In this graphic novel, Ehwa lives with her mother, a single parent and tavern-keeper, in a rural Korean town in an unspecified era. Over the course of the book—the first in a trilogy—Ehwa goes through puberty, slowly learning about sex, sexuality and relationships. Her education is fitful; she picks up bits and pieces from her peers, from adults’ overheard conversations, and from observing her mother develop a relationship with a traveling salesman.
The text is a bit too precious. Ehwa is both ignorant unaware of her own body, to the extent that she thinks, at age 7, that she’s deformed because two boys tell her that everyone has a penis. In contrast, she is unrealistically aware of emotions. At thirteen, she’s saying, “A few times, I’ve picked tiger lilies and left them on this bridge in case he comes by… but every time I check I see that the flowers are still here, wilted and dried up. Like Mom with her gourd flower, I left the tiger lilies here as a sign for him. But it looks like only the butterflies noticed.”¹ A little too sweet and a little to aware— of her own emotions and the emotions behind her mother’s actions— it doesn’t feel realistic. She’s incredibly conscious of herself, but without the self-consciousness that paralyzes many teenage girls. More believable, and more interesting, are the dirty, not-quite-good-natured teasing of Ehwa’s mother’s customers at the tavern and the similarly half-in-good-fun and half-mean clashes between Ehwa and her contemporaries.
The art is gorgeous and takes equal billing with the text: both propel the story. The text tries a little too hard to be poignant; the art succeeds effortlessly. The simple black-and-white drawings somehow manages to convey complex facial expression and portray Ehwa’s development and her continuing but changing curiosity and concern about her body. It’s worth it just for the art.
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¹ P. 114-115
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The Color of Earth
Courtney is not terribly excited that she and her parents are moving into a creepy old mansion with her great-uncle (or maybe he’s her great-great uncle – her parents don’t seem quite sure). She’s also not terribly excited about a new school full of the kind of snobby rich kids her snobby not-rich parents really wish she’d befriend. On the other hand, her uncle’s collection of books on goblins and spells look pretty cool, especially since there are goblins lurking in the house and on the shortcut home from school (shortcuts being critical if you’re trying to avoid being mugged by middle-school bullies).
Rapunzel didn’t grow up in a tower in some grim European forest: she grew up the pampered daughter of a witch in a sumptuous manor surrounded by a high wall in something like the American West. She was shut up in a gaint magical tree (it’s a tower-like structure) after she discovered that outside the manor were miles and miles of nasty mines run by the witch – whom Rapunzel had always called Mother – and in which her real mother worked as a slave. Bored in the tower, Rapunzel began to practice acrobatics and figured out that her ever-growing hair, when braided, could be used for the rope and lasso tricks she learned from a guard when she was younger. Thus, she frees herself and sets out on adventures in this rather Wild West.
Skim – so named because she’s not – is a goth Wiccan at a preppy, all-girls private school. The ex-boyfriend of a classmate kills himself, and suddenly the school is talking about death and suicide all the time, which makes it extra-fun to be the resident goth. And it’s always extra-fun to be queer and have a crush on a teacher.
In college, my playwrighting professor taught us that the first – and perhaps most important – thing a playwright had to do when embarking on a new work was to answer the question, “Why does this story need to be a play?” If you can’t explain why something is best presented in that difficult form, perhaps what you’re looking at shouldn’t really be a play.
