The serial narratives by the duo known as “Los Bros,” Jaime and
Gilbert Hernandez, have a better claim to the status of “art” than most of the works that get labeled "art-comics." I have to specify, though, that this is the type of art I call “the art of thematic
realism,” a.k.a “play for work’s sake.” In this argument I cited
Faulkner’s LIGHT IN AUGUST as a narrative primarily defined by work, but with many imaginative elements of play that gave it depth and balance. Today I'd say that the elements of play supplied the story with an underthought that
served as a counterpoint to Faulkner’s overthought; i.e. his “serious theme.”
Not all of Gilbert Hernandez’s stories about Palomar—a small
Mexican town inhabited by a host of bizarre, often tragicomic characters—are
equally meritorious. However, the two-part story “Duck Feet”—originally
serialized in two issues of the LOVE AND ROCKETS magazine—was widely hailed as
an exemplary work, even by critics who had never worked for Hernandez’s publisher Fantagraphics.
For a story whose title references supernatural folklore—the widely distributed idea that magical beings, particularly witches, have animal-feet
instead of human appendages—“Duck Feet” begins in a thoroughly mundane manner.
Chelo, sheriff of Palomar, rousts the
local whorehouse in search of fugitive Roberto, who has recently killed his irritating
grandfather. In three short pages Roberto clubs Chelo and flees to the rooftops
of Palomar (a trope that seems borrowed from big-city chases, where it makes
much more sense than in a small town). As a result of Chelo’s pursuit, Roberto falls to
his death, but an odd detail intrudes: he dies with his head turned completely
around.
Thus the story begins with violence perpetrated in defense
of the community, and Roberto’s death has future consequences for Chelo and
other characters, though it’s not the literal source of the ORESTES-like
contagion that soon dominates Palomar. Though many of Hernandez’s regular characters
make appearances in the story, the narrative revolves principally around three characters: Sheriff Chelo, local “loose girl”
Tonantzin, and Guadalupe, the grade-school daughter of Luba. Luba herself, who's often a
main character in the Palomar stories, is conspicuously sidelined in a
sitcom-like situation worthy of Lucille Ball (I LOVE LUBA?). This places the
narrative’s focus more upon Guadalupe as she tries to deal with situations
brought on by irresponsible children and adults alike.
Shortly after the death of Roberto, a dark-clad woman enters
Palomar. Some of the local kids believe that she’s a *bruja,* whose inhuman
nature can be disclosed if one gets a look at her pedal extremities, her "duck feet." The unnamed woman’s feet
are never seen, though when she has her feet washed by Chelo—who formerly held
the occupation of a *banadora,* or
professional body-washer—Chelo shows no unusual reaction to what she sees. The
“duck feet” rumor, however, inspires one
of the kids to steal a pouch set aside by the alleged bruja. The pouch contains a skull-- apparently that of a human baby, though one of the kids isn't entirely sure about that identification. The first chapter ends as the
old woman misses her property and turns her evil eye upon Chelo.
At the beginning of Part Two, Chelo has fallen ill, as have various other citizens of Palomar, as the bruja—whose nature is no longer seriously in
doubt—wanders the streets wailing for the skull of “mi hijo.” Thus does
Hernandez creatively interbreed the widespread cultural trope of the contagion-bringer
with that of the specifically Hispanic folktale of La Llorona, the Wailing
Ghost. That said, the contagion is erratic in its effects. Guadalupe gets the
sickness, even though she was only a witness when one of her play-mates stole
the skull. The illness does not strike Tonantzin, and though she and Chelo have
an adversarial relationship—the sheriff frequently chastising the young hottie
for wearing revealing garments—Chelo deputizes the leggy beauty, which makes
for some nice comic byplay.
I won’t detail all of the humorous and/ or horrific
incidents that transpire while the bruja’s spectre haunts Palomar, but as noted
before, Roberto’s death has consequences, inspiring his brother Gerlado to seek
vengeance on Chelo. Guadalupe’s illness causes her to have weird fantasies
about her mother, suggesting that Luba has something of a witchy aspect.
Possibly Hernandez had this similarity in mind when he made Luba the inadvertent means by
which the bruja gets back her prized skull.
If I should boil down the underthought of “Duck Feet” to an ersatz theme-statement, it might be to say that the community’s effort to
remain cohesive by violence ends up bringing it close to total
dissolution. Palomar is spared the
abyss, though, because once the bruja gets back her baby's skull, the contagion simply disappears and she takes her leave.
The only permanent result of the witch’s visit, oddly, is that happy-go-lucky
Tonantzin loses an innocence not connected with her sexuality. Tonantzin
becomes politically radicalized by her contact with the cop-hating
revolutionary Geraldo—an event which plants the seed for a future plotline of a
tragic nature.
If the process of contagion-by-violence is the story’s underthought,
what is the overthought? “Duck Feet” is not a political story, but other
stories by Hernandez focus explicitly on his characters’ political beliefs.
Hernandez plays it for laughs when Tonantzin fantasizes about shooting down
invading U.S. soldiers. Yet her later rant against having her destiny
controlled by “Libya and the U.S. and the U.S.S.R” captures a strong sense as
to how denizens of the Third World feel about the cold-blooded machinations of
the Great Powers.
Gilbert Hernandez’s work as a whole may not be strongest in
terms of its political commentary. However, I credit him with finding an
artistically resonant way of seeing political belief within the spectrum of
ordinary—and even extraordinary—life-events—which is a compliment I can’t pay the
next target in my line of fire.
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