One of Lucy Knisley's undeniable strengths is that she is hardcore a Capricorn: by the age of thirty-one, as she tells you herself in this very book, she'd published five graphic memoirs, each one as cleanly constructed as if from a kit, gleaming with that I-write-outlines-for-my-to-do-lists singlemindedness goats are known for.
I've read almost all of them. They are each of them lovely, bright and tidy as a paperdollhouse. And I slam through them--as unselfconsciously personal memoirs by a woman, they are precisely up my alley, and compulsively readable.
And yet every single time I find myself having the same puzzling experience: Why don't I love them?
The Lucy of these memoirs is brimming with self-assurance, and her experiences are of the largely consequence-less, upper-class variety: cultivating a relationship with gourmet food, going to art school, taking European vacations, DIYing a roomily-budgeted wedding.
They are memoirs without stakes, and therefore without urgency: confession without viscera, self-reporting without introspection; more captain's log (the waves and the clouds) than anything scraped up from diving into the wreck (whether blue or breathing).
Even this latest remains perplexingly landlocked. Kid Gloves is about the most harrowing, primeval experience a human can go through, yet Knisley renders it in the same antiseptic pastels with which she drew her wedding plans.
There's this great quote from Aline Kominsky that I don't have memorized but where she talks about what kind of art she likes and she says she likes to see some of the struggle.
That's what I like, too, and it's the opposite of Knisley's work.
You won't see any struggle here: her line is smooth and her palette soothing, with everything from the sweaters to the sidewalks, the bushes to the vaginas, rendered textureless and benign, comprising an evenly contained but eerily shadowless world. Her panel layout is textbook-worthy craftsmanship, sturdy but flexible, creative but compliant.
All of which make for a highly engaging but never quite electric read; she's always a B for me. A gentleman's 6.
So what am I saying here. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy this book. I enjoy all of her books, and I enjoy them progressively more as she goes, so I enjoyed this one the most of all. I'm not even saying it's not a good book: it is a good book, and thorough.
I guess I'm just saying I've been reading Knisley for some years now and I keep waiting for her to mine a gnarlier vein. Which might never happen, because not everyone needs to skin the whole cat, Hannah. A lot of people don't even like skinned cats, OK? You can snuffle your filthy old nose around in your Dirty Laundries and Plottes all you like and then appreciate this on its own merits, for what it is and excels at being: charmingly executed, carefully researched, and another genuinely impressive contribution from a talented, committed creator.