Almost every Sunday, I used to strip. Of course, I mean this in the comic sense — that is, I comic stripped. Clad in pajamas, bedraggled and in desperate need of orange juice, I pored over the funny pages. These were literal pages in my youth, but later were the webpages of The Washington Post. Over Thanksgiving break, I observed the remnants of this weekly routine: Tomes and volumes of comic strips still litter my room, including the complete “Calvin and Hobbes,” “The Far Side” and “Garfield.” Moreover, the catalogue of “Peanuts” holiday specials continue to hold cultural sway over many Americans, including myself, bizarrely relishing the pathetic lamentations of Charlie Brown as he mopes through every festivity. As this print medium enjoys its tragic decline, among its brethren in physical artwork, where do the comics still lie in our consciousness? Is this goodbye, Charlie Brown?
The comic strip was no brief moment in the era of printed media. It has remained important since its advent in the 15th century, when German woodcuts and printed images commented on morality. However, the zany, short-form narrative strips that grace our newspapers today emerged at the end of the 19th century, becoming an accessible, relatable visual medium and marketing tool. A successful comic strip was one that could make money.
Extricating the commercialization of our attention from the artistry of comics is a difficult task, as a habitus — a culturally embedded set of dispositions and perceptions — rooted in capitalism still guides the comic artist and syndicate. When “Charlie Brown” and “Garfield” become products of immense commercial success, with Garfield reaching a daily audience of over 260 million at his peak, both stories appear as looming symbols from which to extract wealth. The comic strip becomes merely a pretext to the establishment of a cultural object — a character — that then provides a language through which our attention and money can be captured. Many comic strips seem to embody this capitalist spirit, using bland jokes to justify the three or four panels needed to construct their character, or product, of choice.
However, the most influential and popular strips appear incongruous with these aims. If the goal is to captivate and animate the masses, then why are our favorite comic strips so somber? Garfield is “grouchy, disagreeable and pessimistic.” Charlie Brown constantly expresses social alienation and Calvin experiences frequent disconnect from society. The escapism found in witnessing the anguish of a young child (or curmudgeonly cat) appears limited across these story lines.
A 1955 sociological survey surprisingly provides a crucial insight, noting that mass media sets a “pace … too rapid to permit much reflection,” while the abstracted, simple nature of comic strips grants us the time and space to communicate with ourselves. While I am a social creature, I take refuge in witnessing characters who are not necessarily “compelled to live in society” and, through their cartoonish unrealism, can be asocial while still remaining in Aristotle’s hierarchy of humanity. To exist as an orange cat or child with the freedom to acknowledge and despair over social norms, yet ultimately live without them is truly comedic. I don’t simply relate, but I dream of being able to relate and in doing so interrogate my own future and identity as a social being. They call them the “funnies” for a reason.
