Longtime readers know that I typically celebrate my birthday by going to see a Broadway show, including Monty Python’s Spamalot in 2005 (see “Comics in Context” #82) and Disney’s Tarzan in 2006. They may also recall that I spent the Friday after Thanksgiving last year making a day trip to see the “Cartoon America” at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. (see “Comics in Context” #157 and 159).

That went so well that instead of seeing a play, this year I decided to go down to Baltimore on my birthday, a city I’d visited once before, in 1996. (The round trip train fare costs less than a pair of Broadway orchestra seats these days.) The principal reason for making the trip was to see Geppi’s Entertainment Museum, a showcase for pop culture collectibles, including comics, founded by Steve Geppi, the owner of Diamond Comics Distributors, the last significant English language comics distribution company standing. I hadn’t been one of the lucky people who were invited to the grand opening last fall, but I’d been waiting for the right opportunity to go ever since. And here it was, on a pleasantly warm and sunny day in the Northeast, following a few days in the 80s (highly unusual for April), and, before that, weeks of lingering winter cold.

I find train travel relaxing, and it spares me the hassles of dealing with taxi drivers and airport security. It proved remarkably easy to get from New York City down to Geppi’s Museum. After a two and a half hour journey from New York’s Penn Station, Amtrak train pulled into Baltimore’s own Penn Station, whose waiting room, with its beautiful stained glass skylights, was the first of many striking examples of local architecture I would see on this whirlwind trip. At this Penn Station I got aboard a light rail shuttle to a transfer point, where I chatted with a fellow passenger. (This, by the way, was a reminder of Baltimore’s friendly atmosphere. On my previous trip there, I was startled that total strangers would say hello to me on the street. This never happens in New York City, or Boston or Washington or even San Diego, for that matter.) Then I boarded the main light rail train and got off at the Convention Center stop, which is directly across the street from the Geppi Museum. I keep reading that the Geppi Museum is out of the way, but quite clearly it isn’t.

The Geppi Museum is housed in Camden Station, a magnificent Italianate brick building with a soaring tower, which stands next to Baltimore’s famous baseball stadium, Oriole Park at Camden Yards. The central section of Camden Station was opened in 1852, and Abraham Lincoln visited the building on four occasions; the rest of the original building, including the tower, was completed in 1867. This was the terminal for the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, which continued to use Camden Station until 1971, by which time it was the oldest train terminal still in operation in a major American city. In the 1990s the building was restored to look as it had in 1867. In 2005 Sports Legends, a museum about the history of sports in Baltimore (the birthplace of Babe Ruth), opened on the first floor; Geppi’s Entertainment Museum opened the following year.

Entering through what I took to be the front of the building, I asked the folks at the Sports Legends admission desk where the Geppi Museum was, and was informed that its entrance is actually on the opposite side of the building. (Well, that seems appropriate: jocks and comics fans have separate entrances.) So I crossed to the other side of the lobby and ascended a staircase, past a handsome collection of vintage posters.

Then I found myself in the entrance hall for the Museum proper, whose walls were covered with even more impressive posters, my favorite being an enormous one for a Charlie Chaplin silent feature. Alongside one wall is a flatscreen TV monitor continuously running an introductory video narrated by Mr. Geppi himself, welcoming guests.

Here I was greeted by the museum’s curator, Dr. Arnold Blumberg. We had talked by phone in the past, but had never actually met until this year’s New york Comic Con. Knowing exactly what I most wanted to see, Dr. Blumberg escorted me into the museum’s largest gallery, the room titled “A Story in Four Colors.” He can doubtless attest to my reaction on entering this room, which must have involved bulging eyes and a dropping jaw.

Right in front of the room’s entrance stood a vitrine, a case with a glass top, holding beautifully preserved copies of Action Comics #1 (1938), the debut of Superman, complete with co-creator Joe Shuster’s iconic cover drawing of the Man of Steel lifting an automobile; Action Comics #2, which, though it now seems odd, does not have Superman on the cover; Adventure Comics #40 (1938), with the first appearance of DC’s original version of the Sandman, drawn on the cover by Creig Flessel; Adventure Comics #48 (1940), with the debut of the original Hourman; All-American Comics #16 (1940), in which the original Green Lantern first appeared; All-Star Comics #3 (1940), the initial saga of the Justice Society of America, the leading superhero team of the Golden Age of Comics of the 1940s; and two first issues that need no further description, Batman #1 (1940) and Captain America Comics #1 (1941).

I have seen Golden Age comic books before, and even own a few, and I have even seen copies of some of these particular landmark issues before. But to see them all together, all at once, is astonishing. And beyond the vitrine, there was a long wall lined with shelves, each filled with still more landmark issues of vintage comics. It was a treasure house! I was peering into the comics collector’s equivalent of Scrooge McDuck’s money bin, at the mother lode of this artform’s history, preserved within a single room!

Dr. Blumberg and I conversed for a while, comparing notes on our experiences teaching courses in comic books as literature, and discussing the obstacles and opportunities in persuading the culture at large that they should study comics just as people do with novels, plays and films. Eventually Dr. Blumberg had to leave for a scheduled meting, and as I faced the door to bid him goodbye, my eye was caught by a comic exhibited along another wall: Detective Comics #1 (1937), whose cover, drawn by Vin Sullivan, featured the face of the villainous Chin Lung, a ripoff of Dr. Fu Manchu! I ended up spending probably an entire hour in this room.

A wall text begins by quoting one of the Founding Fathers of modern comics, Will Eisner: “In the beginning, God made comics. . . .” Eisner was joking, but the quotation wittily sets the stage for the wall text’s version of the argument, familiar to comics scholars, that the comics artform has forebears going back to the prehistoric paintings on cave walls.

My friend and former comics editor Meloney Crawford Chadwick once pointed out to me a major reason why the mainstream culture still regarded comics with disdain. (This may seem a long time ago, but it was only in the 1990s that she told me this.) She observed that small children are considered to have grown more mature when they turn from reading illustrated storybooks to reading books with no pictures. Hence, comics enthusiasts are suspected of suffering from arrested intellectual development. The Geppi Museum wall text makes a similar point–“Although many people believe that reading words alone–prose lit–is a sign of intellectual maturity, the fact is that humans are a visual species. . . .”–and cites such early examples of sequential art (communication through a series of pictures) as the medieval Bayeux Tapestry.

The wall texts also explain Dr. Blumberg’s and the Overstreet Price Guide’s division of comics history into nine different “ages,” expanding upon comics fandom’s traditional concepts of the “Golden Age” of the late 1930s and 1940s, in which the superhero genre was created, and the “Silver Age” of the late 1950s and 1960s, in which superhero comics were resurrected (see “Comics in Context” #58). First there is the “Pioneer Age” (1500-1828), during which many of the elements of comics–word balloons, stories told in sequential panels–were being developed. It was during the “Victorian Age” (1828-1883) that Switzerland’s Rodophe Topffer created the earliest graphic novels. Next comes the “Platinum Age” (1883-1938) when the history of the American newspaper comic strip begins with such pioneers as Richard Outcault (The Yellow Kid, Buster Brown), many strips are reprinted in comic book format, and by the end of the period American comic books begin to feature original material. The “Golden Age” begins with the debut of Superman in 1938, leading to the explosive creation of scores of classic superheroes over the next several years. Superheroes faded from popularity in the second half of the 1940s and the Overstreet Guide characterizes 1946-1955 as the “Atom Age”: this appropriately gives the heyday of EC’s horror, science fiction, war and humor comics their own “age” in between the first and second superhero-dominated “ages.” The superhero genre was reborn in the “Silver Age” (1956-1970) starting with the introduction of a reconceived Flash in Showcase #4 (1956), followed by Stan Lee’s Marvel revolution of the 1960s. This is followed by the “Bronze Age” (1970-1984), the “Copper Age” (1984-1992, my own period of activity at the Big Two comics companies of DC and Marvel), and the current “Modern Age,” specified as beginning in 1992.

In our conversation Dr. Blumberg and I agreed that these divisions into “ages” are subject to critical reevaluation, and that it is difficult to perceive which “age” is currently going on around us. Thinking further about the subject, I suspect that Overstreet’s “Modern Age” should be broken in two, and that various factors, such as the ascension of Bill Jemas and Joe Quesada at Marvel, the great expansion of the graphic novel and comics trade paperback market, accelerated mainstream acceptance, the manga revolution, and the increasing importance of alternative comics make the early 21st century landscape of American comics very different from that of the 1990s.

Overstreet’s division of “ages” applies to American comic books, not to comics worldwide, or even to American comic strips, and the “Golden,” “Silver,” “Bronze” and “Copper” Age titles traditionally apply to superhero comic books. (It is an appealing idea that the “Silver Age” was also the first age of underground comix.) The dominance of manga in the American comics market, and the high profile that alternative graphic novels now have in the culture surely show that superhero comics can no longer be the primary standard for defining American comics history.

So the Geppi Museum’s system of Nine Ages of comics may require modification, but it is still quite useful. Moreover, it is striking that this division into nine ages has moved from the pages of a collector’s price guide into the context of a museum. Just as Dr. Peter Coogan’s book Superhero: The Secret History of a Genre, serves as a first major attempt at defining the superhero genre, the Nine Ages provide a helpful tool for academic analysis of the history of American comics.

It’s also striking to see that nearly a hundred percent of the objets d’art in this room are actual comic books. There is original comic book art, too: the cover artwork for various EC comics, as well as the original art for covers of the Overstreet Price Guides, by such notables as Alex Ross and Joe Kubert. In the case of the latter, the covers portray comics characters, but the guides, of course, are not actual comics. The vast majority of what is displayed in this room are actual printed copies of comic books. I was surprised that last year’s “Masters of American Comics” show at the Jewish and Newark Museums, which mostly displayed original artwork, included so many printed copies of comic books and newspaper comics pages. But of course this was a means of exhibiting work for which the originals are unavailable, such as Lyonel Feininger’s comic strips and Jack Kirby’s “Galactus trilogy.” When Ken Wong and I co-curated “Stan Lee: A Retrospective” at the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, we similarly used photocopies of original artwork and even pages from reprint editions of 1960s comics when we could not obtain an actual original art page we would have liked to include. But in the case of both these museum shows, the main drawing card is the original art. At the Geppi, the printed comic book, the collectible, is the center of attention.

This reminds me of the question that New York Times art critic Michael Kimmelman asked about “Masters of American Comics”: “The show includes one of Mr. [Will] Eisner’s drawings for a ‘splash,’ or title, page of his Spirit strip, and the printed version of it, each of which has its own aura, and raises the issue central to comic art: What is an original?”. After all, it was the printed version that Eisner meant for his audience to see; the original drawing was arguably just a tool in the creation of that printed page.

Back during the infamous comics speculator “boom” of the late 1980s and early 1990s, the conventional “wisdom,” and I use that term ironically, was that various collectible comics would be worth big money someday. Now we begin to see that vintage comic books are potential museum pieces. Once I got to the Silver Age section of the “Story in Four Colors” gallery, I saw comic books on display that I have copies of in my own collection. It is now conceivable that I could exhibit forty-year-old comics that I own in a gallery at some point. Art museums court fine art collectors in the hope they will bequeath their paintings to them. I foresee the day when museum curators and librarians court comics aficionados with massive collections, like, say, Fred Hembeck, to donate them to their institutions. Imagine: the Fred Hembeck Collection at the New York Public Library. You may think I’m kidding. The New York Public Library holds an enormous collection of Charles Addams’ original cartoons (see “Comics in Context” #72) and has recently begun collecting comic books. Isn’t it possible that in decades to come they would be happy to acquire a major collection of comic books from the last half of the twentieth century?

Around the corner from the introductory wall text for the “Four Colors” room are examples of comics from the 19th and early 20th centuries, including Buster Brown, leading up to the aforementioned Detective Comics #1 from the close of the Platinum Age.

The vitrine with Action Comics #1 which I saw when I first entered the room marks the beginning of the Golden Age. Walking to the opposite side of the vitrine, I found even more landmark issues of that period: Captain Marvel Adventures #1 (1941); Detective Comics #27 (1939), with the first appearance of the Batman; Detective Comics #28 (1939), which, like Action #2, fails to feature its new star on the cover; Detective Comics #38 (1940), with the debut of Robin the Boy Wonder; Famous Funnies #1 (1934), said to be the first “true” comic book, published in the format that became standard for the industry; Flash Comics #1 (1940), and (if I remember correctly) Dell Comics’ Four Color (second series) #9 (1942) featuring “Donald Duck Finds Pirate Gold,” with artwork by Carl Barks, launching his long career in Disney comics, and his writing partner at the Disney studio, Jack Hannah.

To my right was a walk with shelves packed with Big Little Books, tiny (3” by 4 1/2”) but thick illustrated books, published starting in 1932, many of which featured popular comic strip and animated cartoon characters of their time.

There were still more Golden Age comics in a case, including Marvel Comics #1 (1939), introducing the original Human Torch and featuring the Sub-Mariner, the first comic book from the company, Timely Comics, that would evolve into modern day Marvel; More Fun Comics #53 (1940) with the debut of the Spectre; and New York World’s Fair Comics #2 (1940), featuring Superman, Batman and Robin on its cover (the first time Superman and Batman were shown together) standing in front of the architectural symbols of the 1939-1940 World’s Fair, the Trylon and Perisphere.

The Golden Age collection continued in a bank of shelves along the wall, including Four Color (first series) #16 (1941), in which “Mickey Mouse Outwits the Phantom Blot,” his supervillain nemesis, as drawn by Floyd Gottfredson; Patsy Walker #1 (1945) with its delightful cover portrait of its heroine, seated with her legs in the air, and Daredevil Battles Hitler (1941), starring the first costumed superhero to bear that name (DD, not Adolf!). I was especially pleased to see Superman #14 (1942), with its artist Fred Ray’s iconic patriotic cover image of Superman standing with an American bald eagle on his arm: I had seen the original art for this cover at “Superheroes: Good and Evil in American Comics,” an exhibit curated by Jerry Robinson at the Jewish Museum last fall.

In the case of long rows of shelves such as these, I can only mention a handful of the comics I saw on display. There were many, many more, each bearing significance in the history of comics.

Next came an enormous set of shelves showcasing comics from the Silver Age, including Showcase #4 (1956) which inaugurated that period by successfully introducing a reconceived version of the Flash, one of DC’s leading Golden Age superheroes.

Mort Weisinger’s editorial reign over the Silver Age Superman family of comics was represented by such examples as Superman’s Girlfriend Lois Lane #1 (1958) with its pre-feminist title; Adventure Comics #247 (1958), which introduced the Legion of Super-Heroes; and Action Comics #252 (1959), featuring the debut of Supergirl.

Here too were the Superman comics in which President John F. Kennedy played a significant role: Action Comics #309, which was cover-dated 1964, but, by an ominous coincidence, went on sale the month of his assassination, and Superman #170 (1964), with the tribute story “Superman’s Mission for President Kennedy,” written by Batman co-creator Bill Finger and E. Nelson Bridwell. But the reason I remember issue #170 is its cover story, one of the weirdest of the Weisinger era, “If Lex Luthor Were Superman’s Father,” written by the Man of Steel’s co-creator Jerry Siegel, in which Luthor travels back in time to Krypton and nearly marries Superman’s future mother Lara!

DC’s most important and innovative Silver Age editor was the late Julius Schwartz (see “Comics in Context” #32), the man who started the Silver Age going with the new Flash. Among the comics on exhibit that represent his contributions are Brave and the Bold #28 (1960), the first appearance of the Justice League., memorably pitting them against the gargantuan alien starfish Starro the Conqueror, and Justice League of America #1 (1960). Here too was one of the first comics in the exhibit that I also own a copy of: Justice League of America #21 (1963), titled “Crisis on Earth-One,” inaugurating the celebrated team-ups of the Justice League with their forebears, the Justice Society. Similarly, the collection included Green Lantern #1 (1960), starring Schwartz’s Silver Age version of the character, and Green Lantern #40 (1965) in which the Golden Age and Silver Age Green Lanterns first teamed up. There too was Detective Comics #359 (1966), in which Schwartz introduced the new version of Batgirl, Barbara Gordon, who would go on to co-star in the 1960s TV series. Also on display were two comics in which Schwartz revived two Golden Age Batman villains: the Riddler in Batman #171 (1965) and the Scarecrow in issue 189 (1967). I was pleased to find Hawkman #1 (1964) and one of the 1966 Showcase issues in which Schwartz resurrected the Spectre, all with extraordinary cover art by Murphy Anderson.

Speaking of Showcase, it was fun to find here unexpectedly Showcase #43 (1963), DC Comics’ adaptation of the first James Bond movie, Doctor No. It now seems strange that DC never did another Bond adaptation or an ongoing James Bond comics series, though certainly back then they would have had to clean it up considerably for young readers.

There were plenty of landmark Silver Age Marvel comics on exhibit as well. Among them was Amazing Fantasy #15 (1962) the first appearance and origin of Spider-Man, by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko; Lee and Jack Kirby’s The Incredible Hulk #1 (1962), with old Greenskin in his original gray color; Lee and Kirby’s X-Men #1 (1963), the initial appearance of Thor in Journey into Mystery #83 (1962), Iron Man’s debut in his clunky gray armor in Tales of Suspense #39 (1963) and his sleek red and gold battle armor in Iron Man #1 (1968), testifying to how rapidly Marvel’s look evolved in the 1960s; plus Jim Steranko’s Nick Fury, Agent of SHIELD #1 (1968). Here too was the return of Golden Age great Captain America in Lee and Kirby’s Avengers #4 (1964).

The great comics of the 1960s inspired a new wave of young comics writers and artists who sought to build on the Silver Age’s foundation and push the creative envelope in new directions. Thus began the Bronze Age, and among the scores of comics on display in this section is Green Lantern #76 (1970), in which writer Denny O’Neil and artist Neal Adams, under Julius Schwartz’s editorial aegis, shook up the superhero genre by introducing realistic social and issues. In another comic on exhibit from the same year, Conan the Barbarian #1, writer Roy Thomas and artist Barry Windsor-Smith expand mainstream comics’ reach into the realm of sword and sorcery, a genre that is decidedly not for the small children who were once comic books’ principal audience. Another sign that the audience was becoming older was the debut of that ruthless vigilante, the Punisher in Amazing Spider-Man #129 (1974), also on display.

With a relaxation of the Comics Code, DC and Marvel ventured into the horror genre, as the museum shows with Marvel’s Ghost Rider #1 (1973) and DC’s The Demon #1 (1972), one of the 1970s projects with which Golden and Silver Age veteran Jack Kirby became an innovator in yet a third age of comics. Nearby is DC’s House of Secrets #92 (1971), in which Len Wein and Bernie Wrightson introduced Swamp Thing, and Wrightson immortalized the young Louise Simonson by portraying her on the cover as the story’s heroine.

Here too is the cult classic from Charlton Comics, E-Man #1 (1973), blending humor and superheroics. Elsewhere in this section, you can see the following classic issues. Artist Mike Kaluta unveiled his definitive visual take on the title character of The Shadow #1 (1973). Julius Schwartz turned his prowess at updating classic superheroes to Superman himself with the famous “Kryptonite No More!” story in Superman #233 (1971). Schwartz turned to co-creator C. C. Beck to help revive the long dormant original Captain Marvel in Shazam #1 (1973), with the right touch of whimsy that no one has recaptured until Jeff Smith’s current series. Stan Lee briefly returned to comic books with the origin story in The Savage She-Hulk #1 (1980).

Through several Bronze Age comics on exhibit, you can follow the radical shift turn in fortune for the X-Men series, which had been canceled at the close of the Silver Age. First, you’ll see Wolverine’s debut as a guest star in The Incredible Hulk #181 (1974). The following year, Wolverine joined Storm, Nightcrawler and other new mutant heroes in Len Wein and Dave Cockrum’s relaunch of the series in Giant-Size X-Men #1. Keep looking through the Bronze Age section and you’ll find Chris Claremont and John Byrne’s classic Uncanny X-Men #137 (1980), with the death of Phoenix.

You’ll also find Daredevil #168 (1981), in which Frank Miller not only began writing the series as well as drawing it, but also introduced Elektra to the world. The Bronze Age concluded as Walter Simonson launched his run on Thor, the best since Lee and Kirby, with the creation of Beta Ray Bill in Thor #337 (1983), also on display.

When I look over my notes on particular issues I singled out from the Bronze Age displays, I am struck by how many of them contain the seeds of the major changes we are currently witnessing in the comics artform, and business. There are few graphic novels on exhibit at the Geppi Museum, but the Bronze Age section holds three of major historical importance. There’s Will Eisner’s A Contract with God (1978), the first modern graphic novel, the forebear of all that followed. Here too is the pioneering independent comics company Eclipse’s first graphic novel, Sabre (also in 1978!), by Don McGregor and Paul Gulacy, and Marvel’s first venture into the new format, Jim Starlin’s memorable and gratifyingly adult 1982 Death of Captain Marvel (about Marvel’s version of the character, not to be confused with the Golden Age original in Shazam). The Big Two were clearly watching and adopting innovations from the new alternative comics companies that were popping up. Also on exhibit are Dave Sim’s pioneering indie comic Cerebus the Aardvark #1 (1977), Howard Chaykin’s political and sexual satire American Flagg #1 (1983) from First Comics, and the first issue of DC’s first limited series produced specifically for the new, growing direct sales comics market, Mike W. Barr and Brian Bolland’s Arthurian science fiction epic Camelot 3000 (1982).

At the far right end of the long wall with the Golden, Silver, and Bronze Age displays are the issues in exhibit from the Copper Age. Among them are Jim Shooter’s Marvel Super Heroes Secret Wars #1 (1984), which launched the reign of the company-wide crossover blockbuster limited series, which still plagues us today with the likes of Infinite Crisis and Civil War. In retrospect Marvel’s flagship series may have jumped the shark with Amazing Spider-Man Annual #21 (1987), also on display. (Good heavens, Peter Parker and Mary Jane have been married for twenty years!) The Copper Age is also the age of the Grim and the Gritty, as evidenced by the exhibited copies of Batman #428 (1988), with the brutal murder of the second Robin, Jason Todd, and the even more ghastly demise of Supergirl in Crisis on Infinite Earths #7 (1985). (Both deaths have recently been undone, but they were real enough for nearly two decades.) But among the Copper Age comics on the shelves are enduring classics, including Alan Moore’s Miracleman (1985), Frank Miller’s Batman: The Dark Knight Returns #1 (1986), John Byrne’s The Man of Steel #1 (1986), Moore and Dave Gibbons’ Watchmen #1 (1986), Moore and Bolland’s Batman: The Killing Joke (1988). From the vantage point of 2007, the mid-1980s now look to me like the high point of the evolution of the superhero genre in comics, which has subsequently slid into a dead end of Grim and Gritty shock effects and shark jumping.

There ae two doors leading from the museum’s main hallway. I entered through one, near the copy of Detective Comics #1, and I exited through the other, near the wall display of representative first issues of the Modern Age. I am surprised that the museum devotes little attention to graphic novels, underground comix and alternative comics, but Dan Clowes’ Ghost World #1 (2002) was on display in this section. I also found first issues of some recent favorites of mine: Kurt Busiek and Alex Ross’s Marvels #1 (1994), Mark Waid and Ross’s Kingdom Come #1 (1996), Buffy the Vampire Slayer #1 (1998), and Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neill’s League of Extraordinary Gentlemen #1 (1999).

So, to modify one of British comedienne Catherine Tate’s catchphrases: “Was I dazzled?” Oh, yes, indeed. It was as if the whole history of American mainstream comics had taken concrete form around me, flooding me with memories.

But, of course, I’m already an authority on comics history: I could put all these comics in context. Beneath each of the comics in these immense cases there is a line on the shelf explaining its significance, such as the first appearance of the Legion of Super Heroes. But what if you are like that young comics fan I encountered in San Diego last summer who had never heard of the Legion, whose most classic period, after all, was forty years ago? What if you are a casual visitor to the Geppi Museum, who may have seen some of the recent superhero movies, but knows little about comic books themselves? What would you then make of these hundreds upon hundreds of comics exhibited in this comprehensive gallery? These are questions I will explore further in my next installment.

ADVERTISEMENTS FOR MYSELF

You can read Dr. Arnold Blumberg’s erudite report on our recent encounter and conversation in his column at the Geppi’s Entertainment Museum website.

ADVERTISEMENTS FOR OTHER PEOPLE

In the course of the new documentary Will Eisner: Portrait of a Sequential Artist, Mr. Eisner discusses what he calls his “favorite story” from The Spirit, “The Story of Gerhard Shnobble” (see “Comics in Context” #68), about a little man who had the talent to fly, although he died without anyone ever seeing him doing it. Eisner observes that this is about “people who go through life, do great things, have moments of glory no one knows about.”

Watching the documentary I realized, of course, “Gerhard Shnobble” is a parable about the creative artist whose talents go unrecognized by the world at large. Surely Eisner must have identified with Shnobble, back in the days not so long ago when comics were still regarded as a “gutter” medium.

Lately I’ve been writing about comics artists who made a great impact on the medium in the 1970s, but who had unjustly fallen from popularity by the time of their recent deaths. What is even sadder is the case of a creative artist of remarkable talent who, for one reason or another, never received the career or the level of recognition that he deserved. Such a man is Tom Artis, a comics artist whom I only met once, but whose work I admired, and who passed away this week. I recommend that you read his friend and collaborator Peter Gillis’s tribute to him, and then take a look at Artis’s work for yourself by doing a search on the Internet. Not enough people paid attention, but Tom Artis flew.

–Copyright 2007 Peter Sanderson

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