans prétendre l’épuiser, bien évidemment.
Par contre, on en est resté à un stade de complément thématique avec les commentaires
proposés pour La Mort permissionnaire. Faut-il y voir une conséquence des priorités
respectives des types de production bande dessinée auxquels ils appartiennent, « bande
dessinée moderne » ou « Nouvelle bande dessinée classique » ? Chez Bilal, un investisse-
ment qui se focalise esthétiquement sur l’image (perspective centripète)17, au fondement
sémiologique de la bande dessinée ; chez Juillard, un souci du récit (perspective centri-
fuge), qui répond à une autre exigence fondamentale du genre, raconter une histoire ?
Ce n’est là qu’une hypothèse qui devra être vérifiée par d’autres études portant sur
ces deux catégories, sans oublier celles qui les encadrent, chronologiquement parlant
(« bande dessinée classique » et « Nouvelle bande dessinée moderne »).
Une chose paraît plus assurée. Analyser la bande dessinée en prenant l’abstraction
comme fil conducteur s’avère payant, quelle que soit l’actualité fictionnelle donnée
comme dominante (un ancrage dans la réalité événementielle qui se serait confirmé
mener le jeu et [qui] tout à coup se rend compte qu’elle a été manipulée » (Jans et Douvry 1996,
54). L’analyse de l’incipit précise que cette dualité est attestée dès la première apparition du
personnage.
17 « La bande dessinée chez Bilal devient donc avant tout spectacle, c’est-à-dire non plus unique-
ment narration, mais aussi tout ce qui attire le regard, jeu stylistique dont la couleur [abondam-
ment et savamment exploitée en général chez Bilal] est l’élément fondamental. » (Lecigne et
Tamine 1983, 31).

444
en 2015). L’abstraction, qui est au cœur de la mise au jour des lois
générales du fonctionnement de la bande dessinée comme mode
d’expression littéraire et artistique, a été encore en première ligne de
cet article lorsqu’il a été question de tabularité et de narration. Tout
comme la prise en compte de la mémoire sémiotique (au sens peir-
cien du terme), ces deux problématiques de la spatialité signifiante et
du récit en acte ont donné lieu à de nombreux commentaires scienti-
fiques dont les champs d’application sont restés longtemps éloignés
de la bande dessinée (réservées à la poésie, le roman, la peinture, le
cinéma). L’article a tenté d’exploiter certaines de ces pistes critiques
qui ont pour elles de combiner immanence (syntaxe) et transcendance
(pragmatique), tout en veillant à les confronter aux spécificités for-
melles et sémantiques respectives du texte (écrit) et de l’image (fixe
et en séquence). Relue et complétée à partir de leurs affinités para-
doxales avec ce qui abstrait de la réalité, l’histoire de la rencontre de ces
deux langages dans la bande dessinée, redevable elle-même d’histoires
plus anciennes, a montré comment l’écriture, ancrée dans le digital
et le symbolique, avait évolué en s’encanaillant de plus en plus avec
la trivialité et l’expressivité de l’oral, tandis que la figure troquait ses
prédispositions analogiques contre d’autres, symboliques et indicielles,
pour mieux « tromper son monde ». Tout n’est pas si simple, ni systé-
matique : il y a du texte bande dessinée qui se littérarise et du dessin
bande dessinée en quête de non-représentation. Mais c’est précisément
cette ouverture de la bande dessinée, contemporaine en tout cas, à
cette diversité signifiante, combinée à une créativité thématique et nar-
rative (presque) sans limites qui font de la bande dessinée une place to
be, pour la critique comme pour le public, mais aussi les éditeurs, les
libraires ou les enseignants, tous adeptes d’une nouvelle redistribution
des légitimités culturelles. Un engouement largement partagé qui peut
trouver sa source dans l’activation de ce nouveau paradigme épistémo-
logique présenté en cours d’article.

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Notes on Contributors
Jean-Charles Andrieu de Lévis
intègre en 2011 la section illustration de la Haute École des Arts du Rhin (anciennement les arts
décoratifs de Strasbourg) afin de développer une pratique de l’illustration et de la bande dessinée.
Il écrit un mémoire intitulé « La bande dessinée aux frontières de l’abstraction » pour un DNSEP
obtenu en 2013 puis commence une thèse de doctorat en 2014 en Sorbonne (Paris IV) sous la
direction de Jacques Dürrenmatt. Son travail de recherche porte sur la révolution esthétique et
éditoriale qui s’est produite dans les années 90 en France et en Belgique, se concentrant plus par-
ticulièrement sur l’émergence de Fréon et Amok et comment les auteurs qu’ils publient ou qui
constituent ces collectifs envisagent la bande dessinée comme une véritable expérience esthétique.
Tomás Arguello
began his formation through reading comics ever since he had learned to read. After finishing high
school, Arguello studied graphic design for a couple of years at the University of Buenos Aires. At
that time, he had the opportunity—one of those that occur only once in a lifetime—to study under
Alberto Breccia. Together with other students, he founded El Tripero magazine, which is still being
published today. He has grown increasingly concerned about climate change, and his intention is
to give it graphic form.
Jan Baetens
est professeur d’études culturelles à la KU Leuven. Dans le domaine la narration visuelle il s›in-
téresse particulièrement aux rapports entre texte et image. Il a publié entre autres Hergé écrivain
(Flammarion, 2006) et Pour le roman-photo (Les Impressions Nouvelles, 2010). Avec Hugo Frey, il
est aussi l’auteur de The Graphic Novel (Cambridge University Press, 2015).
Roberto Bartual
co-authored the living dead classic La casa de Bernarda Alba zombi, and translated classics of in-
ternational romance to Spanish, such as Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights and Alan Moore’s The
Mirror of Love. His work as a comics writer has been featured in the anthology Dramáticas Aventu-
ras Trimestrales Ilustradas and his graphic novel, Los Ángeles de María (2016), illustrated by Julián
Almazán, featured the first Spanish, Catholic superhero group. Bartual has also published several
science fiction short stories in the anthologies Ficciones (Edaf ) and Prospectivas (Salto de Página). In
2010 he was awarded the Extraordinary Doctorate Prize by the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid
for the best thesis in the Humanities for his PhD dissertation on the origins and evolution of the
language of comics, which was subsequently published as Narraciones Gráficas (2014). His research
in comics studies has been published in Scandinavian Journal of Comic Art, Studies in Comics, Goya:
Revista de Arte, among others. He teaches Children’s Illustrated Literature and Anglo-American
Culture at the Universidad Europea de Madrid.
Berliac
lives and works in Berlin, Germany. His illustrations have been published in The New York Times,
Le Monde Diplomatique, and McSweeney’s Quarterly. His short stories in comics form have been
published in Vice magazine, and anthologies such as Kus!, Franky et Nicole, and Stripburger, among
many others. He is the author of eight graphic novels and short story collections, and his most
recent book, Sadbøi, has been published in seven countries.
Jessie Bi
contribue régulièrement au site du9.org dont il est le co-fondateur avec Xavier Guilbert et Grégory
Trowbridge. Du9 a été fondé en 1997, mais reste, malgré un penchant marqué pour les bandes
dessinées alternatives, parmi les 15 sites les plus visités en France consacrés au neuvième art, selon
l’ACBD (l’Association des Critiques de Bande Dessinée). Jessie Bi est aussi docteur en histoire
 de l’art, après avoir soutenu une thèse en 2000 avec le titre La bande dessinée
muette depuis les années soixante-dix en Europe, aux Etats-Unis et au Japon.
Paul Fisher Davies
is undertaking PhD research in graphic narrative theory in the school of En-
glish at the University of Sussex. He teaches English Language and Literature
at Sussex Downs College in Eastbourne. As well as studying comics form, he
has written a collection of graphic short stories which can be previewed at www.
crosbies.co.uk.
Benoît Crucifix
is an F.R.S.-FNRS doctoral fellow at the University of Liège and UCLouvain.
His thesis focuses on the memory of comics in the contemporary graphic novel
and his research has been published in Inks, European Comic Art, Comicalités,
The Comics Grid, and Studies in Book Culture. He is a member of the ACME
comics research group and a member of the editorial board of the online peer-re-
viewed journal Comicalités. He sporadically writes for print and digital zines.
Erwin Dejasse
est docteur en histoire de l’art, auteur d’une thèse intitulée La Musique silen-
cieuse de José Muñoz et Carlos Sampayo défendue à l’Université de Liège. Dans
cette même institution, il a cofondé le groupe de recherche sur la bande des-
sinée ACME. Il est également membre du comité de rédaction de Neuvième
Art, la revue du Musée de la Bande Dessinée à Angoulême. Ses textes ont en
outre été publiés dans des revues telles qu’art press, MEI, Les Cahiers du CIR-
CAV, L’Éprouvette, Comicalités, Entre Líneas, World Literature Today et Kaboom.
Il est l’auteur avec Philippe Capart du livre Morris, Franquin, Peyo et le dessin
animé (Éditions de l’An2). Il a enseigné l’analyse du langage et l’histoire de la
bande dessinée à l’Université de Liège et aux ESA Saint-Luc à Bruxelles et à
Liège. Erwin Dejasse a assuré le commissariat des expositions Muñoz/Breccia,
l’Argentine en noir et blanc (Palais des Beaux-Arts de Charleroi), Alternative
Chaos. Onafhankelijk beeldverhaal in Wallonië en Brussel (Stripdagen Haarlem)
et Knock Outsider Komiks (Festival d’Angoulême). Il écrit aussi régulièrement
sur l’art brut et autres créations en marge. Depuis 2016, il occupe un poste de
conservation, recherche et diffusion à La “S” Grand Atelier, centre d’art et labo-
ratoire de création pour personnes porteuses d’un handicap mental.
Björn-Olav Dozo
is a researcher at the University of Liège, Belgium, where he has specialized in
the sociology of literature and digital humanities. His research focuses on Bel-
gian literary life during the interwar period, contemporary comics and bande
dessinée, and the role of literary prizes’ selection boards and committees. He
is the author of La vie littéraire à la toise (le Cri, 2010) and Mesures de l’écriv-
ain  (Presses Universitaires de Liège, 2011). His comics-related articles have
been published in journals such as Belphegor, COnTEXTES, Art&Fact and Tex-
tyles. He also serves on the peer review board of the comics studies journal
Comicalités. His current research focuses on  digital culture, especially video
game magazines, which he carries out in the context of the Liège Game Lab
and Digital Lab.
Jacques Dürrenmatt
est professeur de stylistique et poétique à l’université de Paris-Sorbonne (Paris
 IV). À la suite d’une thèse qui étudiait le rôle esthétique de la ponctuation, a publié plusieurs ou-
vrages consacrés aux questions soulevées par la division et la fragmentation du texte romanesque
romantique (Bien coupé, mal cousu), aux utilisations esthétiques de l’ambiguïté linguistique (Le
Vertige du vague) ou à des questions de stylistique (La Métaphore, Stylistique de la poésie) ainsi que
de nombreux articles qui tentent de saisir le goût affiché par l’époque romantique pour expérimen-
tation, excentricité et monstruosité lisibles autant que visibles ou qui s’intéressent à la matérialité
du texte littéraire et sont parus dans Poétique, L’Information grammaticale, La Licorne entre autres.
S’intéresse depuis plusieurs années à ce que la bande dessinée apporte de neuf dans le champ de la
littérature et, dans la continuité de plusieurs articles, a publié un livre sur le sujet aux Classiques
Garnier en 2013, Bande dessinée et littérature.
Lukas Etter 
holds a PhD from the University of Bern, where he defended a thesis on the question of style in
black-and-white alternative comics in 2014, which will be published shortly. He has since been
working as a postdoctoral research associate at the University of Siegen, where he works on school
mathematics in nineteenth-century American literature. 
Lautaro Fiszman 
is a draftsman, illustrator, and painter. At the age of fifteen, he started studying at Alberto Brec-
cia’s  Comics Workshop until he was eighteen. In 1994, together with the  other students at the
Workshop, he began publishing the magazine El Tripero. They published seven issues until 2001
and organized several exhibitions in Argentina, Cuba, Switzerland, Italy, Spain and France, while
a new anniversary issue was released in 2015. In 1994 he received an Honourable Mention at
the Ibero-American Congress of Cartoonists in Havana (Cuba), and the year after he illustrated
the Sherlock Holmes collection for the Página/12 newspaper. Since then he has been working as an
illustrator and has also published cartoons in magazines such as Pistas, Poco Loco, El Tripero, Bar-
baria, and  Fierro. He has also provided illustrations for the National  Ministry of Education’s
textbooks, and has contributed to ConSecuencias (a catalogue of Argentine cartoonists published
by the Youth Institute of Spain), Strip Art Vizura (Macedonia), El Gallito Inglés (Mexico), Saman-
dal (Lebanon), Camouflage Comics (a project directed by Aarnoud Rommens at the Jan van Eyck
Academy in the Netherlands) and the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo projects Comics for Iden-
tity and Comics about Police Violence (a project directed by Daniela Drucarof, which was recently
on exhibition in the Netherlands). In 2003 he made paintings for the film Ay Juancito, directed
by Héctor Olivera, and from then on, he started working in film and advertising, making paint-
ings and illustrations for feature films such as Morir en San Hilario, Nuevo Mondo, Felicitas, Pious
Lies, The City of Your Final Destination, Terra Ribelle and The Inventor of Games, among others.
Amadeo Gandolfo
studied History at the University of Tucumán (Argentina) and obtained his MA degree in 2009.
Since then, he has been working on his PhD in Social Sciences at the University of Buenos Aires
where he researches political caricature and graphic humour in Argentina between 1955 and 1976,
with an interdisciplinary approach that encompasses caricature’s sociological, stylistic and political
implications. His work has appeared in peer-reviewed journals in Brazil and Argentina. He also
writes for a variety of print media, including Argentina’s longest running comic magazine Comique-
ando, as well as Haciendo Cine, Inrockuptibles, Crisis Revista, and many more. With friends from
Peru, Uruguay and Buenos Aires he maintains the blog El Baile Moderno (www.elbailemoderno.
com) where he writes about music, cinema and comics. He is part of the Área Narrativas Dibujadas
of the Faculty of Social Sciences at the University of Buenos Aires and a member of the organizing
committee of Viñetas Serias, the International Conference of Comics and Graphic Humour held
in Buenos Aires since 2010. He is a member of the editorial board of Entre Líneas, a new scholarly
journal dedicated to the study of comics and graphic humour published in Buenos Aires.
Ezequiel García
co-edited the comics magazine El Tripero (made by Alberto Breccia’s students
between 1994 and 2002, and revived in 2015) and published the graphic novels
Llegar a los 30 (Emecé, 2007) and Creciendo en público (Tren en Movimiento,
2013), which was translated into English and published by Fantagraphics in
2016 as Growing Up in Public. He has also exhibited and published his work
in the Netherlands, Chile, Peru, Colombia,  Spain, Italy, the US, Cuba and
Panama. He was awarded the Comics Award at the 27th Piracicaba Humour
Competition (Brazil), was co-curator of Musetta Cafe’s art gallery (2010-13),
and co-organized the Festival Increíble de Historietas, Fanzines y Afines. He now
teaches comics for adults and children in several institutions, works as com-
ics and art editor at Crisis Magazine, co-directs the Sudestada Drawing and
Illustration Festival, runs the comic book collection Gráfica En Movimiento
(published by Ediciones Tren en Movimiento) and belongs to the art and com-
ics collective Un Faulduo. Together with Hernán Vanoli, he recently obtained a
Group Scholarship from the National Arts Fund to develop the graphic novel
Panargea. His comics are also featured in the Now anthology series (2018, Fan-
tagraphics).
Mariano Grassi
is a graphic designer, illustrator, and teacher. He works for publishers, me-
dia agencies, companies and foundations and his work has been published in
various newspapers, books, magazines, and advertising campaigns for children
and adults. He exhibits his paintings in individual and collective exhibitions,
galleries, and museums. His tools are pencil, acrylic and software. He is an
Associate Professor of Illustration and Chair of the Graphic Design programme
at the University of Buenos Aires (UBA) and organises workshops focused on
drawing and the development of visual language for various institutions. He
has also worked as professor of Drawing and Illustration in the Postgraduate
Program in Visual Communication at the Universidad Nacional de San Martín
(UNSAM), as well as working as a Teaching Assistant for the Spanish Language
Department at Occidental College, Los Angeles. He lives in Buenos Aires. You
can view his work on www.marianograssi.com.
Tim Gaze
produces visual narratives, visual poetry, sound poetry, abstract art and non-ac-
ademic essays, as well as being a small press publisher. His essays about topics
such as the relationship between image and writing have appeared in publica-
tions such as Utsanga, Otoliths, Toth, LÔÔP and Xtant. 100 Scenes, his abstract
graphic novel, was published by his own imprint Asemic Editions as a paper-
back and by Transgressor as an e-book. His visual poetry has been published
in, amongst others, Räume für Notizen, Lost & Found Times, Juxta and The Last
Vispo Anthology. Noology, his book of visual poetry with a glitch sensibility,
was published by Arrum Press in 2008. He is the publisher of Asemic mag-
azine (asemic-magazine.blogspot.com) and co-editor of An Anthology of Asemic
Handwriting (Uitgeverij, 2013). He edited the collaborative graphic novel by
12 artists, A Kick in the Eye (Createspace, 2013). With Christopher Skinner, he
co-published Écritures, a chapbook of asemic writing by Raymond Queneau
(Secret Books, 2015). As proprietor of Asemic Editions, he has published four
more titles of non-verbal narrative by other authors. His sound poetry has been
released by Another Hemisphere Records and is featured in as long as it takes,

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 Confraria do Vento, and Voiceprints 2010. Tim lives at Mount Barker, in the Adelaide Hills of South
Australia.
Simon Grennan
is a scholar of visual narratology (www.simongrennan.com). He is author of A Theory of Narrative
Drawing (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), co-editor, with Laurence Grove, of Transforming Anthony
Trollope: ‘Dispossession’, Victorianism and 19th Century Word and Image (Leuven University Press,
2015) and contributor to Representing Multiculturalism in Comics and Graphic Novels (Routledge,
2014) and others. He is the creator of Dispossession, a graphic adaptation of a novel by Anthony
Trollope (Jonathan Cape and Les Impressions Nouvelles, 2015), which was one of The Guardian
newspaper’s Books of the Year 2015. Since 1990, he has been half of the international artist team
Grennan & Sperandio, producer of over forty comics and books (www.kartoonkings.com). Dr
Grennan is Research Fellow in Fine Art at the University of Chester and Principal Investigator for
the two-year research project Marie Duval presents Ally Sloper: The Female Cartoonist and Popular
Theatre in London 1869-85, funded by an AHRC Research Grant: Early Career (2014).
Martha Kuhlman
is Professor of Comparative Literature in the Department of English and Cultural Studies at Bryant
University, where she teaches courses on the graphic novel, critical theory, and Central European
literature. She edited The Comics of Chris Ware: Drawing is a Way of Thinking, published by the
University Press of Mississippi (2010), and has contributed chapters to several volumes on graphic
novels, including Drawing from the Classics: Essays on Graphic Adaptations of Literary Works, Teach-
ing the Graphic Novel, and the Cambridge Companion to Comics. Her articles have appeared in The
Comparatist, the Journal of Popular Culture, World Literature Today, and European Comic Art. She
has served on the MLA Forum on Comics and Graphic Narratives from 2012-17.
Erin La Cour
is Lecturer in Comparative Literature at Utrecht University, the Netherlands. She holds a PhD
from the Amsterdam School for Cultural Analysis at the University of Amsterdam (2013) and
is the co-founder of the independent research consortium Amsterdam Comics, which promotes
comics research in the Netherlands (www.amsterdamcomics.com). She also acted as project advisor
for the sequential art exhibition “Black or White” at the Van Abbemuseum (2013), is a former
editor of the Scandinavian Journal of Comic Art (SJOCA), and is a member of the Nordic Network
for Comics Research (NNCORE). She co-edited the anthology Comics and Power: Representing
and Questioning Culture, Subjects, and Communities (Cambridge Scholars, 2015) and Image [&]
Narrative 17.4 “Comics in Art/Art in Comics” (2016). Her most recent book chapters and articles
include “‘Opening a Thirdspace’: The Unmasking Effects of Comics” (Cambridge Scholars, 2015),
“Comics as ‘Minor Literature’” (Image [&] Narrative, 2016), and “Quaco: Postcolonial Voices from
the Dutch Slave Trade” (Routledge, 2017).
Pascal Leyder
fréquente depuis 2008 La “S” Grand Atelier, laboratoire artistique destiné aux personnes porteuses
d’un handicap mental. “Graphomaniaque désinvolte,” il est l’auteur de plusieurs milliers de des-
sins. Partant d’images préexistantes, ses compositions mêlent souvent textes et motifs figuratifs.
Parallèlement, à son domicile, il recouvre les pages de carnets et autres feuilles éparses de croquis
d’imagination dont une large frange traduit ses phantasmes érotiques. Proche de Pakito Bolino,
il collabore fréquemment avec les éditions Le Dernier Cri. Il apparait notamment au sommaire
de l’anthologie Hôpital Brut et a participé à la double exposition Heta-Uma/Mangaro (Musée des
Arts modestes à Sète/Friche de la Belle de Mai à Marseille). Il est l’auteur des volumes Army secrète
et Dover Comix, toujours au Dernier Cri. Pascal Leyder a également réalisé des décors de théâtre
et des pochettes de disques. Ses œuvres figurent dans plusieurs collections d’art outsider dont le
Madmusée et abcd – art brut.

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Ilan Manouach
is a multidisciplinary artist working in the field of experimental and conceptual
comics. Since 2003 he has published more than a dozen books and has edited
four anthologies bringing together contributions from artists, critics, lawyers,
and different professionals of the book industry. Additionally, he is a book pub-
lisher, musical composer, and performer. His theoretical research, conducted at
the MA program of the Dutch Art Institute (DAI), articulates a proposal for
the documentation of unacknowledged conceptual comics. The latter’s place-
lessness in the medium’s spectrum is more than a metaphor: these works operate
on the margins of distribution and reception, and artists uncomfortable with
the entrenched roles perform under multiple identities and capacities, while
readers, in the absence of critical discourse, engage with the works in forensic,
and at times unpredictable ways. The results of a two-year research residency
at the DAI, his dissertation (and upcoming anthology) provides the resonating
chamber for such works, as well as serving as a springboard for establishing an
affective forum for like-minded practitioners. He is currently a PhD candidate
at the New Media Department of the Aalto University of Helsinki.
Pascal Matthey
was born in Geneva but has been living and working in Brussels long enough
to seamlessly mingle with the locals. He has published several comics with
Brussels-based publisher L’Employé du Moi, Le verre de lait (2003), Pascal
est enfoncé (2007), Du shimmy dans la vision (2012), and Les Têtards (2016),
which all draw from personal memories to evoke childhood joys and traumas.
In parallel to this autobiographical work, he has explored the wild zones of
self-publishing with the Habeas Corpus label, editing obscure and ephemeral
fanzines such as Spouk the Dog, Soap Comics and We All Go Down. In 2013, he
published his abstract collage comics album 978 with La Cinquième Couche,
another Brussels-based publisher. Besides his comics work, he also performs
music with his band Carl et les hommes boîtes or in solo projects under the name
of Major Mengelmoes.
Gert Meesters
is associate professor of Dutch language and culture at the University of Lille,
where he does research on Dutch language comics in their international con-
text. He is a founding member of the Liège-based comics research group Acme
and recently co-edited Les métamorphoses de Spirou. Le dynamisme d’une série de
bande dessinée (with Frédéric Paques and David Vrydaghs) and (À Suivre). Les
archives d’une revue culte (with Sylvain Lesage).
Denis Mellier
est professeur à l’Université de Poitiers où il enseigne la littérature générale et
comparée et le cinéma. Il enseigne également à l’École Européenne Supérieure
de l’Image d’Angoulême (EESI). Il a publié plusieurs ouvrages et de nombreux
articles sur la théorie du fantastique et sur les thrillers cinématographiques,
parmi lesquels L’Écriture de l’excès. Poétique de la terreur et fiction fantastique
(Champion, 1999) and Les Écrans meurtriers. Essais sur les scènes réflexives du
thriller (Céfal, 2001). Ses principales thématiques de recherche portent sur la
théorie littéraire, les théories du cinéma, les médiacultures et la bande dessinée
avec une attention particulière aux questions de la réflexivité dans les littéra-
tures et le cinéma de genre, et plus largement entre ce type de production et la

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 littérature générale. Il travaille en ce moment sur un essai sur le fantastique au cinéma et dirige la
publication d’un numéro de Recherche sémiotique/Semiotic Inquiry sur la réflexivité dans la bande
dessinée et le roman graphique.
Kai Mikkonen
is Senior Lecturer of Comparative Literature at the University of Helsinki, Finland, and a life mem-
ber of Clare Hall College, University of Cambridge. He earned his MA at the University of Iowa in
1991 and his PhD at the University of Tampere (Finland) in 1997. His research and teaching inter-
ests include nineteenth and twentieth-century French and British literature, travel writing, graphic
narratives and comics, narrative theory and theory of fiction. He is the author of The Narratology of
Comic Art (Routledge, 2017), Narrative Paths: African Travel in Modern Fiction and Nonfiction (The
Ohio State UP, 2015), Kuva ja sana [Image and Word in Interaction] (Gaudeamus, 2005), and The
Plot Machine: The French Novel and the Bachelor Machines in the Electric Years 1880-1914 (Rodopi,
2001), as well as various articles in journals such as Style, Partial Answers, Narrative, Word & Image,
Image & Narrative, Studies in Travel Writing, and Journal of Literary Semantics.
Christian Montenegro
is an Argentinian illustrator and studied under Alberto Breccia. He graduated in graphic design
at the University of Buenos Aires. Since 2002 he has been working with digital media, mixing
concepts from graphic design and his previous experience with colour and comics. He is the au-
thor of the books The Creation: Pictures from the Book of Genesis (Die Gestalten Verlag, 2004) and
New Order (2010). He has illustrated Franz Kafka’s The Trapeze Artist, and Didi Gau’s Peleonas
Mentirosas y Haraganas, Cuatro gatos negros flacos, and Cocorococó. His latest project is 200 Years of
Monsters and Argentine Wonders, an anthology of historical texts by Gabo Ferro. His illustrations
have been selected for 100 Illustrators (Taschen), 50 Years of Illustration (Laurence King), When
cows fly… (Argentine Illustrators catalogue), American Illustration 35 (American Illustration So-
ciety Yearbook) and Illusive 1 and 2 (Die Gestalten Verlag). In 2009, he was awarded the Swatch
Illustrators Award in Berlin.
Pedro Moura
holds a PhD from the University of Lisbon and University of Leuven, where he defended a disser-
tation on Trauma Studies and Portuguese comics. He works in Portugal as a programmer, curator,
documentarist, writer, and translator. Above all however, he is a critic writing for his own blog, Ler
BD (lerbd.blogspot.com), du9: l’autre bande dessinée (du9.org), and The Comics Alternative, as well
as producing academic work.
Barbara Postema
is an Assistant Professor at Concordia University in Montreal, where she teaches contemporary
literature and comics. She is working on a book about silent comics. Her monograph Narrative
Structure in Comics came out in 2013, and she has published articles in Image &Narrative, the
Journal of Graphic Novels and Comics, and elsewhere.
Aarnoud Rommens
is Lecturer at the Centre for the Study of Theory and Criticism at the University of Western Ontario
(UWO).  Joaquín Torres-García: Constructive Universalism and the Inversion of Abstraction  (Rout-
ledge) is his most recent publication, while Antropofagia: Avant-Garde Emblematics is forthcoming
(Brill). He is a member of the ACME comics research group based at the University of Liège
(http://www.acme.ulg.ac.be/), and has published in journals such as SubStance, Mosaic, and Image
& Narrative, among others, and writes on the graphic novel, critical theory, abstract art, digital
media and the Latin American avant-garde.
Chris Reyns-Chikuma
enseigne les études culturelles à l’Université de l’Alberta. Il enseigne des cours sur des sujets variés

454
 en français et en anglais (la France contemporaine, l’histoire de la France au
vingtième siècle, la Francophonie, la BD au féminin, l’adaptation transmédia-
tique, …). Après avoir publié sur divers sujets (holocauste, fiction économique,
féminisme, ….), médias (séries télé, littérature, cinéma, BD) et genres (roman,
poésie, théâtre), de plus en plus, il concentre sa recherche sur la BD. Il vient
d’éditer plusieurs numéros spéciaux sur la BD (au féminin dans Alternative
francophone, influence de la BD sur le roman dans Image & Narrative, la BD
canadienne dans CRCL Canadian Review of Comparative Literature). Il a pu-
blié un chapitre sur la nouvelle “Ms Marvel-Kamala” dans Muslim Superheroes:
Comics, Islam, and Representation (Harvard UP, 2017) et un article sur “La
BD après Persépolis au Moyen Orient” dans Arab Studies Quarterly (2017); il
a préparé d’autres numéros spéciaux dont l’un en collaboration sur “Fictions
du terrorisme dans l’espace francophone,” publié dans Alternative francophone,
vol. 2, n° 1 (2017).
Kym Tabulo
is an experienced art teacher and abstract artist who specialises in art that shows
sequence and movement using a variety of abstract subject matter and styles.
These are presented as single page abstract images, abstract comics, and abstract
polyptychs. Her preferred media include Indian ink, watercolour and acrylic
paint on quality paper or canvas. Kym’s abstract comics books are published
through Blurb. In 2015 she exhibited the original 126 pages of her abstract
graphic novel, The Drift of Impure Thoughts, at the University of Sunshine Coast
Gallery, as part of her Doctor of Creative Arts degree, and she submitted her
DCA thesis in 2016. Kym continues to be a pioneering Australian abstract
comics artist through her teaching, writing, art practice, and site, www.ab-
stractsequentialart.com.
Renaud Thomas 
est  avant tout éditeur et co-dirige Arbitraire, petite structure publiant de la
bande dessinée depuis 2005. Il est aussi sérigraphe, employé dans l’atelier de la
librairie Expérience où il réalise des impressions d’art. Enfin, il participe sous
différents noms à des fanzines, revues et expositions collectives et a coorganisé
le Grand-Salon de la Microédition à Lyon. En 2011, il est invité à participer à
la résidence d’auteurs Pierre Feuille Ciseaux #3 (laboratoire de bande dessinée).
Un livre copieux est en préparation depuis de longues années, il arrive...
Jean-Louis Tilleuil
est professeur au sein de la Commission de programmes ROM (FIAL/UCL).
Ses enseignements et ses recherches portent sur l’étude sociocritique des pro-
ductions littéraires et sur la sociopragmatique des messages qui associent texte
(écrit) et image (fixe et/ou en séquence): livres illustrés, albums pour enfants,
bandes dessinées, publicités, etc. Depuis septembre 2011, Jean-Louis Tilleuil
est chargé de cours à l’Université Charles de Gaulle-Lille 3; il y enseigne l’his-
toire de l’illustration pour la jeunesse et l’analyse de la bande dessinée, dans le
cadre du Master en Littérature de jeunesse (Lettres Modernes). À l’Académie
des Beaux-Arts de Tournai (enseignement supérieur artistique), il a la charge de
cours généraux (Littérature, Sémiologie de l’image, Sémiologie des médias) desti-
nés aux options de bande dessinée, de publicité, de communication visuelle et
d’illustration. Jean-Louis Tilleuil dirige actuellement le Groupe de Recherche
sur l’Image et le Texte (GRIT/UCL). Avec Catherine Vanbraband (UCL) et

455
 Laurent Déom (Lille 3-UCL), il est responsable de la collection Texte-Image.
Pablo Turnes
is Professor of History (UNMdP), Master in History of Argentine and Latin American Art (IDEAS/
UNSAM), and Doctor in Social Sciences (FSOC-UBA). He completed his doctorate as a fellow of
the National Council of Scientific and Technical Research (CONICET) and is currently a postdoc-
toral fellow at the same institution. He is Assistant Professor for the Research Programme “History
of National and Latin American Media” at the UNM. He was an organising member for the three
editions of the International Conference Viñetas Serias (2010, 2012, and 2014). He is part of the
Graphic Narratives area of ​​the Communications Programme at the UBA, under the direction of
Laura Vazquez. He offers comic criticism workshops with Amadeo Gandolfo, with whom he also
co-edits the web magazine Kamandi (www.revistakamandi.com). 
Un Faulduo
is an Argentinian collective for research and experimentation in the field of comics, founded by
Nicolás Daniluk, Ezequiel García, Nicolás Moguilevsky, and Nicolás Zukerfeld. In an interdisci-
plinary tour that encompasses the visual arts, film, music, the performing arts, and literature, the
group has organised exhibitions, urban interventions and actions at the National Arts Fund, CC
San Martin, UBA, National Library, ArteBA, Di Tella University, Rio Paraná Publishing Club
(Rosario), CC Borges, CC Recoleta, and Office 26 (Rosario). Recently, Un Faulduo organised a
workshop and exhibited its work in the framework of the exhibition “Oscar Masotta: Theory as Ac-
tion” (MUAC, Museo Universitario Arte Contemporáneo, UNAM, Mexico, which will continue
its itinerary through Spain and Argentina in 2018). The collective has published ten issues of its
magazine and has maintained, since the its appearance in 2005, an editorial rotation system: every
issue features different creative teams, changes in format, content, and technique. Since 2014, Un
Faulduo has been exploring the relationship between the language of comics and the essay form,
which resulted in the book La historieta en el mundo moderno (Comics in the Modern World, Tren en
Movimiento Ediciones, 2015), inspired by Oscar Masotta’s eponymous work published in 1970.
Francisco Vega
was born in Buenos Aires, and took classes in comics from Alberto Breccia (1992-93) and in
drawing from Carlos Villagrán. He has published in reviews like El Tripero (1994-99) and Barbaria
(2000), and made illustrations for Crear en la Tercera Edad and Barcos. His latest books, published
by Tren En Movimiento Ediciones, are Mortadelas Salvajes (2015) and Primavera en Saturno (2016).
Martín Vitaliti
studied Fine Arts at the Manuel Belgrano National School (Buenos Aires). Since 2002 he has been
living and working between Barcelona and Buenos Aires. In his work, he combines different ele-
ments that constitute the language of comics. He has developed several lines of research that work
simultaneously as a synthesis and expansion of the events and situations of the pre-existing comics
he appropriates. The pages are multiplied to create other spaces of representation, the characters
leave the stories they inhabited to challenge the limits of the world that shelters them, the didascalies
act as triggers for the amplification of meanings, and the dialogues go beyond the original narrative
to become sentences that extend their initial signification. Between 2009 and 2018 he has pub-
lished Kinetic Lines, Didascalias and Fondos, a trilogy on the basic elements of the comics language
published by Save As ... Publications; 360º published by Serie AL / Buchhandlung Walther König,
and Sin Coordenadas published by Tren en Movimiento. His work can be found in both public
and private collections such as the Fundación Caja Madrid, the National Library of Spain, the
ICArt Collection, the Collection Center d’Art La Panera, the Banc Sabadell Collection, the Frances
Reynolds Collection, the Nion McEvoy’s Collection, and the Jorge Rais Collection, among others.
Lukas R.A. Wilde

456
 studied theatre and media studies, Japanese studies, and philosophy at the Frie-
drich-Alexander-University Erlangen-Nuremberg and the Gakugei University
of Tokyo. He is now a research associate in Tubingen, Germany, at Eberhard
Karls University’s Department of Media Studies and lecturer at Tubingen Uni-
versity’s International and European Studies Program. He recently completed
a dissertation project on the implementation of manga-characters (kyara) in
contemporary Japanese communication. Together with Jan-Noël Thon, he
organised the international workshop “The Mediality and Materiality of Con-
temporary Comics” (April 24-25, 2015). Lukas R.A. Wilde is on the editorial
board of the German Society of Comic Studies (ComFor) and a member of
the coordinating team of the Comic Studies Board of the German Society for
Media Studies (GfM). His focus of interest is on media theory, theories of
visual communication, web comics and digital comics, as well as on Japanese
popular culture.
WREK
a été créé par l’artiste, graveur, auteur, réalisateur et membre fondateur du col-
lectif Frémok, Olivier Deprez et par Miles O’Shea, imprimeur de gravures sur
bois, écrivain et acteur. WREK produit une variété de formes avec une variété
de pratiques. Marine Penhouët, artiste plasticienne, les a rejoints en introdui-
sant le fanzine comme l’un des supports de prédilection de WREK. La couleur
noire, la répétition, les relations entre les textes et les images, la vie et l’art, la
ville et la campagne, sont quelques-unes des clés du processus de WREK.

457
Collection ACME
La collection ACME a pour objectif de contribuer au discours scientifique sur la bande dessinée dans une
perspective pluri et interdisciplinaire. Elle vise à interroger tant le médium que les ré exions critiques et
concepts théoriques mis en place pour le décrire dans son histoire, ses formes, ses genres, ou encore ses
modes de production et de réception.

ACME Series
The ACME series aims at contributing to the development of comics studies in a pluri- and interdisci-
plinary perspective. It seeks to explore the many facets of the art form and to engage simultaneously with
the critical reflections and theoretical concepts employed to describe and analyze the medium in terms
of history, genres, modes of production and reception contexts.

Comité de direction
Björn-Olav Dozo (Université de Liège, coordinateur de la collection)
Erwin Dejasse (Université libre de Bruxelles)
Christophe Dony (Université de Liège)
Tanguy Habrand (Université de Liège)
Maud Hagelstein (Université de Liège)
Gert Meesters (Université de Lille 3)
Frédéric Paques (Université de Liège)
Dick Tomasovic (Université de Liège)
David Vrydaghs (Université de Namur)

Presses Universitaires de Liège

Quai Roosevelt 1b - Bât. A4
4000 Liège (Belgique)
Tél. +32 4 366 58 36

La 5e Couche
2 av. des Tropiques - 1190 Bruxelles
T + 32 479 35 10 83
info@5c.be / www.5c.be
facebook.com/La5eCouche | instagram.com/la5ecouche

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Distribué par Les Belles Lettres Diffusion / Distributions S.A.S.
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94270 Le Kremlin-Bicêtre
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Comptoir de vente aux libraires : T +33 1 45 15 19 90 - F +33 1 45 15 19 99

Achevé d’imprimer en l’an 18 sur les presses de Pulsio, à Sofia,

avec l’aide de la Fédération Wallonie-Bruxelles, Service Promotion des Lettres, du BeIPD-COFUND et
de l’Université de Liège.

© 2019 - Tous droits réservés aux auteurs, au groupe ACME et à La 5e Couche, y compris pour l’U.R.S.S.
Les auteurs ou leurs ayants-droit cités ou reproduits dans cet ouvrage ont été expressément contactés
par les éditeurs, chaque fois que cela a été possible. Toutefois, certains n’ont pas pu être retrouvés. Qu’ils
veuillent agréer notre contrition.

La loi punit cruellement le contrefacteur de travaux forcés à perpétuité, pas nous.

Dépôt légal : d-2019-9500-7

Isbn : 978-2-39008-039-8
Nqsar : 19911208-2610-2018

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