Meanderings on Satrapi, Feminism, Prose, Craft, and Why I'm No Longer Interested in Comics

We’ve read quite a few graphic novels/memoirs this semester. And I’ve been assigned two more in the Creative Nonfiction class with Shanthi that a few of us are also taking. I feel overly steeped in image. 

I’d read Persepolis before being assigned the book in class. I liked it the first time I read it. I don’t have anything negative to say about it now. In general, I enjoy reading graphic novels/memoirs because they’re fast and easy, in that I can generally finish a complete story in an hour or two depending on how long it is. I love this about stories told in graphic form. I like the act of completion, finishing something I started. And I like looking at pictures. Image is compelling. I even use it from time to time in my creative work. And I recognize that there’s certainly an immense amount of time and craft involved in creating a graphic novel. 

—In response to ABC News’s question, “What do you think of the term graphic novel?” Satrapi responded, “I hate this thing, "graphic novel," because "graphic novel" is a term the publisher created for the bourgeoisie. Like instead of saying you are going to read "comics," you are going to read a "graphic novel," like people would be ashamed to say in front of their friends that they read comics. I have made comics, I am a cartoonist and that's it.” I was interested in her vehement opposition to the term graphic novel. Comics for me have always been a serial production. It’s like the difference between a serialized show composed of hour-long episodes and a stand-alone film (though now, I admit, these lines are blurring much more). —

We're supposed to be learning about the craft of prose. So I wonder, is this book, Persepolis, prose? What is prose anyway? OED says prose is “Language in the form in which it is typically written (or spoken), usually characterized as having no deliberate metrical structure (in contrast with verse or poetry).” I suppose in this sense, Persepolis definitely includes prose. But is it a work of prose? Is the craft of prose what we’re primarily concerned with when we talk about image, panels, bleeding gutters, foregrounding, etc? 

Looking back at Persepolis through a craft lens made me wonder: why choose to tell a story in graphic form? I wasn’t sure. So I read some interviews with Marjane Satrapi. 

In Vogue, Satrapi said, “As a literary genre, comics are really connected to fine arts. In comics, with the illustration, you write with your drawing, with your images. So whatever you don’t write, you draw and vice versa. So instead of writing, “Well I was sitting in my bed and I was watching out of the window and the bird was singing” and so on, you just draw all of that. So whatever you draw has meaning that people read.” I think this notion of reading images is interesting because so much of what we read has to do with color and mood, yet Satrapi chose to make the entire book black and white (and as others have pointed out without gray). There’s negative space and filled space. I’m not sure this is an answer to the question I posed above. But maybe, Satrapi was more comfortable in image. 

She also said in her interview with ABC, “I am absolutely not a feminist, I am against stupidity, and if it comes from males or females it doesn't change anything. If it means that women and men, they are equal, then OK, certainly I am a feminist. It happens that I am a woman, so it becomes a "woman coming of age story." I think if I was a man it wouldn't change so much, they never call it a "man coming of age story." It is a human coming of age story, let's go for the humanity and humanism, it's a much better thing than this "womanhood" and "manhood" and I don't know "hermaphrodite-hood, and etc., etc.” I have trouble with her disdain for “feminism” as a movement and her casual use of the term "hermaphrodite" in a way that seems to suggest androgeny or gender fluidity or perhaps a state beyond gender classifications, but ultimately reads as offensive (or at the very least insensitive to the ways this language has been used). 

I suppose I have broken the rules of the blog a bit here. I’m focusing on the author, what she’s said in interviews and the definitions of arbitrary terms like “prose” and “craft” as opposed to what she’s written/drawn. And, if I’m honest, it’s because I don’t see myself as a graphic novel writer, or a comic artist, or a cartoonist. So when we (and Satrapi) talk about the way you draw what you don’t write, and the way the reader reads the images in addition to the text, I fall on pg 42. “The country had the biggest celebration of its entire history,” Satrapi writes at the top of the whole page panel. The people are happy, jovial, celebrating. And there’s a lot of people smiling, but not much else. And I think this book is a similar kind of book to Belle Yang's Forget Sorrow. The illustrations are black and white; the stories deal with family history, trauma, society, and culture; the books received positive critical acclaim. Both are stories that I think should be told, should be available for people to read/see/consume, should be critically acclaimed. But considering their similarities and the fact that the only nonfiction we’ve read in class so far this semester is memoir, I’m wondering about the other ways we can use nonfiction to tell stories. Can I get an essay?

Persepolis

I love child narrators because of the craft that has to go into the novel to portray the world through a child’s eyes. Cruelty especially, becomes more horrifying when a child is interpreting it because of the subtlety involved. It was interesting to experience the child narrator through a graphic novel. Marji, however, grew up well educated and had an understanding of what was happening around her. She interpreted the revolution and war in simplified terms as a child might—from conversations and books—and was confident about her own understanding. So when she was exposed to the “truths” of the political climate, her beliefs and childhood innocence was picked away at little by little as the story progressed. 

The way Satrapi expresses the narrator’s understanding of death, visually, ends in darkness. Early in the novel, Marji tells her friend that “when they keep saying someone is on a trip it really means he is dead?” and reveals that she has an understanding of death and a truth that no one else but her seemed to accept (page 48). Like a child, she speaks bluntly without considering how her friend would react. Then the lie is used on her with her uncle Anoosh and she detected it instantly. She was aware of the trick and how she was being treated as a child and continued to question her parents until her father revealed, “The truth is, they have arrested Anoosh,” to which Marji responded with, “I know” (page 67). The phrasing is interesting here because of what Marji actually knows. She hopes that Anoosh isn’t dead, implying that she has no information of his current state. However, when her father tells her and she says, “I know,” it is Satrapi expressing that what Marji knows is “the truth,” no as Anoosh’s fate but that she what is hidden by adults to protect a child’s innocence. The section then ends with a single panel of Marji alone in space, the majority of it inked in black. 

The closest Marji comes to death is on page 142 when she finds her friend’s bracelet in the ruble, that was, “still attached to...I don’t know what…” with the last panel completely in black except for the narrated text. In contrast to Marji’s earlier “I know,” here she states the opposite despite the implication that she is aware of it. I as the reader understood that the bracelet was most likely attached to the wrist, and Marji probably became aware of it, but refused to say so, covering her mouth in that same panel. And in the next panel, she covered her eyes, in a way refusing to look at the truth about death that she once claimed about knowing. Now faced with it, she was the one not accepting it in that moment. 

I am always interested in how children respond to harsh realities through writing, especially since it is a difficult feat to do correctly. Satrapi handles it in increments, tying death and violence with a truth the narrator both seeks and suffers for. Similar to how Marji covers her eyes from the bracelet, in the last panel of the graphic novel, she claims that she should have gone ahead without looking back and seeing her parents. For children, the “knowing” is visual. They can repeat what they hear, much like Marji would, but visually there is no escape from it. It has to be done in the details. For me, having death be shown by the bracelet was more effective than describing a dead body. There is more dread and weight to the small object severely out of place. It’s these details that children latch on to and remember. 

153 pages and all this information? (Persepolis)

I was struck by Satrapi’s ability to cover so much ground in 153 pages: war and childhood in the midst of violence, becoming a young adult during a revolution, loss of religion, changing relationships between family and friends, forms of rebellion and methods of survival.


While graphic novels have the ability to cover a lot of ground due to the efficiency of images (rather than spending a page of prose to describe a scene, for example), I think there is something especially unique about memoir in graphic novel format. Memoirs are subject to different expectations in terms of plot structure. Multiple threads of narrative have their own moments of tension-release-climax, which occur at different times. I like when authors juggle these storylines and maintain a singular arc; I felt that the larger arc in Persepolis was the war, and various threads orbited around it: the acquisition of Western clothes/posters/tape cassettes, rebelling against teachers, growing close to her uncle before he was sent to prison, loss of faith, and many many more.


Originally in this post, I was going to point out places where characters exerted their own agency through acts of rebellion. I thought about relating this to a prose, where you’ve got to give your characters grit and something to fight for if you want the reader to be invested. But really, I’m fascinated by the graphic novel as a medium for memoir. If Satrapi were to sit down and talk with you about her life, I doubt she’d lay it on you in the form of individual scenes with dialogue. To tell your story with images is to give yourself more breathing room, more creative ability to articulate an emotional truth with fewer words and therefore, fewer pages.


I’ll try to explain this a little further with a direct example (would I really be a neuroscientist’s sister if I didn’t use analysis in my blog posts?). So, I'd like to look at page 22, the bottom panel, when Marji finds out her grandpa used to be a prince.


Notice how all of a sudden, Satrapi uses texture? The air is swirling with magic. If this were prose, we might expect a shift in language to indicate we were going into a fantastical realm, and we might get this “information” through the form of internal dialogue. Who knows. But one thing I am certain of is that this panel feels like entering the world of Narnia for just a brief moment, if for no other reason than the Teletubby sun in the corner, the lion with a sword (which I think is a figure on the Persian flag?), the teensy castle and forest on the left, and her grandpa pleasantly riding an elephant while wearing a crown. It’s a world of fantasy in the space of one frame. But in that frame, I see a window into a child’s mind. Notice the cursive “My grandpa was a prince” and how Marji is right underneath it, like it’s the credits to her own movie? Isn’t that Marji actively imagining and letting the reader in? I think this frame was meant to contain multitudes... and I think that's why I'm in love with graphic novels that are memoir. There's more possibility to savor or linger or confront, with so much more economy.

Persepolis

            I liked the artistic choices the author made when illustrating the main character’s imagination.  On page six I enjoyed the simple illustration of Marji caught between two worlds, the modern world of her parents and the religious feelings she felt conflicted with this.  On page 45 I liked that we see the main character imagining her ears nailed to the wall, it was funny and effective to see her fears literally drawn out. 

            Because it’s in black and white, I tried to pay attention to when there was more of either color in a cell.  When there’s more black, and shadow, the situation is more serious.  On page 38, when Marji and Mehri go protesting, the cell has a solid black background.  On page 49, when people are demanding the Shah’s departure, the angry people, as well as the disgraced Shah, have shadows over half their faces.  Shadow and darkness help usher in heavier emotions.      

            I liked how the author split their narration and comments on what is happening in a particular moment between different banner placements.  Narration stayed in the upper text banners, while asides or personal thoughts on what’s happening took place in the lower text banners.  I think this was a clear and easy way to divide the different information.  I liked that there were comments from the narrator that weren’t thought bubbles or dialogue.  I think it’s crucial to hear the narrator’s opinion from time to time, especially when looking back, so I was glad that the author found a distinct way to add this.      

            On page 39, after Marji and Mehri have come back from the protest, the mother’s slap stays on their faces long afterwards.  I thought this was a great way to show the character’s shock and how they keep stewing on this event.  Even without the hand mark, I would know that they are sitting, speechlessly thinking about this, but the hand makes it impossible to ignore.  It also made me think of how they could probably still feel it, even a long time after, and it probably felt like other people could see what happened just by looking at them.  Their surprised shame at being slapped was driven home with the idea of the lasting mark, as they probably felt like they had just been slapped for a long time afterwards. 

            On page 50, everyone in the house is in one frame, centered, and too close to one another.  This showed their discomfort, and investment in what they’re being told.  I liked how there is empty space on their side, showing their crowded sitting is of their own doing.  It shows how troubled they are mentally at this moment, and how they’ve reproduced that physically, or are seeking comfort from each other unconsciously. 

             On page 152, I felt that the cell that had the most impact about Marji’s separation from her parents is the one where there are no words.  It extends the last moments they have together, and emphasizes what can’t be said.  This chapter ends with powerful words and images, but the scene of them together and silent was very memorable to me.  I liked how the author trusted that this scene would accomplish what was needed and didn’t try to over burden the cell, they let it breath.  Throughout the whole comic I found that the author married text and images in clever ways, letting each do their work without getting in the way of the other.  They trusted their words as much as they trusted the images to make the right impression.    

-Iris

Persepolis

     So, when I first started to read Persepolis, I found myself stomping every few minutes. I couldn't find an on ramp for the story. My knowledge of the Iranian Revolution was super limited and rather than creating curiosity for me, it created annoyance (I like to be a know-it-all; leave me alone). I also think that the illustrations didn't catch my eye, either, which made it difficult to jump in, too. I started to become interested in what I was reading on about page 14. At this point, we're still receiving mostly historical context with spurts of who Satrapi's family is. We learn a little about her character, too -- she's an oddball, a precocious kid obsessed with marxism and speaking directly to God (or Marx?). Her father is a proud man and her mom is a progressive woman. I consider page 14 my entry point though because -- ironically enough -- the illustrations. The ghosts on page fifteen, the spirits of the murdered theatre inhabitants, caught me eye. From then on I started paying closer attention and I thought of a comment made by our craft instructor last semester (this is very loosely paraphrased so someone please correct me if you wrote it down. : 

you don't tell the war story, you tell the story of the bloody sock by the road. 

But Satrap is doing the opposite here and it works. And one of the reasons I think it works -- and so well -- is because of the narrative voice + form. Telling this tale in the form a graphic novel was genius on Satrapi's end along with the illustration style. The child voice is blunt, often crass (the whole brass knuckles scene), and unflinching, but also at the same time still innocent. On page 59, Satrapi is discussing revolution with her uncle who is visibly bitter about his relationship with a woman in Russia. Her uncle says that Russians aren't like Iranians and Satrapi says 'why, they don't have heads?' It's such a small moment, but in the scheme of things -- executions, uprisings, revolutions, its a beautiful moment of innocence that contrasts starkly against Satrapi wanting to beat a classmate with nails between her knuckles. This voice anchors the reader who is, sadly so, more than likely not familiar with Iranian history because the story can't be separated from the war and just a bloody sock on the side of the road wouldn't do the story justice here (though we do  have those moments -- Satrapi's friend's bracelet; the lies parents tell about the absence of a loved one).

Also, the way the novel illustrates the war is very simplistic. There aren't a lot of shadows and no shades of grade (pretty much the way Satrapi tells the story, too). The simplistic drawings are effective and easy to follow (almost too easy to me at first). The graphics serve as a guideline and a way to present the child voice more effectively.

   

Non Linear Time

At first I was thrown off by the sequencing in Persepolis. It seemed like the sections began in a linear time order but changed to reflect a memory-based approach as the story went on. I started to feel like I wanted them to connect, for a summary of their meaning. They seem to waver within a small number of years between ten and fourteen, each becoming more significant with the piling on of new ones. However as the book continues it becomes clear that these smaller stories are collected to show a growing foment within Marjane that leads to her parents' decision to send her away to protect her. This decision finally explains the subtitle, The Story of a Childhood, because the childhood ends the day she is sent to Europe.
In terms of craft I looked for reasoning in the order of these different stories. I found that some of the sections work to instruct the reader about the war history and the social changes that were taking place in Iran, while other sections are more personal and serve to share what Marjane went through as a result of the social changes. These more personal sections show how Marjane's childhood was shaped by the revolution. In "The Cigarette", Marjane concludes that the regime needed the war to stay in power, and she realizes that this was at the expense of a million lives. She compares the regime's tactics for control with her own mother—who merely doesn't want her to cut class—and rebels by smoking a stolen cigarette. She declares her childhood over, once she's discovered the connection between the regime repressing "the enemy within", and her mother's attempts to control her freedom. Regarding the craft at play, Satrapi is using a bigger theme in an internal setting. The character draws connections about the larger rules of society and ties them to her own experience. The trick is to make it not seem obvious, which I think works in this case because the character is being a typical dramatic teenager, but is also dealing with such extraordinary circumstances of war in her society, that it comes across as a serious revelation. She knows several people who have died, and can imagine her own death, which makes her choices that much more important to her self-actualization. Why would one submit to authority if the stakes in one's life were that high? Where she can't really be free?
In Dowry, the grim reality of rape and murder wakes up Marjane to a point where she really comes to terms with the threats of war. She gets expelled for knocking down the teacher, and her parents have to pull strings to get her into another school. She immediately gets the attention of her new instructor by contradicting her instruction with the cold hard facts of her uncle's execution and prison time. The principal calls to warn her parents, and her mother freaks out and tells her about what happens when young girls get arrested. It's a stark adjustment of her willingness to submit to the system that does not reward outliers. This event seems to tie together the previous events, making her both willing to leave Iran and in resolve of her own character, something she won't be able to subdue. It's a beautiful and hard moment, that Satrapi illustrates in bold, dark cells. A good majority of the cells have black backgrounds in the sequence where she becomes aware of the fate of arrested girls, giving the characters a prime function in the art. Once Marjane accepts the decision her parents have made, the backgrounds go light again. This seems to be a way to convey her hope as she begins to transition from her role as their child into her role as an independent adult. Satrapi gives her a mix of despair, hope and longing in these final pages. I appreciated how the last cell dispels the mood that her parents were comfortable with this loss, with her father carrying her fainted mother into the foreground while Marjane turns away, wishing she hadn't seen them.
The finality of this last cell still left me with a sense that there's a lot more to this story. I think she left it open because that's the sensation of not knowing what lies ahead, moving by yourself to another continent. It's an incredible story.

Persepolis

After I finished Persepolis, I found myself repeating the line "to die a martyr is to inject blood into the veins of society" (115), a slogan Marji finds graffitied on a wall. She disagrees--after seeing so many of her loved ones die, death seems to contribute nothing to the revolution but despair. These deaths, though, propel personal and familial revolutions, instigating the changes that push her life--and the story--forward.

Just after this quotation is a full page panel: Marji's small figure walks down a flight of steps on the top left into a large explosion that holds the figures of fighting soldiers. There's no way to tell which soldiers are fighting for which side. A speech bubble says "They eventually admitted that survival of the regime depended on the war." On the bottom right Marji's figure walks out a door. Another speech bubble says "When I think we could have avoided it all...it just makes me sick. A million people would still be alive" (116).

The regime becomes more repressive as Marji indulges in the stereotypical teenage rebellions. She tries her first cigarette, she wears punk clothing, she listens to rock music. And her parents generally indulge her rebellions in a way that is protective, knowing the danger she is in if her rebellion is known to the state, for the repressive regime is killing those it perceives to be its enemies.

The "martyr" graffiti is subtly referenced when Uncle Taher has a heart attack (brought on by a grenade attack). There are calls to give blood to the war wounded--these speech bubbles aren't the soft, semi-rectangular ones in other panels, but are enclosed by sharp, jagged edges. The words "give blood" are thick and black. The regime is asking for more blood, but they have already taken so much blood will another transfusion really make a difference?

Marji's parents attempt to get a passport for her uncle so he can get appropriate medical treatment in England or at least see his son. They even attempted to get a fake passport. The man who was supposed to make the passport was harboring a revolutionary, a woman named Niloufar. Two days later she was spotted, arrested, and executed. Uncle Taher died without being able to see his son.

Though Marji's friend Neda is killed by a missile, it is Niloufar's death that seems to have caused more of a change in the direction of her life.  After Marji got in trouble at school, her parents explained that Niloufar wasn't only murdered by the regime, she was raped--that one of her executioners married her and sent her family a small ($5) dowry to let them know that she'd been raped. She says: "All night long, I thought of that phrase: 'to die a martyr is to inject blood into the veins of society.' Niloufar was a real martyr, and her blood certainly did not feed our society's veins" (146).

Niloufar's death may not have fed society's veins, but it created a change in Marji's life. It provided that motivation for her parents to send Marji to Vienna to finish her schooling. Though her parents reassure her that they will be joining her soon, she is certain they will not be. And she is right.