Lerer inhabits the worlds of cartooning, illustration and fine art. He has exhibited his drawings at New York Cityʼs Nexus Gallery, Broome Street Gallery, Lincoln Centerʼs Cork Gallery, and New Century Artists. His illustrations ran in the “Careers Plus” column of the New York Post from 1996 to 1998, and he was the art director of Street News from 1995 to 1996. He has written extensively on comics for The Rumpus, and was assistant editor and designer of Marvel Age Magazine in the early ’80s. On Facebook, Lerer documents the adventures of The Little General, who has starred in a graphic novel and series of mini-comics since 2009.

The arc of this work builds on the premise, What happens when three 18-month-old babies plot against each other with the goal of gaining world power and fame? Although it sounds a bit like a certain presidential candidate, any similarity is purely coincidental (and for that matter, no living babies were harmed in the making of these comics). Here Lerer speaks candidly about his Little General and asks you to draw your own conclusions.

When and why did you launch The Little General and his cohorts on social media?
Facebook is the ideal venue for posting cartoons. I started off in 2009 with simple one-panel line drawings, and they evolved into more sophisticated color multi-part continuities with (drumroll, please) allegorical content that I compile into zines. The fellow who instigated the whole “baby general” idea, a writer named Andrew Coe, was very pleased with my efforts, and the rest is history.

What ideally do you want The Little General to be saying to the reader?
Bottom line? The mission is satire. Jonathan Swift wrote that, “Satire is a sort of glass wherein beholders do generally discover everybody’s face but their own.” I think of satire as a mirror. Stan Lee once said that because the news of the world we receive is so heavily sugar-coated, if you present things exactly as they really are, it will come across as satire.

I used to draw storyboards with soldiers galore. As a kid did you draw military figures and stories to excess?
I always drew to excess! But never soldiers or anything military. What I really enjoyed drawing were the vintage Marvel Super-Heroes and Peanuts characters. In fact, my father framed my Charlie Brown and Schroeder drawings and hung them in his office.

There’s a hint of Dada humor in your comic books as well as surreal absurdity. Are they or are they not intended to be political?
You honor me by spotting an element of surrealism in my cartoons and, as I become a more confident draftsman, I’ll be able to dispense with the conventions that I’m now laboring earnestly to master. Political? Well, In the second graphic novel, currently in progress, a character with absolutely no knowledge of how to run even his own affairs claims he knows everything better than everybody else, and subsequently makes a huge mess. Absurdity, in cartoons as in real life, rules. 

How much of The Little General (or his guerrilla pal, Chiquita Bañana, for that matter) is some kind of autobiographical fantasy?
It’s not really my dream to be a Central American guerrilla leader, but I can’t help finding Chiquita Bañana (with the tilde over the n) irresistibly cute. That’s usually how she gets things done, in fact.

Are the three 18-month-old babies who star in the Little General really able to save the world? And if so, how?
In the Facebook continuities, our diminutive hero always responds to any crisis with great earnestness (if that’s a real word), like an American Tintin. In the graphic novel, though, he’s the heavy, more motivated by egocentrism and greed, like, say, Blackadder. In a future graphic novel, I’ll have him explain to the readers in a framing sequence that he’s just a character playing a part, and that offstage he really does respect Admiral Kips-Bay and loves Chiquita.

But “save the world?” Nah. They’re more about frantically clinging to power than helping others, like a lot of babies. 

How regularly do you create different scenarios for your characters?
The first graphic novel was about a real place called La Magliana, a 16th-century papal retreat in the Italian countryside that the babies fight over (I won’t give away the ending). The second graphic novel, which we hope to have ready for MoCCA Fest in 2025 (fingers crossed) is inspired by John Ringling, the circus impresario who longed to be a member of the American aristocracy. 

The recent Facebook cartoons deal with the war in the Middle East and my frustration that the world’s nations were so slow to respond to the invasion of Ukraine. Now I’m doing “Scenes From the Life of the Little General,” which places the little fellow in various historical situations.

Do you have a strong fan base? How do your readers respond?
They’ve been wonderful! We’re developing an enthusiastic readership among people who enjoy sophisticated wit and humor. Our Facebook posts keep getting more and more likes and comments, and we’re winning a lot of support from friends in the cartooning profession like Barbara Slate, Elwood Smith and Craig Yoe. Art Spiegelman himself was very encouraging. What’s most flattering is that I’m hearing from old high school and college chums I haven’t seen in years who love the drawing style.

There seems to be many villains, but I can’t tell who they are. Can you give me a hint?
Again, in cartoons, as in life, most of these characters are their own worst enemies. 

Founded in November 2006 by a team of insurance experts, Go.Compare has long been recognized for its meticulous approach to comparing various products and services, including insurance policies, financial products, energy tariffs, and more. Unlike traditional comparison sites, Go.Compare distinguished itself by prioritizing the display of policy details alongside prices, setting a new standard in the industry.

Over the years, Go.Compare’s mission has evolved while remaining steadfast in its commitment to providing reliable and comprehensive comparisons. The company has cultivated a vast network of trusted partners, ensuring users can access a wide range of reputable options. Authorized and regulated by the Financial Conduct Authority (equivalent to the SEC in the US), Go.Compare offers users peace of mind in their decision-making process.

The rebrand signifies a strategic step forward for Go.Compare, solidifying its reputation as a dependable ally for consumers while injecting a burst of new life and character into the brand.

Go.Compare’s standout feature is its accessibility. The service is free for users, a testament to the company’s dedication to empowering consumers with transparent information.

Unlike others, Go.Compare doesn’t just list options; it serves up choices that are genuinely beneficial for users, placing their interests at the forefront,” says Max Ottignon, co-founder of Ragged Edge. “So we amplified that difference, positioning Go.Compare as the Champions of Choice.”

With an impressive 97% awareness rate, the recent rebranding initiative aims to capitalize on the website’s recognition and attract even more users. At the core of Ragged Edge’s rebrand is a genuine point of differentiation: Go.Compare is the sole comparison site accredited by BIBA (British Insurance Brokers’ Association), emphasizing trustworthiness in every recommendation.

“Ragged Edge worked closely with every part of our business to ensure they understood exactly what our aspirations were and how we wanted to evolve in the future,” says Paul Rogers, Marketing Director at Go.Compare. “Insurance can be heavy going – a grudge purchase. Ragged Edge has made it fun and rewarding. The rebrand has helped us to evolve visually and strategically and given us an even stronger sense of purpose, authority, and momentum as we continue to provide transparency and support for customers across a broad range of complex products.”

Central to the rebrand is the iconic figure of Gio Compario, Go.Compare’s beloved mascot. Gio, portrayed with exaggerated features in charming cartoon form, serves as the brand’s “choice champion,” advocating for users across every aspect of the Go.Compare experience.

In collaboration with artist Rami Niemi, the rebrand introduces an illustrative style that breathes life into the brand’s insurance products, departing from conventional stock imagery to offer a fresh, engaging visual narrative.

Complementing the visual overhaul is a new verbal identity – “the voice of choice” – characterized by relatable wit that resonates with customers. A custom-designed typeface adds warmth and character, reinforcing the brand’s distinctive personality.

The rebrand, designed to be instantly recognizable and scalable, ensures maximum visibility and engagement across various platforms. Ragged Edge’s collaboration with Go.Compare extends to the brand’s high-profile sponsorship of the Wales rugby union team, further solidifying its presence in the public eye.

In addition to Landekic’s praise, the director of Saltburn, Emerald Fennell, shared an inside scoop about the title card via Twitter/X in conjunction with the film’s release.

Hand drawn? Gilded? Stop motion? This title card pushed all my buttons— and I had to learn more! So, I reached out to the graphic designer and illustrator behind the title card, Katie Buckley, to hear more about the meticulous process that Fennell alluded to in her post. Buckley generously responded to my questions below, illuminating the journey she and her assistant, India Paparestis-Stacey, took to bring the Saltburn title card to life.

(Interview edited for length and clarity.)

Can you describe what process(es) you used to create the beautiful effect of the opening title card? I know illustration, gilding, and stop motion were all involved.

The process for the animation was hand drawn, hand painted, then gilded. I did, however, send Emerald some pencil stop animation of each thorn growth to check she was happy with the feel of it. 

There were over 300 cells for the piece of animation. We needed to check that the gold leaf read as gold because gold is notoriously not great unless it’s real. A lot of time goes into digitally creating the gold sparkle; without that, gold can look very “grey.”

Is this process something you’ve done before, or did you develop it, especially for this project?

Saltburn was my first title card and animation project. I was lucky that Emerald believed in my style enough to let me into the world of the title. So, yes, this was specially developed for this project; I relied on my instinct rather than knowledge.

Emerald asked me to do the Saltburn titles because, I quote, ‘I’d like it to feel like the crazy lady in the attic, scratching at the rafters.’ How could I resist that brief?

Katie Buckley

How did the concept for this title card develop? Did you work closely with Emerald to land on the idea, or was it something you conceived and pitched to her?

Emerald asked me to do the Saltburn titles because, I quote, “I’d like it to feel like the crazy lady in the attic, scratching at the rafters.” How could I resist that brief?

To start with, Emerald had said she didn’t want any animation— just 25 title cards, hand drawn and painted. She had mentioned that she liked the Hammer House of Horror (1980) “feel” to the lettering. 

Emerald had said she would like “Saltburn” to be in a banner; here are the first sketches that we talked about regarding what she wanted:

After seeing the banners, Emerald thought she would like the Saltburn titles animated and asked if I was prepared to do it. I said yes, but I was honest. I hadn’t done animation before, so I would always keep her up to date in case she wanted to go to someone with more experience. I was so lucky that Emerald had complete faith in me because there were moments when I had to take a few huge gulps! (So did she, I’m sure!) There were doubting voices, but I kept saying that none of us knew exactly what Emerald wanted, so let’s buckle up for the ride.

At first, I played with creating a font that Emerald liked. We went through a few different samples of fonts below. The third one is the font that Emerald decided on as soon as she saw it.

[Spoiler alert below]

The whole concept developed quite organically. Emerald had said she wanted the lush green foliage to turn into thorns and be black and threatening. It felt right that the blood red seeped into the black and that the gold was the final creeping vein as the want of riches killed off the whole cast. One of the mood boards had the saying, “Everyone wants to eat the rich because they are so delicious.”

While creating something so time-consuming and meticulous, do you find yourself getting impatient and going a bit mad, or do you relish the lengthy process and enjoy it? and enjoy it?

I felt the pressure of being hunched over tracing, drawing, painting, and gilding for sometimes 15-hour days with very little time. I never felt impatient, but I definitely thought I was going mad. I sent Emerald a photo of my studio one day just to show her that I was the crazy lady in the attic; it was completely covered in gold leaf (it does go everywhere; I still find bits of gold leaf in my garden today), paint, and screwed-up bits of trace and paper.

I can honestly say I have never been so invested in a project.

Katie Buckley

How did it feel once you finally finished the title card? What was it like seeing it in use in the movie?

I can honestly say I have never been so invested in a project. I am so proud of the work my assistant, India, and I did on this. It was thrilling to see the final film and to be part of the coolest film … ever! And to top it all, it’s probably the only film I’ve ever worked on that both my 17-year-old daughter and 82-year-old mother completely loved.

Under the nom de plume TraceLoops, Brown is on a glorious journey of visual experimentation through his animation practice, in which he deploys various tools and techniques that he’s constantly pushing in new and innovative directions. Perusing his body of work is a thrilling experience, as you can chart his evolution as an artist over time, seeing what styles or tools he’s using for a period before morphing in a different direction for a spell. Brown also composes the music accompanying his animations, creating immersive sensory worlds in a bite-sized form.

Captivated by both Brown’s stunning work and the audacious mind behind his creations, I felt compelled to learn more. His thoughtful reflections on his background and ethos as an artist are below.

(The interview has been edited for clarity and length.)

Why stop motion? How did you first come to this process, and what do you enjoy so much about it?

In, I think, fifth grade, I took a week-long summer class that was generally about using some computer programs—Photoshop, Premier, Macromedia Flash—and I enjoyed making things move. I also made flip books during year-end standardized testing in middle school when we were only allowed a book for when we were done. 

When making animations in Flash, tweening always looked bad, so I would do mostly frame-by-frame animation. I’m not sure what I do now is exactly “stop motion.” I do some work that takes an object, moves it, photographs it, and then moves and photographs it again, but the shift is meant to advance to a preexisting frame. I think of stop motion as progressively repositioning or augmenting an element and not replacing it all at once.

I like things that re-contextualize an understanding of information. Animation constantly jumps from one state to another, and what you perceive is never what you see. It’s flashes of information that compile into a sense of motion. It’s a very time-consuming process that gets crunched down into fractions of seconds that gain new meaning when reformatted. I struggle sometimes to be clear in words. I can talk and talk about an idea that feels very direct and concise, but when the idea is realized, it communicates better than I can. A complex, perhaps bloated, collection of ideas and processes crunched down into fractions of seconds that are understood.

I never want to feel like I can’t share how something is done for fear that it will be the end of my ability to create work…I have learned from people who share and I appreciate that I might be able to do the same for others.

Matthias Brown

Looking at the evolution of your experimentation is such a fun way to experience your process. Is laying out your work sequentially like this on social media intentional, or did you stumble into it? How did this sharing process come about?

I really like process. There’s a quote I think about often that gets attributed to different people: “A joke is like a frog: there are few who want to dissect it, and the frog dies in the process.”

I’m a comedy nerd. In middle and high school, I used to download audio recordings of Comedy Central Presents episodes and burned CDs that I would fall asleep while listening to. I wanted to know why things were and weren’t funny with slight changes. I get the sentiment of the quote, but I wouldn’t say I like to leave things unknown. For me, the joke doesn’t die when dissected; it takes on new meaning while broadening the scope of possibilities.

IIn that same summer course, when learning about the basics of Photoshop, the teacher showed us work from Jerry Uelsmann, who would make surreal photographs in darkrooms, combining imagery from several negatives into one final image. Uelsmann published books on his processes, which felt like a sharing of knowledge, a means of documenting work, and letting go of being too precious about techniques. I never want to feel like I can’t share how I’ve done something for fear that it will end my ability to create work. Some people hold on to techniques and are very successful, but I don’t like that idea. I have learned from people who share and appreciate that I can do the same for others.

What’s your process for composing the music that accompanies each video you’re creating? Do you create the visuals, and then the music is produced in response, or vice versa? Or are they made simultaneously, each informing the other?

I started making music when I started doing more live streams. During early COVID, streaming platforms began cracking down on the use of licensed music; it used to be a lot more lax. I started making simple note patterns with a drum machine— initially, songs were 10 minutes long because I was trying to fill hours from scratch. I got more intentional and better about it as time went on. I bought better equipment and have made hundreds of songs over the last few years.

I use Korg Gadget on my Nintendo Switch now. I record to an old cassette deck I bought on eBay, then digitize the playback of the cassette. I bought a bunch of used blank tapes and recorded most of the runtime but left little clips between my songs. Since first buying used blank tapes, I started seeking out tapes with interesting spoken word content: self-help, comedy radio hours, travel guides, and hypnosis. When I’m in the habit, I’ll make a song every day.

The music comes first, but the animations aren’t made for the music most of the time. I will listen to songs and see which fits well for an animation and then edit videos accordingly. I have done things where I make a tape with a constant BPM, and that will dictate the animation loop length. I’ve done 120 BPM, which works out to four beats every two seconds. Fifteen frame-per-second animation means 30 frames, and the animation will sync up with the audio no matter what.

Where do the ideas for your areas of exploration typically come from? For example, when thinking about tools to harness for animation, I wouldn’t think that using an airbrush would come to mind for most. How did you come to the airbrush as one of your go-to tools?

If I see something interesting, I like to try it. I like tools and less popularly known means of manufacturing and production. I don’t mean secretive things, but when a part of a machine has a name, I like to know the name of the part, if that makes sense. There are so many subcultures and groups of people that are hyper-focused on their subsections of the world and have meaningful ideas and opinions about things I’ve never heard of. Sometimes, those groups are insular and don’t really cross-pollinate with other groups. I think associatively and do my best not to think of a tool as only having its designated purpose. Tools are refined for a purpose, but they aren’t just for that, and so I like to explore those groups in forums and stuff, so I try new approaches.

The airbrush came from trying to make something more automated but still very physical. I got a Cricut machine to cut stuff out of paper after doing simple animations by hand-cutting stuff. I started messing with doing pencil rubbings, painting sticker paper, and then cutting it out. I then started messing with splattering paint using cheap toothbrushes. Certain things are easy to do one to five times and inspire the confidence to jump to doing something 30 times; splattering paint using a cheap toothbrush is one of those.

I made stencils using the Cricut, and it is weirdly tiring to hold a toothbrush and pull your thumb across the bristles repeatedly. My thumb got tired in a way that I didn’t know it could, and I didn’t feel like it was a good idea to do that long-term, so I looked into other methods of getting paint onto a surface through a stencil and bought a small compressor and an airbrush.

There are things about any tool or process that give it a sense of identity. People often try to obscure those identifiers because the idea isn’t informed by the tool, but I like process, so I want the tool to work with the idea. With airbrush and stencils, you’d typically want the stencil flush with the surface and the paint to be evenly applied. I might as well work digitally for that effect, so I lift the stencil off the surface instead, and let things get out of focus in ways inherent to the process.

I work in a variety of mediums, and I forget that not everybody is aware of the techniques and processes I’ve explored. I have a habit of getting into a process for one to four months, producing a lot of work, and then abandoning it for six-12 months until that skill is reintroduced as practical, either for a paid job or a new, different process. I’m only saying that because I don’t feel like the airbrush is my go-to tool, but it is part of a collection of tools. I’ve been working most recently with stacked, cut paper animations, informed by the work I did with the airbrush stencils, which were informed by pencil rubbings that were informed by 3D animation rotoscoping, which came from an attempt to do traditional cel animation, and so on.

I’ll undoubtedly start using the airbrush again in a few months. I took a break because I messed up the fans in my laptop with the aerosolized paint.

Lola Landekic is the editor-in-chief of the wonderful website and critical resource Art of the Title, an online publication dedicated to title sequence design in film, TV, and beyond. I had the joy of interviewing Landekic last year about Art of the Title and title design at large. Now, the always generous Landekic shares her favorite opening titles across TV and film from 2023.

Dead Ringers (TV series)

“[Dead Ringers] features a main title reveal—rather than a full sequence—that appears at the opening of each episode, but it’s done with flair. The typography itself is a beautiful choice: the blood-red typeface with wide open curves and sharp serifs. The title appears differently in each episode, giving a sense of the unexpected, melding with the footage in an often fascinating way. I really appreciated this simple yet effective approach. It’s designed by Randy Balsmeyer of Big Film Design, previously of Balsmeyer & Everett, Inc., who actually designed the titles for the original Dead Ringers film 35 years ago.”

The Killer (film)

“David Fincher loves a title sequence, and this one was clearly part of the vision from day one. The sharp, slick slideshow of weapons being prepared and deadly actions taken fits in neatly with Fincher’s standard aesthetic and sets up the world of the titular killer.”

Poor Things (film)

“I loved the opening and closing titles for Poor Things—and the chapter headings throughout the film—done in a hand-lettering that immediately seemed to me a beautiful ode to Pablo Ferro’s long-limbed inky style from films like Men in Black, The Addams Family, and Stop Making Sense. The design is by Vasilis Marmatakis, who also created the fantastic posters for the film.”

May December (film)

“May December features elegant, gentle opening titles with typography that’s large yet light, a hollow all-caps sans serif in a pale color overlaid with footage. I was delighted to see it was designed by Todd Haynes’ regular titles collaborator, the activist, artist, and designer Marlene McCarty, who was also joined by designer Teddy Blanks.”

Infinity Pool (film)

“I’m obviously a fan of the Cronenberg clan, so I had to check out his son Brandon’s third feature film, Infinity Pool, which has a vibrant, colorful opener of various incarnations of typefaces and styles. The title logo is fun because it has a sense of symmetry and reflection, which echoes the film’s themes of death, rebirth, and the eternal return. It was designed by Aleksander Walijewski with music by Tim Hecker.”

Leave the World Behind (film)

“I enjoyed this title sequence because it was so unexpected and because it’s an obvious nod to titles of the past, specifically those designed by Saul Bass for Alfred Hitchcock: the simplicity of Psycho, the spiral abstraction of Vertigo. The imagery in Leave the World Behind‘s titles hints at what’s to come—the scale of the dreadful events, the gravity of the impending situation—but doesn’t give too much away. The film’s narrative arc reminded me very much of Hitchcock’s The Birds—what initially seems to be a harmless getaway for the well-to-do turns into a mysterious, apocalyptic nightmare—so the stylistic nod and connection feels apt. Antenna Creative designed the sequence with music by Mac Quayle.”

Saltburn (film)

“I can’t forget Saltburn’s terrific opening titles! A stunning crimson red blackletter typeface with gold embellishments shimmies and shakes, almost mimicking an optical effect, over footage of main character Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan) and the opening scene. It’s a grand spot of style— modern meets old money, designed by Katie Buckley with assistance from India Paparestis-Stacey.”

What sort of trends in the opening titles space were prevalent in 2023? 

Landekic: Recent title sequences increasingly embrace the history of the art form. We see this in the nod to Pablo Ferro’s work in the titles to Poor Things, the use of the original Dead Ringers film title designer Randy Balsmeyer for the new series, the collaboration between veteran designer Marlene McCarty and relative newcomer (he’s worked in the field for ten years, so truly not that new) Teddy Blanks for May December. I want to think that’s because the history of title design has come out of the shadows and become more accessible to designers, filmmakers, and fans thanks to sites like Art of the Title and the attention that the art form has gotten over the last decade.

His visual journalism and commentary continued unabated. In 1999 he became art director of The Wall Street Journal Europe, contributing caricatures and stipple headcuts. He has designed 22 typeface families for Monotype and Linotype. His satirical graphic novels The King’s Irish: A Celtic Tiger Earns His Stripes and Tex Twitter Meets the Cherokee were published by Markosia.

He’s currently in the process of creating The Yankee Emperor and His Kangaroo Courtier, an engaging Brits’-eye view of America’s current political folly. “The Australian star of this comic book has been a major influence on U.S., British and Australian politics,” Yeend notes. “His papers have encouraged wars and his TV channel disputed climate change and COVID-19. Both he and his American acolyte are natural-born cartoon characters, masters of deceit, had Scottish mothers and are due for a dose of reality.” This is part one of four that will be published in this space as they are completed. In the end we’ll have a 60-page comic, just in time for 2024’s electoral circus.

For 30 years (from 1924–1954), six days a week, Denys Wortman produced cartoons under the title “Metropolitan Movies” for newspapers, depicting the lives of an assortment of haves and have-not characters. In addition, his cartoon vignettes of “Mopey Dick and the Duke” presented two lovable vagrants commenting on life in America from the Depression to the early ’50s.

A website devoted to Wortman shares his wit, empathy and insight for the working man and woman. Per a note that appears there, “In viewing his cartoons, one will find a striking resemblance to the plight of today’s realities, reminding us all of the timeless humor of social and cultural mores.”

These images are from a 1930s-era book of selected vignettes from “Metropolitan Movies.”

Based on the 2015 novel of the same name by Garth Risk Hallberg, the murder mystery limited series is set in early 2000’s NYC, featuring the convergence of citywide fires, the underground music scene, and a wealthy upstate family. This seedy subject matter and tone is portrayed with precision in the show’s opening title sequence executed by the team over at Imaginary Forces.

Led by IF Creative Directors Karin Fong and Rob Slychuk, the studio honed in on a frenetic graphic style to reflect the mounting chaos and unease of the show, as well as the Y2K era in which it’s set. The collage-style motion graphics and pixelated hues were created using white-out, felt pens, and glue. The spunky, hand-drawn typefaces used for each credit allude to the gritty punk rock zine culture of the time, with a Xerox machine used to ominously illuminate each frame. The images are brought to life by a dramatic soundtrack that amplifies the queasy sense of impending doom.

City on Fire was created by Stephanie Savage and Josh Schwartz and stars Chase Sui Wonders, Jemima Kirke, Wyatt Oleff, and Nico Tortorella. The eight-episode limited series premiered on May 12, with new episodes released every Friday.

Creative Directors: Karin Fong, Rob Slychuk

Designer/Animator: Henry Chang, Max Strizich, Anna Chen, Rob Slychuk

Designer: Kathy Liang

Editor: Lexi Gunvaldson

Additional Illustration: Sara Gunnarsdóttir

Intern: Karry Lee

Senior Creative Producer: Renee Robson

Coordinator: Jackson Kerr

Music: Jason Hill

A cluster of my PRINT colleagues were among the privileged crowd who attended the Feelings screening at OFFF, which was followed by a discussion with Ziul himself. They raved about the film and Ziul’s post-show talk, and immediately sent me the Vimeo link to watch it myself.

While Feelings is technically only four minutes long, this immersive audiovisual feast covers a breadth of emotions and ideas that make it feel like a feature. I was able to speak with Ziul directly about the film recently, digging deep into his motivation and intentions with the work, and demystifying some of the themes embedded within.

(This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.)

Where did the idea for a short film tackling themes of this magnitude originate?

A few years ago, right before the pandemic, I was very rational. I saw people going to therapy and trying to understand who they were, but I was like, This is bullshit. What’s wrong with you people? Just get on with it! But then, there was this moment when I took my kids to a dinosaur exhibit. I saw my kid walking around, and I don’t know why, but I started crying. I had to go to the restroom and stay there. I didn’t know what was going on; I didn’t know what was happening. So I started doing therapy.

There was a big disconnection for me in terms of the life that I was living and what I was feeling because I was very pragmatic. I didn’t believe people who cried during movies— I had a hard time accessing those feelings, so I did a lot of therapy. At first I was just talking about work, work, work, work, until at some point, there wasn’t any more work stuff to talk about. So my therapist said, Can we talk about you? What’s in your chest? Can we just get into it?

That’s when I started accessing memories, but I felt like I got stuck. I understood that there was a lot of trauma during my childhood, but I never thought about how much those things were affecting me in my adult life. So I watched a documentary about transpersonal therapy, which is using psychedelics for therapy, and I got really into that. I started studying a little bit more, and learned about perinatal matrices, which is the idea that the process of your birth is the blueprint of how you’re going to live your life. So if your birth process is very traumatic, that’s going to affect you as an adult, somehow. 

Through this process I was able to access memories and understand what happened to my mom during her pregnancy. I thought it was fascinating. In my case, there was a lot of trauma in that process. It was very interesting to understand the cycle of what happened to me, and how that applies to my life. Sometimes I get stuck in some of these matrices, but it’s okay, because now I know what’s going to happen next. It gives me peace. Now I’m able to look at everything and understand what’s going on with my life.

Why did you decide to go from this very personal, introspective journey to creating a film for a public audience about these ideas? 

This project was my way of telling people to look inside of themselves, to look at what’s happened in their past. I’m not encouraging people to do psychedelics for therapy. There’s a lot of preparation— I prepared myself for five years. But I got the clarity to think about how I could use animation not to just sell crap to people. Because that’s what we do in advertising: we make stuff to sell people stuff. And I was like, Can we do something different? Can we use animation to create awareness and inspire people to look inside and see how they can live their life better and live less anxious? As a foreigner living in the States, I feel like there’s a sense of anxiety in the air all the time— it’s a very anxious society. That was my motivation to use animation to help people get better, or to at least create awareness around it.

The film is very clearly split up into four distinct sections that align with the four perinatal matrices, and each one has its own visual style, sound, and overall tone. Can you describe those? 

There are four parts of the birth process, which is the perinatal matrices: matrix one, two, three, and four. Matrice one is when the baby is a fetus in the mom’s womb, and everything feels so good and comfortable. Then once the mom is getting ready to give birth and starts getting contractions, that’s when you go to matrix two. The mom’s body has cut all the food and nutrients to the fetus, so the fetus thinks that it’s going to die. It’s like, Oh my god, what happened to this amazing place? Now it’s dark, no colors, no anything.

From there, the body starts to push the baby out, which is matrix three. It gets really gross, but there’s also a sense of pleasure. Then comes matrix four which is an explosion of colors. That’s when the baby’s out, and that’s when life happens. 

The most difficult thing for me was to create four different styles for each of those parts. For example, the first part is very calm and soothing. You see the fish, you see these shapes, and everything feels very cool. There’s this kid playing with the panther, and the panther isn’t scary at all; everything is okay. 

Matrix two is just sketches. There’s a sense that there’s no more hope. We wanted that visual language to feel like there was nothing, like you’re about to die; there are no more colors, no anything. That’s why you see a person hanging there with the kid watching. Then it becomes this puddle and it’s hard to breathe, and you’re drowning. For matrix four, we wanted to get more realistic with the shapes and forms. Matrix four is also very colorful and full of life.

The development of these four different styles was very complicated because not only did they have to be aesthetically different, but we wanted the imagery to match whatever my therapist was telling us. We had a lot of back and forth with him to develop the whole thing. 

In addition to the stunning visuals in the film, the sound design from Zelig is just as impactful. What was the collaboration process like in developing the soundtrack? 

When I started putting the project together, I had the music in mind already in terms of the artists and the style for each matrix. The reference was a band called Heilung from Germany; it’s very intense music. Then someone from OFFF said that we should work with Zelig, so I went to them. I told them I was using Heilung as a reference and they were going to let me use their music. But Zelig asked me if they could compose something original instead. I said we didn’t have enough time, but they were like, We don’t care. We want to do it! Then in two days, they sent it back to me, and they had gotten the vibe perfectly. It was an amazing experience for me. Seeing that progress and working with those kinds of creatives. The sound of the film is like 50% of it. It’s insane. They nailed the whole thing on the dot.

What sort of feedback have you received from viewers of the film so far? 

In the way that we structured the narrative, we wanted people to feel something, and that’s exactly what happened. We got a lot of feedback even at OFFF. I presented on Thursday and a lot of people came up to me on Friday and were like, “Marcel, what the heck, man? Last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you presented. I thought it was cool at first, and then after a day, I started absorbing all of that information.” Now, I would say I get around ten emails a week from people. They say, “Oh, shit, this is crazy! It really hit me.”

All of the images that we use in the film are based on a library of images that people see in each state in their life. During transpersonal therapy, they see those shapes. The way we structured the film was by using images that people can connect to, but they don’t even know why; it’s part of a collective unconsciousness. So you see it and then you recognize it, but you don’t know why you like it, or why it’s related to you. That’s why people start connecting with it.

As the director of the film, how do you hope people experience it? What do you want them to walk away thinking about or feeling? 

There are a bunch of interpretations, so it really depends on where you are in your life. That tells me which matrix you’re going to connect with. Some people connect with matrix three; they’re like, Oh, this is amazing! I felt a lot of stuff here! There was a lady that came to me at the end of my speech at OFFF, and she asked me for a hug. She started crying and was like, “Matrix two just destroyed me!” Then some people who are stuck in matrix four, they’re like, Oh my God, the end is crazy! Because there are a lot of colors and they love that. So it really depends; each person likes one part, and that’s kind of cool to me.

Do you have any plans for pushing “Feelings” further in any way with other additional projects? 

We’re developing an exhibit that’s going to be four stages. So you come in, and then you go through all of the stages, and then you exit. Then, if you want to talk to a therapist, or if you want to draw, or if you want to play an instrument, or if you want to understand what happened through the experience, that’s what we’re working on now. We’re building the whole system of the exhibit and we plan to travel with it, taking it to different cities.

Blab! was an anthology edited by Monte Beauchamp for over 20 years that featured a mixture of alternative comics and illustrated features.

The first two issues (1986–1987) were published by Beauchamp’s own imprint, Monte Comix. In 1988 Kitchen Sink Press took over the title, publishing issues 3–8 as well as printing new editions of issues 1 and 2. Issues 9–18 were published annually by Fantagraphics between 1997 and 2007 in a 120-page, 10″ x 10″ square format featuring both black-and-white and color art. In 2010 Last Gasp revived the series for two issues under the title Blab World. It has definitely been a major cog in the wheel of comics life.

In 2003, Chronicle Books released the collection New & Used Blab! As of May 2023 the magazine’s next iteration will launch with Yoe Books, an imprint of Dark Horse Comics. I spoke with Beauchamp about the resurrection and the light of Blab!

What makes this recent incarnation of Blab! different from those that came before?
In the beginning, I was flying by the seat of my pants. With that first manifestation, I had never produced a publication before. I’d select a theme that was exciting to me and just run with it. And fortunately those themes were of interest to artists whose work I found exciting. Spain Rodriguez, Kim Deitch and Frank Stack of underground comix fame climbed onboard, along with up-and-coming talents such as Dan Clowes, Richard Sala, Terry LaBan, XNO, Joe Coleman, Charles Burns, Chris Ware, Drew Friedman, Mary Fleener, Doug Allen and Gary Leib. Thanks to their interest in Blab!—and Blab!’s interest in them—we created something very special. By issue 7, Blab! was presented with the coveted Harvey Award for Best Comics Anthology of the year.

Thanks to that early experience, I now know every aspect of producing a publication—from editorial, to design, to art direction, to typography, to prepping files for production. That’s why I’m stoked about this new iteration of Blab!—I actually now know what I’m doing. Yet, had I had an inkling of what I was getting into, I may have never even started.

For the benefit of your readers, I’d like to present a brief trajectory of Blab!’s long and winding career. It started as a Midwestern fanzine, morphed into a square-bound digest distributed on a national level, and was revamped into an LP-sized format beginning with No. 8. I abandoned its comic book roots in favor of a mix of vintage ephemera, contemporary art and illustration, and some comic art. Contributors that helped shape its voice were Sue Coe, Mark Ryden, Greg Clarke, Gary Baseman, Christian Northeast, Rob and Christian Clayton, Peter and Maria Hoey, Gary Taxali, Camille Rose Garcia, etc., many of whom would abandon their illustration careers to join the lowbrow Pop Surrealism movement. It was a very exciting time for Blab!—and it was that very embodiment that led to our annual Los Angeles–based gallery show. This, in turn, led to yet another restyling titled Blab World.

What is the editorial (and/or philosophical) goal of this book-a-zine?
To produce an actual magazine with a linear editorial stance. I’d been surfing Blab!’s non-liner waves for quite some time and wanted to try something different, something fresh.

You’ve got an eclectic mix of themes, from Beatrix Potter to a history of mammoth gorillas in graphics. It’s this range that excites the ephemera lover in me. What does it do for you?
The exact same thing. I love orchestrating a magazine with subject matter such as this. It’s an editorial vision that requires a lot of visual excavation in order to discover that special “something” from the past to merge with special talent from the present. I’m thrilled to be working with new talent such as Noah Van Sciver, Sasha Velour and Giselle Potter, and others, along with Blab! stalwarts such as Ryan Heshka and Greg Clarke.

I can see this as an endless repository of stuff, but there must be limits. What are your parameters?
It all begins with either a YES or a NO. Does the work move me? It must. Yet even a NO can lead to a YES. Moving within these parameters is what spurs me onward. And when I discover a living talent whose work I find exciting, I seek out a topic that is thrilling to both of us and from there, I prefer that they go straight to finish. I know that’s a risk, but being that it’s Blab! does give them a solid parameter. And once I have our contributors lined up, I fill in the blanks with an eclectic mix of vintage material. I love combining work of the present with that of the past.

Monte, is all this material drawn from your own vast collection?
I wish! Most is discovered during “ephemeralogical” digs, which require a vast amount of patience. It takes time to find that perfect past image that resonates with the contemporary work being created for Blab!

Can you give us a peek at what you are thinking up next?
Working in editorial, I learned the hard way that it’s not wise to let the cat out of the bag. Lots of poachers in publishing are lurking out there. However, I will say that the follow-up issue contains more illustrated biographical stories along with articles showcasing compelling vintage visuals from the first half of the 20th century.

What does a letter feel like? It’s impossible not to ask this question when experiencing the typographic works of UK-based animator, creative director, and 3D artist Thomas Burden. He creates and explores lively worlds of words and letters with textures that look realistic enough to touch.

I’ve previously chatted with another 3D typographer, Noah Camp, about his mesmerizing practice that focuses on capturing the texture of food within his lettering. Burden is dabbling in a similar space, though playing around mostly with synthetic textures like fabric and rubber. I was completely taken by Burden’s creations when I first came upon them, so I had to know more, and he graciously answered a few of my questions below.

How would you describe your personal aesthetic?

My personal aesthetic is mostly Japanese clothing brands that reference vintage British and US designs, which is a fancy way of describing what is essentially a lot of chore coats and work boots that scream “CREATIVE DAD.”

If you’re talking about my work, then that’s a lot more diffuse than my fashion sense— although it is mainly 3D typography these days. 

Where does your love of typography come from?

It comes down to the basic principle that all images are a form of storytelling, and illustrative typography is a real belt-and-braces approach to making a design as accessible as possible to a viewer. 

It’s a kind of a visual song, without sounding too wanky. The way a lyric is sung can really shape and/or emphasize its meaning, and I think good illustrative typography should do the same in an image. That definitely sounds like something someone else has said in the past, so apologies if my subconscious is playing plagiarist. My conscious mind fully agrees with the sentiment though.

Typography is also just the way I think. I’m definitely more of a designer/art director than an artist or illustrator. I like to keep a physical and mental file of visual references, but I only dip into it when I come up with a written concept to start with. All my projects start with written ideas, rather than an image with no concept behind it.

What tools and programs do you use the most for your practice?

I use Cinema4D for pretty much everything, although I use Photoshop, Illustrator, and After Effects on a daily basis too. I’m really wanting to get more into VR and interactive stuff at the moment though, so I’m starting to learn Spline, which is a great tool for simple and satisfying UX interactions. It’s also a great way to put off learning Houdini for a bit longer.

You seem to be drawn to certain types of textures in particular— balloons, squishy rubber, plastic. Why do you gravitate toward creating these textures in your work? What’s your process like for achieving this?

I’m drawn to a lot of different things, and my subconscious is always pulling me in different directions as I take in different inspirations, so I have to force myself to stick to one particular style for extended periods of time, but this is solely for commercial reasons though. As a freelancer, there is always a lot of pressure to specialize in one niche. A while back, I did nothing but neon type for a few years, but I stopped including it in my portfolio, as it was boring me to tears. So at the moment I’m on a squishy tip, which has coincided nicely with a real boom in the squishy type market— mainly because Maxon just made it a whole lot easier to do cloth sims in Cinema4D, and now everyone is doing it. Thus it’s turning up on a lot of moodboards. 

Why 3D animation? What is it about this form of creative expression that captivated you in the first place?

I think it has the most visual impact, especially when the main objective of most design work these days is just to get people to stop scrolling for a few seconds.

I’ve always admired funny people, but my respect is taken to entirely new heights when people are both smart and funny. The artists behind the New Yorker cartoons are the kind who know how to mix satire with a sense of unmistakable, intelligent wit that relates to current events, politics, and indescribable shared experiences. These illustrations tap into universal truths so well that they make it look easy, but try coming up with one of your own and you’ll instantly realize the depth of the artists’ wisdom.

This is why I immediately related to VSA Associate Partner of Strategy Jess Sochol’s account of how New Yorker cartoons have inspired her creativity and career. We both understand and appreciate the intelligence it takes to communicate relatable repartee in an approachable way, and both feel invigorated by the artists that can do so. So the next time you’re reading a New Yorker cartoon, take a moment to give it the admiration it deserves.

That does not allow too much of a space-time continuum window to see Kunz’s narrative, satiric and comic paintings in her premiere art gallery show outside the ghetto of design and illustration. The Philippe Labaune Gallery (534 W. 24th Street) is the first contemporary art gallery in the United States specializing in “high-end” narrative art, comics and illustration.

On view in Wit & Wisdom is a series of original paintings from Kunz’s Another History of Art, presented alongside covers of The New Yorker. “Contemporary aesthetics are juxtaposed onto art from the past through the point of view of ‘a secular female,'” state a gallery text, “breathing new life into works by old masters such as Rubens, da Vinci, Hockney and Magritte, as if painted by women of the modern era.”

After a packed opening on Feb. 9 where fellow artists, art directors and patrons joined to celebrate Kunz’s breakthrough, I asked her to tell us how she felt about the event as well as the com-mix of art forms that she’s excelled at for decades.

This is your first painting exhibition in New York City at Philippe Labaune Gallery. How does it feel to have broken down the barrier between wall art and printed art?
Very honored! I was thrilled when Philippe called and offered me a show. I always thought that the barriers between the disciplines are manufactured, and I never understood why narrative art is considered less valid than “fine” art. In Europe there are far fewer issues with artists doing a variety of things, and I always thought it was strange that there is such a hierarchy of what is supposedly important and what isn’t in the American art scene.

So, you don’t see art in those binary terms?
I’ve always thought that the borders are fluid and porous. I love to see what other artistic people are doing, especially when they’re experimenting in multiple creative areas.  

How did you find the Philippe Labaune Gallery?
I have Barbara Nessim to thank for that.  She hosted a studio visit last fall with a few artist friends, and in our discussions, Philippe Labaune’s name came up. Everyone was excited that there is now a gallery in Chelsea that appreciates and elevates narrative art, illustration and comics. The following day we happened upon the gallery and I spoke to Assibi Ali the director. He took my name, I sent a few samples of my work and was astonished when Philippe actually called! I’ve had some bad experiences with galleries (I’m sure other artists can relate) and it seems that many gallery owners are just plain mean. I have no idea why. I even remember having conversations with Marshall Arisman about it.  This experience with Philippe has been amazing and I couldn’t be happier.

The exhibition is decidedly curated so that your work dominates the rooms. Yet only comparatively few of your images are on display. How was that decided?
I have an extensive archive, so I put forward some suggestions. But Philippe ultimately curated the show. I’m happy with the work he chose. Sometimes I’m just too close to my own work and I can’t figure out which paintings are better! He wanted New Yorker covers because of the gallery aesthetic, and he also wanted some larger scale works so I think it all works together well.  

There are indeed images that were done as illustrations. How do you distinguish the hierarchy between the arts, or doesn’t it matter?
At this point in my career, I don’t really think it’s for me to decide what is more important, although I do have my opinions! I became an illustrator because I needed to make a living and being a gallery artist wasn’t even an option. I have always been a working artist, and I think I have a working-class work ethic.  Plus, I always thought that visual story-telling is important! We humans are story tellers.  Also, I feel so privileged to have worked with great print art directors who gave me a lot of creative freedom and never dictated content. So, I never considered illustration to be a lesser art form in any way. 

Each of your pictures triggers something in my psyche, but “The Daughter of Man”, the riff on Magritte, has a special resonance. What does your work trigger in you?
You know, that’s really hard for me to say. As an illustrator, I work as more of a collaborator and I make work that has to perform a function for a client. And as an “artist” when I sit in my studio and make my own work without any direction, I allow myself a lot more freedom and I never know where the paintings are going to end up because I don’t do sketches. I allow myself to wander a bit more. It’s a more intuitive and emotional process. I suppose I’m influenced by the culture but not always consciously. For example, the paintings in the book that I made during the Trump presidency are weirder and crazier. I think I internalized that nothing around me was making sense, and the political insanity was somehow reflected in my work.

What would you like to be the outcome of this exhibition?
Well, it’s always nice to see the paintings just as I painted them after working in print for decades. I really think the gallery will do well because in my view it’s an important gallery for our time, and I’m very happy to be part of it. I’d love for more people to ultimately consider published and narrative work as the sophisticated art form that I believe it is.

As the preeminent advocate for comics—which, for most of the 20th century, was ignored by the arts and letters establishment and considered unworthy of critical scholarship—Spiegelman has shown through his lectures and published strips and books why the medium now enjoys its rightful place as a wellspring of personal expression and deep reflection.

The esteem Spiegelman has earned is not only for Maus, a hybrid of autobiography and oral history (it is the precursor of today’s graphic novel), but also for his zealous experimentation that has paved the way for comics to be reckoned with as ART. If Spiegelman’s long list of awards and major exhibitions was not enough to cement his successful straddle of low and high culture, we have a new 400+ page book of authoritative critical essays that delve deep into literature, visual art and Holocaust studies to explain in minute detail why Maus is already in the canon of the most-respected 20th-century books regardless of genre.

Maus Now: Selected Writing (Pantheon), edited by Hillary Chute, distinguished professor of art and design at Northwestern University, bolsters Spiegelman’s rightful place in history through various cultural, scholarly and philosophical texts that dissect and analyze facets of Maus’ form, format and what makes it such a seminal opus in a unprecedented discipline that has spawned and influenced hundreds of subsequent graphic novels.

In the mid-1960, Spiegelman came of age as a taboo-busting Underground comics artist rebelling against moral restrictions imposed by the industry’s self-censoring Comics Code Authority. Spiegelman made the decision not to kowtow to those who demeaned or demonized comics but instead to seriously practice the form along with its litany of tropes and conventions—including sequential framing, pictorial narratives, speech balloons and splash panels—and was one of the creators of what were termed comix (the ‘x’ was coined during the underground press era) as a transgressive but rapidly expanding language. What was once considered gutter grammar became a platform for complex fiction and nonfiction, short and long storytelling, satire and protest. Spiegelman and his cohorts in the Underground Press opened the floodgates of unfettered expression for a wave of renegades who broadly pushed taboo tales that became a cultural vernacular.

Following in the wake of twentieth century progressive comics pioneers who influenced his own work— Winsor McCay, George Herriman, Will Eisner, Harvey Kurtzman and Jules Feiffer—Spiegleman has been the most restless of innovators. His goal to transform comics into an essential medium allowed him to bring ’60s Underground comics to a level that encouraged greater artistic freedom. With his wife, New Yorker art editor Francoise Mouly, they co-published RAW, an unprecedented post-underground/postmodern journal that showcased a wide range of inventive comics and graphic narratives. Yet the key that opened the door to his current status as cultural influence is Maus, arguably one of the most humanist and emotionally raw explorations of the Jewish Holocaust, conveyed through the transformation of Nazis and Jews into anthropomorphic cats and mice.

Chute’s well-chosen selections for this anthology include arguments, musings and explanations (many profusely footnoted) of why this unconventional method of memoir and recollection using animals as surrogates is appropriate to the theme. The essayists point in many directions, including borrowing from the history of fables, using metaphors to illuminate the human tragedy and building on intense oral history. Spiegelman invented a language for relating the Holocaust as recalled by his father, Vladek, a Polish-born Auschwitz survivor. Vladek is the fulcrum of Maus, along with a Maus-masked Spiegelman, who digs into the depths of his parents’ “Mauswitz” experiences, while simultaneously self-analyzing his own deep-seated feelings as the son of survivor parents and the ill-fated brother he never met.

The essays in Maus Now run in a sequence that builds as Maus is accepted into the zeitgeist. After Chute’s contextualizing introduction (which serves as a brief self-contained overview of Maus), the essays and themes that follow address aspects of comics form and content, Holocaust psyschology, graphic symbolism and verbal language, and how wit and humor perform throughout this narrative structure—all contributing to Maus being unequivocally accepted by pundits and intellectuals as across many areas of critical thinking.

I’ve known Spiegelman for over 40 years and I am embarrassed to admit, I did not think Maus was such a good idea (disrespectful, I said) when he first told me about his plan for a serialized series about the Holocaust in RAW and its first iteration in the comic book, Funny Animals. But my mind changed once I saw the first RAW installment and realized it was biography of a real time, place and characters. Suggesting that Maus get a closer look, my wife, Louise Fili, art director of Pantheon Books, brought it to then-publisher Andre Schiffrin, after it had already been rejected by his own editors and a score of other publishing houses. I was also in attendance when music and book reviewer Ken Tucker was assigned to write the first major critique of the as-yet-unpublished book (and I urged an already enthusiastic New York Times Book Review editor, Rebecca Sinkler, to break policy and publish Tucker’s story as a work-in-progress (and a comic strip, no less). It was after that first Times article (republished as the second essay in Maus Now) that the gravity of writing about Maus began to take on more critical weight. Tucker had to explain an alien concept (a comic about surviving the Nazis) to an audience who mostly knew nothing about Underground or adult comics or held the stereotypical view of comics in general going back to their childhoods — and he did so with aplomb. Subsequent writers had their own intellectual, structural and cultural challenges.

Maus Now is at times a little repetitious for being variations and perspectives of the same subject, but what it nonetheless reveals is the quick-paced evolution of a critical vocabulary for addressing the work. In her intro, Chute quotes Spiegelman as stating, in his only slight direct intrusion into her editorial role, as being okay about republishing negative arguments. Amusingly, even the one essay that started off somewhat argumentative turned out to an accolade. But these essays are not lengthy superlatives; they expand the understanding of a major work.

I have lived with Maus from its creative inception to initial audience reception and beyond. I have read it a half dozen times and talked to Spiegelman about it more times than I can count. I couldn’t conceive of learning anything new, however, Maus Now offers fresh insights on the book and its creator that I had never considered before. Even minor bits, like this revelation buried in one essay: Maus rhymes with Raus!—the bone chilling command (meaning get out!) used by Nazis when clearing out nests’ of Jews! I never before made that connection.