Graphic Grief: Tangles and Fun Home

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I’d like to preface this post by pointing out that I know next to nothing about graphic novels. It’s a form I’ve come to recently, initially through Alan Moore’s Watchmen (my fiancé was reading it on holiday a while ago and I found myself reading over his shoulder) and want to learn more about. These two could not be more different from the school of superhero Watchmen sits in. Both Alison Bechdel and Sarah Leavitt use the graphic form to record memoirs that are structured, each in their own way, around the death of a parent. There are other similarities between these texts too, both explore lesbian experience and both articulate the profound impact of parents on the discovery and formation of personal identity.

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Fun Home excavates the complex relationship between daughter and father in the wake of the father’s suicide. Bechdel weaves her own sexual development around the realisation and acceptance of her father’s own sexual complexity. The plot resists linearity and instead derives from the fluctuating emotional distance between father and daughter. It is variously funny and raw in its interrogation of this central relationship and the dynamic of “butch” and “sissy” with which Bechdel characterises it. It is wonderful in its frankness, not only in laying bare such a complicated and at times painful personal relationship but in the anecdotal material Bechdel shares. These details and rounded images lend warmth to her story and perhaps belie the deep affection between father and daughter that underpins the state of conflict they often appear in.

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Leavitt’s Tangles is starker. It is more intensely focused on illness and a family’s experience of Alzheimer’s. It is unforgiving in its portrayal of the condition and it is hard to read in places as a result. The pictures have less detail, are drawn in clear harsh lines and place the deterioration of Midge, Leavitt’s mother, at the centre of everything. There is less emphasis on the past except to draw harrowing comparisons with the present. Loss is a gradual erosion of person and memory and Leavitt is uncompromising in her portrayal of this most devastating disease. This book has sharp edges. It is extremely difficult to read in places and I found myself having to put it to one side at times while I stopped crying. It’s not just the bastard impact of a brain shutting down that is rendered so painfully here but also the fracturing responses of a family having to deal with it. Leavitt conveys the intensity of pain, confusion, frustration and utter bewilderment that she and her family feel in the outright cruelty of her mother’s death; mind first, body later.

Tangles cover

The graphic memoir is growing as a genre. There is something about a page full of images that replicates human memory and invites autobiography. The power to redraw moments of the personal past and comment on them must offer a sort of catharsis, reading them certainly does. It affords a space for self-analysis and augments the emotional intensity of experience. It lends itself especially to examinations of parental relationships: the images we hold of our parents shift and blur as we grow up and the graphic form affords the flexibility to explore and explain these images in fullness and depth. I am keeping Tangles on my bedside table at the moment and I intend to revisit it; it moved me and; a year after a comparable personal loss in my own life, I’m unwilling to put it back on the shelf just yet.

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