For Charles Crumb and Denny Wilson
After his brother Charles died, the cartoonist Robert Crumb drew this comic. It shows his brother in some kind of heaven, young and smiling. This panel is followed by one which shows Charles as he actually was at that age, back on earth, screaming and drunk.
Robert Crumb reached mainstream success in the 60s with his offensive, often disturbing comics; things of a nature he often can't comprehend himself. It is 1994, and a documentary (Crumb (1994), dir. Terry Zwigoff) is being made about him. He visits his older brother Charles, whom he credits with inspiring him to start drawing in the first place. They started out together: Charles wrote the stories Robert drew comics for. Eventually, Robert made it as an artist, while Charles deteriorated. Charles abandoned drawing and switched only to writing; the writing grew less and less legible, reduced to abstract lines on a page; by the time he was in his mid twenties, Charles had completely retreated from life. He only had a job once. He never had any romantic relationships. He was put on medication and continued taking it for the rest of his life. At the time of shooting, he is in his 40s and lives with his mother. Their house is blue and mint-green, dilapidated. Robert says it stinks. He is embarrassed by it. And Charles Crumb, sits on a bed in an empty room with nothing but books stacked horizontally by the wall, holds his hand in front of his face when he talks, and does so even in his old pictures, when he used to be good looking. The way he talks about himself; you can tell how smart he is. He thought about that, his illness, a lot. (He barely gets a chance to speak to anyone, so when he does, he knows exactly what to say. He takes pleasure in speaking. Ask me how I know.)
His brother Robert - skinny, fidgeting, all childhood mannerisms shining through - sits in a chair opposite him. They talk, but they are never shown in a shot together. They talk about their abusive father, Charleses medication; his teeth falling out (he doesn't wear his dentures - what for? He never leaves the house). I distinctly remember Charles saying something along the lines of, he's making progress; he might be ready to talk about his condition in ten, maybe fifteen years. Charles kills himself shortly after the documentary is completed. What Charles Crumb teaches me, and I remember when I understood it for the first time very clearly - summer 2021, that whole movie meant a lot to me: Crumb drawing from reference, old photos of female asylum patients, "her snarl", powerlines, "you can't make stuff like that up" - what Charles Crumb taught me is, once you start falling, you can't expect anyone to stop you, pull you back in. You keep thinking something will break the fall. Surely, at the last minute, something will happen (A rope might break, gun not go off, people rush in as water overflows the tub.), I think nobody dreams it really final. Don't blame me, please, I think we're taught that way ("Somewhere, a violin plays"); but Charles Crumb, for me, was the first time I saw it so clearly, that that does not always happen; There is no law in the universe that says something should happen. You can fall, and fall, and fall. I also think of Dennis Wilson, and I don't know why. I suppose it was a kind of freefall, too. 1980s - he wandered the streets, drunken stupor and hoarse, borderline homeless ("Our beloved Dennis...") - why didn't anybody help him? They had the money; it must've been something else. Him, "as a person". I think of Dennis Wilson, in his last years, "stripping for the audience", face both bloated and chiseled at the same time, corroding like bark, stretching out his arms, muscles less toned than even mine. Trying to smile without showing his teeth, because they are decaying. You dive down from the pier, followed by the sounds of hollow metal moving, rubber swinging back and forth; he went face first, the sting of clothes against the water, against the thick-pored skin. Float in the azure, sandy and brown, surrounded by rust and paint flakes, smells of rotting seaweed. I see a black and white boy of a blue-ish tint, hands clasped behind his back, and as he lowers his eyes: "Is that a gown or a dress?" I want to think there is a place we all go, and meet again, as our best selves, or the selves we wished were our best - and everybody is seen again, and even if we don't find the time to meet each other personally, we know they're all safe and happy, out there, and together.