Just recently, Joe Matt died of a heart attack, found slumped at his drawing board. Fittingly, this was something that was penned by Chester Brown of the triumvirate of the Toronto Three, Seth and Chester Brown, two Canadian Cartoonists who were close friends, though you’d never know it from how often they were portrayed complaining about his complaining.
The sad part is that due to Joe Matt's cheapness, he would put off his health, refusing to go to a hospital which would cost him money, which likely heightened his possibilities of dying sooner.
Coincidentally, I was thinking about the caricatured portrayal of comic biographies and how they tended to have a negative outlook. The general image of a comic autobiography is to have a nebbish protagonist constantly narrate inner insecurities about life all while remaining indecisive about girls, exemplified by Robert Crumb who took his fears and fetishes onto the comic page. A trait inspired and endlessly plagiarized by countless imitator cartoonists who no doubt greatly identified with this self-loathing portrayal.
I had these thoughts during the comic I was reading, Fun by Paolo Bacilieri, about the history of crosswords started out fairly interesting, then it segued to a cartoonist who exhibited the kind of nerdish fascination and narrative sensibilities, seeking reconciliation from an ex-girlfriend abroad. Even though there are much better and varied comic biographies out there, that’s the general image that tends to stick in people’s consciousness. The genre is still tainted by the prospect of Woody Allen-like main characters.
As such, Joe Matt’s comics about his issues tend to be rather repetitive, constantly complaining about being alone, seeking impossible feminine ideals that Seth described as ‘being caught on a treadmill’.
The thing was, as much as these comics might have had a certain appeal towards a certain segment of the comics market, I never really had these moments of introspection in narrative detail, being more concerned with getting through the day. My thoughts would likely only come into being after I put some thought to it.
As casually interesting as these comics were, I never really identified with them, since they indulged in extraneous inner turmoil in excessive verbiage and constant pining for unrequited lusts, something I had no real desire for, since it would mean having to open myself up, an ordeal further exacerbated by my social anxiety in talking to complete strangers who I’d have to inform that I was deaf, needed them to face me, emphasize key words, and making sure they understood English; a process that would have to be repeated ad nauseam with every new person. Not to mention that I was more comfortable being alone anyways.
For a time, I had a brief online relationship with a female German comic blogger, correcting her translation of a comic, and the two of us enjoyed a rapport. Eventually, it led to video conversations, with the helpful option of writing notes by the side, clarifying details that I would’ve missed.
She helped me with doing the basic translations for the first 2 volumes of Red Ketchup, and I did the rewriting and scanlation edits myself. We continued our relationship past simple translations by sharing books, something I was reluctant to do, but she shipped her English versions of Walter Moers’ titles, The 13½ Lives of Captain Bluebear, Rumo and The City of Dreaming Books over with no hesitation. In return, I recommended the comic series, Finder by Carla Speed McNeil. It might’ve been a little too ambitious for her taste, since she said she wasn’t too crazy about it. I wasn’t that crazy about Bluebear, so it was fair. (She enjoyed my recommendation of the early writings of Gordon Kormon though)
Then one day, she said that she would be moving to my country, just one province over in Kitchener, and offered the option to come over to my house. I was enthusiastic for the possibility of having a physical friend over, someone I had several things in common. I even pointed out the possibility that she might’ve had Autism, since she certainly matched some of the symptoms exactly. She had Prosopagnosia (facial blindness), and mentioned having a kind of synesthesia where she ‘heard’ voices in colour, and she said mine was orange, her favorite colour.
I took her sightseeing, showing her my favorite places to find comics and second-hand books, but then I fell sick, and had to lie low for a day while my Mother took her to an Oral training seminar teaching deaf students on how to lipread. Before she left, I handed over some Neal Shusterman books (the Dark Fusion trilogy of Fairy Tale retellings, Duckling Ugly being the best among them)
The last time I heard from her, she said she was getting married to someone living in Toronto. I didn’t fall into a screaming fit of outrage. I just simply accepted this news the same way one would getting an evening weather report.
Upon reflection, I realized that other than giving advice on grammar and toning up her vocabulary to sound more natural, I basically had nothing to offer her. I had no basic survival skills, couldn’t manage a full-time job, didn’t even have the courage to travel across province to where she lived. It's also possible that our tastes weren't compatible.
I was always worried about the possibility that I would be alone. But ever since I self-diagnosed myself as being Asexual, I now KNOW that I’ll be alone, and am fine with it. I don’t have to share my bed with somebody and worry about my personal space being invaded.
What really hurt was that after she got married, we were no longer in communication with each other. I still would’ve liked to remain friends after all we’d done together. She still has my Neal Shusterman books.
