Vertigo Quarterly: Yellow #1 – Review

Anthology titles are a strange, but I would argue necessary, part of the comics industry. It’s rarer and rarer these days for companies to take a risk on a series of shorts, especially from lesser known talents, but that’s largely what Vertigo has done here. While there are some big names on the title page, many of the writers are just on the cusp of breaking in, no doubt grateful for the opportunity to get their name out there. Even stranger, but no less delightful, is the freshness of the artists, many of whom have a very small number of company published comics to their names. The mix of creators is, admittedly, conservative enough that this wasn’t a serious risk for Vertigo. It also must be said that at nearly $8.00 a pop, many, perhaps especially those who are interested in seeing new blood hit the comics scene, may not be willing to gamble on a series of shorts. Nonetheless, it’s nice to see a book like this on the shelves.

But all that is just politics, really. The question is: how is it? Well, interesting as an anthology centered around the color yellow is, it doesn’t make for a terribly cohesive read. Besides fear, yellow doesn’t have a lot of hard connotations in the west. More than blue or red or black, yellow is something of an in-between color and many of the stories seem to reflect this aspect. Interestingly, a good number of the stories make some reference to South Asia, possibly due to the presence of lemons there, but why this is is ultimately unclear. Regardless, there isn’t a sense of being one entity in this issue.

That’s not a bad thing; we wouldn’t want an anthology to be too similar, but it means you really are getting something of a grab bag.

Starting at the beginning, though not necessarily proceeding in order, Steve Orlando and Emilio Utrera’s “The Vision of Sita” is an interesting start to the book, opening on the end of the world. The key metaphor is an interesting theme to play with and the moment of realization breathes nicely. Despite this, it feels like there’s another story that we only get part of taking place in 19th Century India.

The relationship between the two main characters, unclearly and a little awkwardly centered around a woman who seems of no real importance, lacks the depth that I think Orlando hoped for. On some level, he seems to preempt his critics: “Simple? It is human,” the protagonist says of his painting. Alas, this is one trouble of writing about artists, you need to give a very full rendering of them to avoid having them appear limited or self-centered, and the page space simply isn’t there.

As for Utrera, his intense, scratchy style is well suited to both eras of the piece and gives it an immediate visual punch. Particularly in the far future scenes, even Utrera’s emptiness carries a weight. At the same time, however, Utrera fails to clarify much of what Orlando leaves off the page and his best work is undercut by the feeling of wanting to know more.

Gerard Way and Phillip Bond’s “Untitled” is a strange little story, also taking place on the subcontinent. The story captures a bit of Way’s pop culture fascination and, much more fully than its predecessor, acknowledges that it is merely part of a larger legend.

Way invites us to bring our own imaginations to the strange, unclarified world of his making, and it works. It’s a tough balance to reach at all, but Way does with only one major failing: namely the sense of purpose. The story is well aware that its protagonist is passive and static, as well as that it’s little more than a strange, wonderful diversion and, while it’s good that the story owns that, it doesn’t fully lampshade the issue. Even readers who enjoy it will be grateful that their money is also buying them other stories.

I also feel compelled to mention the spirit of fun in Way’s dialogue. There’s something childlike and humorous, even in its seriousness. The dialogue is a big part of Way’s world building.

Bond’s art shares something of this tone, cartoony and exaggerated as it is. It’s inviting, even if it isn’t the most consistent. It’s weak moments are not as uncommon as I’d like, but the strong ones do an admirable job of covering them. Especially with Hi-Fi’s colors enlivening the whole affair, it’s quite enjoyable, especially on the first read.

João M.P. Lemos’ “The Black Clade” follows a merchant family in a fantasy world with a prohibition against yellow, come for a royal wedding. The flashbacks in this story are particularly compelling, capturing the absurdity of the story told without alienating the reader listening to it.

Even so, I found this story to be one of the most difficult in the anthology. I mean this both literally, in the complex and sometimes obtrusive language used, and metaphorically. I see a lot right with this story – a full world, an interesting perspective, and more – however, the story didn’t quite come together for me, failing to build upon the ideas once introduced or combine them into something greater.

Lemos’ art is quite beautiful and well represents the fantasy with a touch of wrongness that he seems to be going for. I particularly like the restraint he shows in regard to details and his coloring is superb, expressing both tone and additional thematic content.

At least in my mind one of the most star studded creative pairings, Marguerite Bennett and Bill Sienkiewicz’s “Playthings” carries its atmosphere from the font of the title all the way to the end. The story examines a girl named India – India, again… – at play, leading to an eerie conclusion and a heavy philosophical question. It’s no mistake that I describe it that way, for one of my biggest gripes with the story is the way that it really centers around the ending.

While there are some rich ideas throughout the tale, it seems likely that this was a story written to support an ending – the concept of an ending – and not the other way around. In fairness, it’s quite a kicker of an ending, but it feels like it, like a number of its fellows, would have benefitted greatly from an expanded page count. The finished version gives us only glimpses into India’s story, when there’s clearly more to know and be haunted by.

Fans of Bennett’s will recognize a return to the form of her earlier work: more lyrical, almost graphic poetry rather than short story. Individual lines hold stories – the directionality of India’s key, the non-existence of the Yellow Room, “India has seen unkind things” – and the power of these ideas are “Playthings”’s greatest strength, however it feels like fuel to appease Bennett’s desire to speak this story more than the full telling.

Bill Sienkiewicz is, of course, amazing but different from many of his most famous works. It’s hard to pin down a single style that he’s working with on this story, for each image has it’s own message to send. Certain panels feel a bit too generic while others are shockingly effective. The story, at least to my untrained eye, summons up something of an older, more European aesthetic than many of Sienkiewicz’s work, notably Picasso.

Still, while the intense attention to each panel as an individual image is striking, to say the least, this quality does limit the feeling of motion in some panels. Some may enjoy the static, frozen quality of the art, but, to me, it feels more like a necessary sacrifice.*

Speaking of Surrealism, let’s talk about “End of the Line” by Toril Orlesky. Where “Playthings” was defined by density of ideas and claustrophobia, “End of the Line” prefers a looser approach.

The dialogue works well enough, nothing especially brilliant or flawed, save for some great captions on the opening pages. The story too is limited, told in flashes of strange and fantastical creations. Both the appearances and the content have an archetypal depth to them that lends itself easily to fits of imagination and careful analysis that may or may not ever grasp the whole of the piece.

The writing is solid, but it’s really the art that makes it work. This is clearly the work of a writer/artist and quite a beautiful one, at that. Orlesky’s writing is more visible in the artwork than in the words on the page. In both regards, one of the crucial strengths of the story is the spark of originality presented in the aesthetics.

Diego Agrimbau and Lucas Varela’s “The Signal” marked something of a turning point for me, as the stories began to feel longer and more narrative.

While “The Signal” doesn’t really go anywhere, it’s nestled comfortably within a long tradition of sci-fi shorts, which takes the edge off of that considerably. Vaguely defined but immediately compelling, it postulates a sudden shift in the world where every traffic light turns to yellow and everyone waits for the change that never comes. More than most, this story very clearly tries to find a meaning for yellow and, fickle a definition as it decides to use, succeeds fairly well.

There’s some solid writing here, but none of it can quite match the inherent intrigue of the premise and, thankfully, most of the story is spent exploring the strange world the characters now find themselves in.

The art has a great indie vibe to it and Varela’s contrasting color palette is positively lovely. The whole thing feels exceptionally modern, an attractive and palatable taste of “comix” thinking that suits the themes of the story. After all, at its core, “The Signal” seems to be mostly about, or at least grown from, what it feels like to be a teenager in a world moving too slow for you, moving out of pace with you.

On the other end of the spectrum is Matt Miner and Taylan Kurtulus’ “Amber”. Rather than a horror-tinged look at adolescence, “Amber” turns an unusually realistic eye on two former audiophiles walking the streets of a corporatized future Portland. Perhaps it’s the expectation of something strange that makes the story so engaging, but, whatever it is, Miner’s writing makes it an enjoyable wait. Its slower, nostalgic pace also helps the story feel longer and gives you time to interact with the characters.

Admittedly, much of what’s discussed is not terribly interesting and we don’t get all that many answers, but all of it combines quite eloquently into a subtextual examination of age and vitality. In that regard, it’s actually quite similar to “The Signal”, though it trades the speculative musing of its predecessor for simple truth and a twist ending.

The ending is powerful but abrupt. To be honest, I missed a major, major detail by reading too quickly my first few times through and I’m not sure whether I like the simplicity of my original read or the eeriness that Miner intended. Either way, it’s a fitting cap to the tale.

Kurtulus’s flat, angular artwork is a fine fit and gives the story a stylized vibe that captures its position on the boarder between vivacious cubism and morbid, Mignola-esque mourning. The faint colors speak volumes and Kurtulus seems particularly skilled in varying the level of detail to suit the image.

Fabio Moon’s “The Magic Bag” goes one step further and completely eschews any real speculative elements. Though the idea behind it is a little simple, Moon’s work reads so sincerely. The artwork is charming and the addition of a cheetah brings out the wonder of the tale. It’s one of the simplest stories in the collection and it might not speak to you, but, while it aims only so high, it’s probably one of the most solidly constructed of the stories.

Finally Benjamin Read and Christian Wildgoose’s “The Cataphract of the Yellow Lotus” rounds out the anthology with a bizarre and wonderful journey into a science-fantasy South Asia. The figures held within are alien and familiar all at once and though Read gleefully fills the pages with allusions to stories you’ll never know, it all feels instantly familiar. Some might find this to be leaning on cliches, but it very much worked for me.

Read also knows how to balance the dialogue of his piece so that it appeals to far away notions of respect and piety without getting too stilted. It all leads to a strange but enchanting ending that put a “Fuck, Yeah” smile on my face.

Perhaps it’s my love of South Asian mythology that draws me to this story, but, if so, we cannot ignore the gorgeous strangeness of Wildgoose’s art. The designs form an integral part of what makes the story so memorable and fantastical and Wildgoose knows how to draw them so that they never get boring. In fact, this is a story about storytelling and, as such, there’s not as much action as Read tricks you into thinking. It was therefore essential that Wildgoose be capable of filling each panel of explanation with character and purpose, a task he admirably succeeds in.

– Noah Sharma