A generation ago, American poets such as Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, John Berryman, and Anne Sexton gave birth to a genre that's come to be known as "confessional poetry." Their verse revealed intimate facts about their lives that simply weren't spoken of in polite company: fears, phobias, sexual hang-ups, pettiness, depression, suicidal tendencies. Some of their work wound up being rather pathetic, more confessional than poetic. But when it was good, it invited readers to face their own demons.
Robert Crumb, whom the art critic Robert Hughes has called the "Breughel of the 20th century," is a confessional artist whose chosen genre is comics. For 50-odd years (with the emphasis on "odd"!), R. Crumb has explored his many identities and personae in thousands of sketches, drawings, and paintings. The R. Crumb Coffee Table Art Book is actually an autobiography put together from a handful of the work Crumb has produced over the years. It's interspersed with essays by Crumb on his childhood, school days, the hippie scene in San Francisco, his marriages, his "personal obsession with big women," his spiritual yearnings, and his love of old music. Taken together, it's a fascinating portrait of a man who's dared to explore some of his deepest and darkest places, and to do so (at least sometimes) publicly.
Crumb believes that the pivotal moment in his personal and artistic life was the period in the mid-60s to the early 70s when he dropped acid on a regular basis. Although he sometimes worries that he might've fried his brain, he also thinks that the LSD trips liberated his psyche and helped him break through to new and deeper levels of creativity. The LSD was, he tells us, his "road to Damascus."
Perhaps. It's true that Crumb's work has changed over the years--it's become more brutally honest, more introspective, darker and at the same time funnier. Perhaps the LSD had something to do with it (although, personally, I quite dislike some of the work that comes from that period, finding it rather flat and silly). But I suspect that the single greatest influence on Crumb was his childhood and his family, especially his brother Charlie, who seems to have been just as much a genius as Robert. Crumb the man really is the child of Crumb the boy. The LSD may've helped Crumb get in touch with the raw energy generated from those days.
Crumb has become notorious for the sexuality of some of his comics, and has taken his share of political correct knocks. But The R. Crumb Coffee Table Art Book makes clear that the bottom line of much of his art is his existential need to explore and expose the shallowness and absurdity of much of modern life. Above all, as he tells us (p. 247), he wants to tell the truth, not only about himself but about us as well. Whether it's in the pages of "Zap" or "Weirdo" comics, or in panels featuring Shuman the Human or Mr. Natural, Crumb continuously questions racial, sexual, cultural, and artistic conventions, pushing the envelope as far as it can go and frequently causing readers discomfort. There's also a longing on Crumb's part for deep meaning in a universe that appears crazy. This most often reveals itself as nostalgia for bygone days (his love of "old" music, for example), but also more explicitly as a yearning for a god that he can no longer fully believe in and frequently mocks.
Reading R. Crumb is an intense experience. Like all good art, his stuff can make one laugh with joy or send shivers down the spine. The R. Crumb Coffee Table Art Book is a good place to start if you're just discovering Crumb, and an equally good collection to help long-time admirers get some idea of the big picture of Crumb's work and to better appreciate its depth. It's also a good catalyst for getting in touch with one's own multiple identities.
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