Unsung Heroes #1

Harvey Pekar will be remembered for the autobiographical American Splendor, but it is his unflinching honesty about himself and his foibles that earns our admiration; indeed, his recent graphic novel Quitter chronicles a youth characterized in part by his quitting things rather than plugging along with failure in sight. Not too many people would admit to that!

Another graphic novel of his, Our Cancer Year can be brutal at times; he's not exactly one of those power-of-positive-thinking patients inspiring everyone with his courage. He was in pain and misery and it shows, though there are also moments of great humor and tenderness, especially between Harvey and his wife Joyce. And that's what real life is like, you know. Beyond the sound bites and romanticized views of whatever, he (and everyone) still has to worry about day-to-day basics: health, money, friends, pets, bathroom disasters....

Despite it all he kept paying his artists and putting out his material even though it usually cost him more than he made; though no starving artist thanks to his day job, money was a constant worry and yet he always budgeted for his comics; whether you like his stuff or not, you have to respect him for his perseverance, for sticking with it despite the hardships it could cause ... for not quitting this time.

Pekar, who died on July 12, 2010 at the age of 70, was a seminal figure in the history of alternative comics. In the real world he was content being a file clerk for the VA Hospital in Cleveland; the job didn't pay much, but he liked his co-workers and he didn't have to think about work when he left at night. Stimulated by the emerging underground comix scene of the 1960s and his friendship with fellow jazz aficionado R. Crumb (when that individual's star was beginning to rise), Pekar realized comics could be written for adults as well as children. And, more importantly, they could cover themes well beyond superheroes/funny animals/Archie. He had been a published jazz critic, but decided he wanted people writing about him rather than the other way around. Not being an artist, he worked up some potential comics scripts and showed them to Crumb, who loved them and offered be Pekar’s illustrator; starting a trend: Pekar would, ultimately, get so many important comics artists to illustrate his stories that his books are a Who's Who of significant comics artists.

Pekar began cutting back on buying jazz albums so he could pay to illustrate and publish American Splendor: From Off the Streets of Cleveland. It debuted in 1976 to considerable critical approval, though—like the vast majority of alternative comics—it was never lucrative despite its cult following. But it was never about the money for Pekar: he felt he was creating something important. And he was rewarded for that outlook when he received the American Book Award for his first anthology of American Splendor. Later, he would become a frequent guest on talk shows, with some memorable appearances on the Letterman show (and disappearances: he was banned for several years after a tirade about General Electric). His Crowning Moment of Awesome, however, came when American Splendor was turned into a 2003 biographical movie (after a number of abortive attempts beginning in 1980). The movie won several major awards, including the Grand Jury Prize for Dramatic Film at Sundance and has an impressive 94% positive rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

But why should you care about what Harvey Pekar wrote?

What's so special about his material?

If you picked up one of his books and just flipped randomly, you might get a conversation he had with a checker at a supermarket, or his struggle to fix his toilet, or musings on a particular jazz artist, or details about his childhood, or just some little thing that happened to him five minutes ago. The vast majority of Pekar’s works are only several pages long. Many of these little vignettes have no “point” to them in that he's not telling a story with a distinct beginning and end. For example, I remember one comic where he got into a car, drove, and then got out. It all sounds very superficial and trivial. Yet taken together, these comics create as complete a chronicle of a life as can be found anywhere.

What Pekar captured is an Everyman's life. That is his achievement. Everyone's life is comprised of these bits and pieces: some funny, some sad, some interesting, some poetic, some dull; Pekar's genius was to spread his life out for display and, in doing so, capture pieces of everyone else's life as well. I guarantee that if you read enough of his material, you will recognize yourself. Now, Pekar certainly had some experiences well outside the mainstream, especially in regards to the movie. But even then he made it clear he knew that this success was temporary. Sure, the movie and its aftermath came with great perks and thrills and more paid work and increased book sales, but he knew acutely that when the rose faded and the movie disappeared from the public consciousness, he would be returning his everyday struggle to keep his household solvent on his meager pension (he retired from the VA due to anxiety issues in 2001) and diminishing freelance work. In other words, he completely deglamorized the entire experience, sometimes even before it took place!

For all these reasons and more, Pekar was enormously influential amongst comic book writers. If he didn't give birth to autobiographical comics, he surely nurtured them into the significant subgenre it is today. Without him to blaze the trail, to impress the cognoscenti and dazzle readers, would the subgenre have exploded in the 1980s and beyond? Without Pekar's influence, we might not have had Maus; we might not have had Stuck Rubber Baby or Fun Home or Persepolis or Palestine or the works of Canadians like Joe Matt, Seth, and Julie Doucet. His death is a real blow, but his influence will continue to be felt for a long time to come.