"In a community like this, we are each other's business."
Nate Powell is the only comics artist that has ever won a National Book Award, for his illustration work on Sen. John Lewis’s story of his experiences with the civil rights movement in the sixties, March, adapted by Andrew Aydin, spanning three books. That and 2008's Eisner Award-winning Swallow Me Whole, are some of my favorite graphic works. The latter is one of a group of more personal works that—like Jeff Lemire’s work—focus on the struggles of a young boy growing up, dealing with darkly complicated issues.
The story is not a March social justice epic, but a smaller, more personal tale of a woman, Haluska, or Hal, who lives in a small Ozarks “intentional” community, co-parenting Jake, with her ex, Gus. Jake is not the focus of the story, but he is important, always there. He's Powell, growing up, in many ways, likely. Hal is having an affair with Adrian, or Ade, who is married to her close friend, and it has been going on for years. They meet for sex in a cave where, as it turns out, some kids also go, and where some fantastical force or creature exists, and where Ade’s son is lost for some time.
Powell’s previous works, Swallow Me Whole, Any Empire, and Sounds of Your Name, bear some resemblance to Come Again. Some aspects of all these works deal with personal isolation and the need for community/family. Nostalgia for the past, and yet regret, sorrow. Black and white, scratchy pen and ink, often without panels, the work gives a sense of the emotional possibilities of using the whole page, as a canvas where images do most of the communicating, work like Craig Thompson’s Blankets and Jillian Tamaki’s work in This One Summer. Which is to say Come Again is sort of oblique, hard to follow in places, requiring a bit of work in reading the images, feeling like poetic stream-of-consciousness, open. People talk like real people talk, not as in Henry James. They mumble, their voices trail off, and the lettering reflects that. Some pages are almost all inky black with white lettering. The feeling is often bleak, intensely reflective.
The focus of the story is not about the hippie community, which is almost dwindled out, but on these secrets that might exist in any community, that seem connected to this mountain monster. The links between all these things are not always clearly defined, it’s sort of poetic (or maddeningly vague, if you like your stories clear and precise). The struggle between the dark and light has a visual component here, in keeping with the secrecy, and damage, and guilt.
Powell says this is his favorite work so far, but I don’t think it will be his readers’ favorite, though I do like it a lot, to the extent I understand it after just one reading. It feels bleak, we don’t get deep connections or feel much empathy for the characters who exist in these claustrophobic spaces, caves. Feels a little Calvinist in its exploration of secrecy and guilt. That's not a joyful affair Hal and Ade have. Feels like the end of The Age of Aquarius, most of those hippie ideals. People don't talk about the issues they have with each other, and yet in the end, we seem to move to some light, some understanding.
What may be one key to understanding this book is that Powell dedicates this book to Ursula K. Le Guin, so the dark fantasy aspects make more sense.
Powell’s book is technically awesome and has me brooding about it, and I will read it again and try to figure out more of what it is about, but this dark Ozark cave monster fantasy tale is fascinating. Because Powell is a lifelong punk musician, I like, too, the way he--as he always does—weaves music through his story. Like Lemire, I think he imagines us listening to a mix tape as we read. I’ll read this again. Like Lemire, he’s a great artist, struggling to figure out how to tell a comics tale about growing up in a small isolated town.