I haven't thought about Calvin and Hobbes in years. But a few months ago I happened upon the documentary Dear Mr. Watterson, in which the filmmaker explores the impact the comic had on the cartooning industry, America, and himself. I was reminded just how deep Watterson's roots go.
Now, with the totality of his work spread before me, I see so much of who I am and what I value in these pages. Calvin's rich imaginary life echoes my own childhood. The simple, guileless way he and Hobbes explore the bigger questions reminds me of the quizzical bent that led me to a degree in Philosophy. Calvin's boundless sense of adventure tugs on my heartstrings to this day. But on a deeper level, the principles evident in Watterson's career tell me so much about who I strive to be as an artist. I may not have been aware of it as a child, but looking back I think it managed to influence me nonetheless.
I've spent a great deal of this year learning about the craft of writing and exploring my relationship to stories. I've always valued the power of words, but intensive study has shown me the deep magic that resides in the human tradition of storytelling. Well-executed stories shape us in ways we're barely aware of, and the painstaking process a writer must go through to achieve storytelling of that quality is humbling, awe-inspiring, and motivating. And now that I look back on it, Calvin and Hobbes may have been the first truly perfect storytelling I ever bore witness to.
Watterson's thoughtful introduction to The Complete Calvin and Hobbes makes it apparent that he is a man who cares about words and stories. After reading William Zinsser's classic On Writing Well, I'm working hard to tune my ear to the simple, evocative music of prose, and I find that Watterson's clear and focused voice sings. Perhaps it's the habit of economy borne of the physical limitations of the comic strip genre, perhaps Watterson has developed this restraint the natural way, but every word in the introduction rang true. He reflects on his career with an even-handed wisdom that can only come from experience, and reading it gave me the chance to dive a little deeper into my relationship with him as an artist.
For those of you unfamiliar with Watterson, there are really only three facts you need to know: he is a famously private man, he refused to license his work (no Hobbes suction-cup dolls on minivan windows), and he decided to end Calvin and Hobbes after only a ten-year run (which for a comic this successful, is remarkably short).
One of the artistic values I hold closest to my heart is transparency; the idea of removing oneself from one's work. Too often novice artists throw a wall between their work and their audience, and paint the wall with their own face. Unlearning this tendency has been the focus of much of my study. It shows itself in small, subtle, technical ways that most audiences would be only subconsciously aware of. But does affect the audience's perception of a story. When you are left feeling that you "couldn't get into" a movie or book, often it's because the writer has gotten in the way of their own work. Watterson's reclusive nature is an exercise in transparency. It says "If you want to know me, look at what I have made, and you will". If every artist acted that way, we'd have a lot less bad art in the world. But too often, art (be it film, writing, music, what have you) is only a means to an end: the artist wishes to be famous. And it shows in the quality of art these people produce. If the art is just a means to the social paycheck of celebrity--or worse, an actual paycheck--then the artist will let him or herself get away with the bare minimum. If, however, the work is intended to stand on its own merits, then the artist must work a great deal harder. Watterson never wanted to be famous. when fame came knocking on his door, he told it to get lost. As a result, he and his work planted themselves even deeper in our cultural memory.
Watterson's decision not to license his work was perplexing to many. After all, what kid doesn't deserve a tiger doll that comes to life whenever grown-ups are away? But Watterson felt (justifiably) that when it came to licensing, any slip would quickly turn into a slide. He felt that producing Calvin and Hobbes products would reduce the comic to a means by which the licensees advertised these products, and the work would suffer from all the external pressure. I can't blame him for feeling this way. Look how many things have been cheapened by licensing: we have the beloved Peanuts characters selling us insurance. Every drab cubicle in America is spruced up by some meaningless iteration of Garfield the cat lamenting that it's Monday. Even the really clever comics like Dilbert have been reduced to repetitive tripe by the onslaught of licensing (Dilbert is an ironic case, since it originally set out to lampoon dull corporate culture, and now it's been subsumed into dull corporate culture). So while Watterson's decision had the unfortunate consequence of forever keeping Hobbes dolls out of the arms of children,it proved a sacrifice worth making. I for one support his reasoning. If Watterson had given an inch, the powers that be would surely have taken a mile, and by now we'd all be so drained of our enthusiasm for Calvin and Hobbes that we'd have forgotten what a magical thing it was. The fact that Calvin and Hobbes has retained its devoted following and critical acclaim--even as its first generation of readers enter middle-age--is testament to the wisdom of Watterson's decision. Dilbert and Garfield were once genuinely funny comics, but nobody cares any more. People will never stop caring about Calvin and Hobbes. I look forward to the day that my children will read these comics. If that doesn't tell you something, nothing will.
The decision to end the strip's run when it was arguably in its prime is another controversial moment in Watterson's career. But when I read his thoughts on the matter, I realized that it boils down to one thing: it's better to burn out than to fade away. And if you can choose the moment you burn out, more the better. Everything, no matter how great it once was, eventually devolves into self-parody. Artists desperately cling to past successes, or blindly throw things at the wall, hoping something will stick so they can briefly reclaim that faded glory. And meanwhile, we laugh at them. Who isn't slightly uncomfortable about the idea of Arnold Schwarzenegger reprising his role as the Terminator? Who out there is really eager to see another flailing Tim Burton movie starring--who else--Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter (although, with their recent split, we may be finally free of that particular vicious cycle). Who actually wants to watch the Rolling Stones hobble across the stage, jowls and bat-wings quivering? I submit that Watterson's decision to end Calvin and Hobbes was the wisest of the many wise decisions he made during his career. In the introduction to The Complete Calvin and Hobbes, he said he wanted to leave the characters "in top form", so we would remember them that way. And we do.
There's ample precedent that this strategy works to make art timeless. Look at the Beatles. They may not have chosen the moment they burned out, but what Beatles fan laments that the band didn't get caught up in the glam, prog, and punk excess of the seventies? Who would have wanted to hear the Beatles try to stay relevant in the face of the New Wave movement, or the Grunge movement, or--God forbid--the current electro-pop/hip-hop craze? I shudder to think. True, all four of the Beatles continued to produce good music after the break up, but because their statement as a group ended, it has become timeless in a way that none of their individual work ever did.
Now that I think of it, that analogy goes even further. The Beatles weren't the first big rock and roll act. There were lots, but when it comes down to it, there was really just one: The King. Elvis Presley showed us all what rock and roll was. We love and revere him for it, but in the final analysis, all of Elvis's work sounds dated. It's still great, but it's nostalgia. The Beatles, however took something that we all assumed was mere entertainment, and raised it to the level of art. Their career made a complete statement, and that statement is timeless. If you played From Elvis in Memphis, anyone hearing it would know it was old, even if it was the first Elvis record they ever heard. But if you played Abbey Road, or Revolver to a child today and told them these records came out yesterday, I think they'd believe you.
I'm getting off track here. That always happens when I talk about the Beatles.
Point is, it's better to burn out than to fade away, and to squash the candle flame between your fingers is the best of all. Bill Watterson is the Beatles of comic strips. Before him, there were lots of greats, but there was really just one king: Charles Schultz. Peanuts was the progenitor of Calvin and Hobbes, but in the end, Peanuts is nostalgia. Calvin and Hobbes, on the other hand, has that timeless quality that the Beatles have. Calvin and Hobbes is a collection of stories about every child everywhere; struggling with the totalitarianism of adults, living rich imaginary lives, avoiding lumbering bullies, picking on schoolyard crushes...these are facets of childhood that will likely never disappear. And no matter how old you are, Calvin and Hobbes has the power to transport you right back to those moments in your life. For me, it is a lesson in the power and sanctity of art. A lesson in the value of humility and transparency. And when I finally manage to turn my writer's brain off, it's just plain fun, and makes me laugh so hard I cry.
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