Artist's Statement
[Note from Webmaster Dave: If you've
been tuning into the website, do not worry. You have not
missed
Part III. Tim's got some cartoonist explanation for it, but
the bottom line is that all of the parts are on the website.] I
have nothing against the Hindus personally. Just giving
equal time to all the world’s major religions, and they
have as many centuries of nonsense and oppression behind
them as any of the others—more, actually.
I was acutely conscious as I drew panel
1 of the danger of offending Hindus by depicting their
gods as superheroes, but, if it’ll mollify any Hindus
reading this, this panel is meant to be less irreverent
than it might seem. I was about halfway through a straight
rendering of the Hindu gods when it occurred to me that,
since their appeal to me is essentially the same as that
of a superhero group, it would be funnier to draw them
as one. As it happens I have an old juvenile fondness
for the Hindu pantheon, based on a copy of the Bahagavad-Gita
given to our family by Hare Krishnas at an airport when
I was a child. It was heavily annotated by the guru who
was then head of the International Society for Krsna
Consciousness, who resembled a bullfrog. Every one of
his annotations, regardless of the verse it was appended
to, explicated that verse as a command to chant the name
of Krsna all day long. Even at age ten I could see that
his interpretation was monomaniacally narrow and slanted
to support his own literal-minded practice and had nothing
to do with the text. What blew my young mind, though,
were the color plate illustrations. These exerted the
same kind of absorbing fascination as did Fantastic Four
comics, Heironymous Bosch paintings, and certain psychedelic
album cover art (I remember being particularly obsessed
by Elton John’s "Captain Fantastic," which
in retrospect I can see was strongly influenced by Bosch).
The Hindu pantheon really was like some fucked-up superhero
team—men with blue or gold or green skin, multiple faces
and arms, and animal’s heads, wielding maces and tridents
and axes and conch shells, breathing fire, blowing bubbles
containing galaxies. In particular I remember an allegorical
illustration of a man on the stairway leading up to salvation
and down to perdition. As is always the case in such
illustrations (and in real life), the path to eternal
bliss is bland as a ‘Fifties advertisement, but the road
to damnation is dramatic, exciting, and full of intriguing
characters. Personifications of anger, lust, and envy
were trying to lure or tug the guy downward to spiritual
destruction. Anger is the one who really caught my imagination:
like Charles Manson with blue skin and a flaming mane
of red hair and villainous red moustache, blazing red
eyes, and a pair of big red pirate pants. And I unabashedly
loved, and still love, Garuda, the messenger of the gods,
half-man and half-eagle. Basically he is Hawkman. There
was a parable about a little sparrow who was angry that
the sea had swallowed up the eggs she’d laid on the beach,
and was determined to empty it out, beakful by piteously
tiny beakful, until she got them back. The heartless
sea burbles gleefully at the hopelessness of her effort,
but then fucking Garuda, moved by her devotion, swoops
down out of the heavens and commands the sea to give
her her eggs back! Great illustration of Garuda pointing
at the sea and yelling at it, his vast wings spread wide.
You can bet the sea coughs them up in a hurry, with many
an obsequious apology to Lord Garuda. Oh, I can’t take
it! I love this story. I am weeping as I write this.
Garuda rules.
Ahem. Anyway, lots of religions have
cool gods and good stories. But then inevitably you also
get the caste system and suttee. What is it with people
where it’s such a short step from belief in a divine
creator to setting women on fire? How does that follow?
It’s not even polite, let alone moral.
As it happens, while drawing this cartoon
series I’ve begun attending church, albeit for secular
reasons. I am temporarily living in the apartment of
my evil friend Ben Walker while I look for more permanent
winter lodgings in New York, and I’ve learned that Grace
Church on Broadway, a short walk from here, has free
Bach concerts daily at noon. I’ve taken to going. Today
I was sitting there in the quiet before the concert reading
a novel when suddenly the shattering opening of the Toccata
and Fugue played on the pipe organ, making me start in
my pew. (You know it, I’m sure: it’s become clichéd
through overuse in films and ads. It’s in Fantasia.)
I have no grasp of musical theory or structure at all
but even my dull ear can intuit the symmetry and inevitability
of this music, as immediately as my eye can see how perfectly
wrought a gothic cathedral or double helix is, ignorant
though I am of architecture or biochemistry. I had to
ask myself: has anything anybody’s written in the entire
twentieth century--Charlie Parker or Miles Davis or Hank
Williams or Johnny Cash or the Beatles or Jimi Hendrix--been
as awesome, as beautiful and terrible as this music?
No. Not remotely. Listening to Mozart’s Stadler quintet
for clarinet and strings or Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto
in E, you can hear that this is a piece of music written
by a very brilliant man, far more brilliant than you
could ever hope to be, but Bach… it’s hard to believe
it’s even a human artifact. It’s like the difference
between Venice or Angkor Wat and the Alps. Listening
to the Toccata and Fugue in a cathedral is like getting
to sneak in and watch the Big Bang. It is better than
the pastrami at Katz’s.
Next week, the conclusion of our series:
trashing Buddha. |