Isotope Award 2009 from Sarah Morean on Vimeo.

I’ve often thought of independent comics as the great social equalizer. By this I mean that no indie cartoonist or fan walking alone into a room full of similar stock should be able to leave without a friend. My estimation of indie comics, it seems, was too naive. See, until last weekend, I’d never been further west than Denver. The indie shows I’d seen were packed with internet acquaintances, kind artists recalling my fan letters, and other Midwesterners. In other words, people that I already knew. I’d been biased, for sure.

Going to APE for the first time, I learned that the west coast scene is so large, it can very easily make you feel like an outsider — especially when you are.  There are enough west coast shows to occupy a creator’s time, and due to the cost of travel, I don’t think many west coast creators appearing at APE, Stumptown and the San Francisco Zine Fest also feel the need to exhibit at MoCCA, SPX or SPACE (AKA shows I might attend).  This is one reason why it’s a good idea to get into California once in awhile.  Otherwise, you might never meet these cartoonists.  However, it’s also a possible explanation for why the Friday night mixer at Last Gasp was such a rough place meet people.  If they all know each other already, then why should they care about you when they have no idea who you are?

Last Gasp is basically a warehouse. It’s expansive and full of great media, so if there was a friendly face to be found, it was likely in a book.  At least the bartender was hospitable, despite the fact that the two heaping bowls of dried fruit he pushed on revelers remained largely untouched. I took his good attitude — sustained in spite of constant fruit bowl rejection — as a sign not to give up.

"I like your mustache."

I attended APE with Will Dinski, who by Friday already had an inkling that his book Covered in Confusion would be the winner of the 2009 Isotope Award.  We’d been tipped off long ago by veteran Isotope recipient Max Riffner that the Isotope winner is not “suddenly announced” the day of, but is contacted ahead of time to insure the recipient’s attendance at the show and subsequent ceremony.  When Will got an email on Thursday saying he was a finalist, and would he be around, it was kind of a big deal.  I had a lot of trouble keeping the news under wraps.  We later learned that he won “in a landslide” to quote the judges, which means that Covered in Confusion made the top 5 of each of the judges’ lists.  While we stood around at Last Gasp on Friday night being unpopular, we joked quietly, awkwardly, about what would happen once he was revealed as the winner on Saturday night.  We predicted some confused silence and a disappointed crowd.  “Who is this guy?  Who does he think he is winning our awards on our turf?  Don’t California’s confusing seller’s licenses preclude that sort of thing?”  Ha?  Cough.

After walking the circuit at Last Gasp, we luckily made the acquaintance of Simon Gardenfors and his posse, which was comprised of Robin Enrico and a girl I’ll only remember as “The Boss.”  Gardenfors is an autobio cartoonist and America’s next great Swedish import.  The English translation of his book 120 Days of Simon is due out from Top Shelf next year.

The tone set by the Last Gasp mixer made me nervous for the first day of APE. It was a bit disorienting, kind of elitist, quickly out of beer, and promptly closed (as advertised) at 9pm.

We wound up asleep on Friday at an all-too reasonable hour, and arrived early to APE on Saturday morning to set the table.  The view of the floor that morning though was fantastic. It seemed like the exhibitors setting up ASAP had the most large and exciting displays.  Very impressive.  But even those creators that wowed me in the beginning kind of faded away by the afternoon, because once all the tables were full and the floor was buzzing with attendees, they just blended in with the rest.

The much coveted tiger print.

It would be very difficult to stand out at APE.  Most creators agreed that the space held too many tables and didn’t lure in enough attendees.  Also at APE, rumor has it that nobody makes much of a profit.  It’s fine, but the average creator’s haul is below what they’d take in at other comparable shows.  Of course, considering the low table cost, I wonder if it evens out in the end.  Since I wasn’t really exhibiting (apart from the Cross Hatch bags) I saw APE as a good place to go and get ideas that I could take back to smaller shows, or craft fairs in my hometown.  Even the worst display at APE would probably be the best display at most conventions, because at APE the bar for eye-catching graphics and display gear is set pretty high.

Because APE comes on the heels of a very busy convention season, its identity seems to be a a mash-up of the past several months of big conventions.  I thought, if it wasn’t all comics, it would be all hand-made books and ironic t-shirts, but forgot to consider that it’s a west coast show.  Pretty much anyone already primed to sell in California is who you’ll find at APE, so you see some more mainstream items — like zombie and pin-up girls — that seem a little out of place but definitely have their audience.  Certain ideas trickle down from the big shows into APE, simmer over the winter, and leak out re-imagined next season.  APE is part of the great circle of regeneration within the indie comics medium, but it would be a tough show to table year after year, given the sales and gargantuan floor space.

I even had a tough time giving my Cross Hatch bags away.  I’m a lousy salesperson, but c’mon.  Free handmade bags?  I was even turned down by a guy with his hands full of stuff he could barely carry.  If I had it rough, I don’t envy the real exhibitors.

The Isotope Award Ceremony was a lot of fun.  Before the bar opened Will and I ran into Top Shelf’s Brett Warnock, the night’s temporary bartender.  He had just gone out of his way to find a pepper for the margaritas and was headed back to Isotope when we crossed paths.  It seems Warnock has tended bar before, so he obviously knows what’s up, but I’d never heard of the pepper-margarita marriage, and I was pretty excited to try it.  In the middle of our stop-and-chat, Brett took the pepper from its paper bag, gave it a discerning look, nipped a small bite off the end, and rolled his eyes — it wasn’t hot at all.  It was like they’d given him the most tepid pepper in the store, made and sold especially for gringos.  He was obviously having none of that.  I’m not sure if the pepper ever made it into the margarita, but my margarita was tasty regardless.

Will and I were still pretty much wallflowers by the time the Isotope Award was given away, but just watch the video at the top of this post to see how quickly that changed.  It wasn’t so much the quiet arm-crossing response we’d expected; it was more like a deafening love fest.  Thanks to Nate Beaty for his incredible, immediate kindness from day one and Jonas Madden-Connor (Isotope winner 2008) and Francois Vigneault of Family Style for the same.  They are all good dudes to know, which is good, because they were the only people we knew at Isotope before the announcement was made.

Francois Vigneault and Jonas Madden-Connor doing "the turkey."

After many surreal hours of strangers taking photographs of my boyfriend and a long battle with sleepiness in the upstairs reading room, where I was able to re-read some of my favorite minis like Disquietville #2 and Shithole, we were finally transported back to our hotel by a guy who looked like Racetrack Higgins from “Newsies.”  No kidding.  “Higgins” later reported that the party went on until 4am until it broke for donuts at a 24-hour shop.  Guess it’s true what they say about west coast parties.

Sunday at APE was much like Saturday at APE except that Lilli Carre and her latest Little Otsu print were nowhere to be found, there was a trophy on our table, and suddenly the on-site bar didn’t look so appealing.

BYO boot glass to the Isotope Award Ceremony.

On Sunday, I went around taking photos with my $10 digital “spy camera” from Walgreens, but sadly lost it all due to incompetence.

For more photographs of APE, check out the following links:
Nate Beaty
Fantagraphics
Laughing Squid
lobraumeister
Alternative Press Expo flickr group
Will Dinski

For more photos of the Isotope Award Ceremony, check out the following links:
James Sime
DJ Bearzbub

- Sarah Morean

Nine Gallons #1
by Susie Cagle
Self-published

I did some light internet stalking of Susie Cagle while trying to find her website at a time when her book was not in hand, and learned unexpectedly that her father was once a toy inventor. This news has nothing to do with her excellent new mini-comic Nine Gallons #1, but it’s fascinating nonetheless and obviously something you should know. I mean, look at this genius “bath soup” invention Ms. Cagle is modeling. Who knew then that years later, when she grew up and moved to San Francisco, she would devote thankless hours to making real, edible kinds of soup as a member of Food Not Bombs? It’s a remarkable coincidence – and certainly the best segue I could hope for leading into this review.

Nine Gallons #1 is a slice-of-life style book that chronicles some of Cagle’s most memorable experiences with Food Not Bombs – the loosely-knit international collective of anti-war pro-soup activists.

Her experience moves from lame to weird to tedious to bizarre and ends just kind of sad. It sums up the exact reasons why most people don’t like to volunteer. Actually, this issue of Nine Gallons never even tries to take a happy turn. The people Cagle encounters on the street and in her collective are, painfully, a constant bummer. I don’t understand why she stays, except for her belief in the cause.

Cagle’s artwork is incredibly gorgeous and detailed – which becomes important while telling a story like this about people on hard times, and those who are only slightly better off.  Knowing how to render wardrobe and the often worn faces of people who live (or “camp” as some would say) on the street helps create a lot of sympathy for the greater Food Not Bombs cause.   Cagle also adds larger truthful details – like the city’s regular pavement rinsing that purposefully makes homeless people uncomfortable and including in the introduction pieces of Food Not Bombs’ history – that are so quiet and heartbreaking her book almost feels like a call to action rather than autobiography.

Cagle actually majored in journalism – a field that has sown some of my absolute favorite writers – so it shouldn’t be surprising that her work carries more shock, truth and weight than it might have under the influence of any other cartoonist’s ink.  Don’t expect to be wholly entertained, but do expect to be educated by this book.  She’s definitely got an eye for what tugs at the reader – and applies that sensibility to each page in understated ways.  In the book’s only real showing of Cagle’s personal life, she steals a piece of bread that should have gone to Food Not Bombs, and in that darkened panel, and the guilt of her action just rushes in.

Nine Gallons promises to be a very interesting series, but I can’t imagine it’s an easy series to write or draw.  I predict long, expectant months of waiting between issues (but where the wait is really worth it).  Nine Gallons #1 costs $5 and is available from Cagle’s store.

- Sarah Morean

The Bridge Project Volume One
Ed. by Matt Leunig
Scraped Knee

It’s only natural for a cartoonist living in the middle of the country to glamorize life on the west or east coast of the U.S.  There, you’d always find someone to drink and draw with who could help you fix your bike or navigate public transportation.  Sounds great.

The Bridge Project, edited by Matt Leunig, is an anthology focused on west coast cartoonists.  Particularly, it demystifies a little about the dreams and lifestyles of 23 of cartoonists living in Portland, OR, and California’s San Francisco Bay Area.  I believe the core audience for this material is made up of the following people: those considering a move to these areas, and those current inhabitants who would like to contribute to volume two.

A team was assembled for each of the book’s 13 stories including one cartoonist from each region (so two artists on one story ideally), and the problem lay in how those collaborators would complete their contribution.  The result is an interesting display of temperament and cooperation from creative-types in two cities who are more accustommed to doing things solo AKA DIY.

As far as anthologies go, The Bridge Project is one of the better books I’ve seen in terms of talent and concept.  Its intent was to bridge two neighboring comics communities together, but with the added challenge of including some mention of either Portland or San Francisco within the comic.  As a result, the book does educate the reader somewhat about the authors’ locations and lifestyles and become quite interesting.

It’s funny how much people resent stereotypes, until they self-reflect.  The artists in this book were quick to talk about how vegan, nerdy and independent their communities seem to be, which is exactly what I would have guessed as an outsider.

The book takes a little time to laugh at the communities’ known social traits in this way, particularly Jonathan Hill and Calvin Wong’s story “Future Jerks,” in which a vagabond in the future tries to navigate the different strata of Portland’s post-apocalyptic punk and indie scenes.  Other stories incorporate musings on the terrain, like in Graham Annable and Scott Campbell’s “Shanghooked,” about a thrill-seeker and a salty sailor destined for an ocean adventure.

Being that the idea is to bridge two similar communities together through their common involvement in the comics medium, I’d like to think it was a success.  However, I wonder how the book was released.  Was the party in California or Oregon or both?  Or at all?  As much as one community might appreciate another, it’s a whole different matter when one of you is expected to drive 10 hours to celebrate how close you all are.

The method of collaboration must have been an interesting hurdle to surmount at such a distance.  I found that the comics with the least amount of varyation in style the easiest to digest just for their visual continuity, which can be important with more complicated storylines involving multiple characters.  Matt Leunig and Seamus Heffernan’s contribution “Lost Intersection” had the most difficult story of all, spanning large amounts of time where the three main characters ranged in age from child to aged geezer.  It took some concentration to keep the characters straight given the creators’ different drawing and inking styles — almost too much to really accept the full intertwinings of the plot.  I’m sure a second reading would right this just fine, but from an observational standpoint here’s some advice to other collaborators on non-anthology projects: if you’re thinking of creating a big complicated story as your life’s opus, maybe that comic should be penned by the same hand throughout.  I’ll close the book on that one until someone proves me wrong and makes a case for every-other-panel jam-style comics as legitimate launchpads for intricate storytelling.  Just saying.

Since Peter Conrad’s partner for the book flaked out, his contribution, aptly titled “The Bridge Project” was more proof of another flaw of collaboration.  Sometimes your partner just can’t pull through like they intend to do.  But that’s life all around.  You don’t need to live in the Bay Area to get left on the hook for some project you’ve now got to do alone.

All said, it’s a nice little book and I hope it attracts new talent for the next volume.  The book is $9.95 from Scraped Knee, but doesn’t seem to be available for purchase online.  I suggest writing a letter to the editor.

- Sarah Morean

“I’m the needles half,” answers Breezy Culbertson, the shop’s pigtailed co-owner, seated behind the counter nestled in the back right-hand corner of her store. “The sewing needles half.” The pens half, she explains, is Andrew Scott, a former Maximum RocknRoll coordinator and editor of the long-running zine, sobstory.   Together the duo opened the quasi-eponymous Needles and Pens a few blocks from this spot, a half-dozen years ago.

“The old store was tiny. It was the size of a one-car garage,” explains Culbertson. “San Francisco is so expensive, it was the only place we could afford.” Needles and Pens opened up in 2002 on 14th and Guerrero, in storefront that had formerly been home to San Francisco’s Black and Blue tattoo parlor, a small but cozy location that shared the block with a handful of kindred commercial spirits. “It was off the beaten path, too, but it was fun, because there was a record shop and a print shop and a gallery and a bike shop,” says Culbertson. “We used to have events together and it was like a mini-block party. It was fun. But then they moved on.”

After three-and-a-half years, Needles and Pens did likewise, scouting out a space on nearby 16th st., a block east of Mission Dolores, San Francisco’s oldest building and the district’s namesake.  The new store ,which opened its doors in 2006, isn’t exactly huge (more like a three-car garage), but Culbertson and Scott utilize their space to the fullest. Needles and Pens is split asymmetrically—Culbertson’s half devoted to racks of homemade apparel and Scott’s largely monopolized by shelves of mini-comics and zines—and, perhaps in the interest of art, a clothesline strung with thrift store ties, an aesthetic carried over from the clothespinned minis displayed in the shop’s front window.

The rear wall of the store is something of a makeshift gallery with a rotating cast of exhibitors culled from both the streets of San Francisco and elsewhere. “People from all come from all over,” explains Culbertson, motioning to the display behind her. “This guy is from Montreal. His name is ‘Other.’ He also goes by Troy Lovegates. He’s kind of a hobo artist. He travels all over the world, but I think he’s mostly based in Canada. We’ve had Billy Childish, who’s English and artists from all over, but the majority are local.” The criteria for choosing artists, Culbertson continues, is fairly easy-going. “They’ll approach us or we’ll approach them. Or it’s like friends or friends of friends. It’s very loose.”

Curating the zines and minis that line the shelves is a similiarly straight-forward proposition.  “People bring stuff in and we check it out. We take pretty much everything, as long as it’s not homophobic or racist or anything like that,” says Culbertson.  “People bring it in and we keep it for about three months and after that they either pick it up or bring us more. It’s kind of open door. We play it by ear.”

It was the simple desire to display such works that served as the initial impetus for the shop’s creation. Scott, a zine writer from Chicago, drew inspiration from the windy city’s finest comic shop. “There’s a place there called Quimby’s,” explains Culbertson. “He grew up there, so that was his big inspiration. I make clothing, and at the time there wasn’t anywhere that you could sell your own homemade clothing that wasn’t super high-end designery crap.” After years of lamenting the absence of such a location, the duo finally bit the bullet in 2002. “Me and Andrew always talked about how we’d love to have a shop like this in San Francisco, and since no one was doing it, we were like ‘fuck it. We’ll do it.’ ”

Half-a-dozen years later, things have certainly changed. “When we opened the store, there wasn’t really anything like this,” says Culbertson. “Now there are a ton of boutique galleries that open up, everyday. At the time, we were the only ones crazy enough to think about doing it.” Needles and Pens may not be the only game in town anymore, but a fairly strong argument can be made that, in a city full of do-it-yourselfers, it’s still the best.

–Brian Heater