Reading what my old boss Roy Thomas had to say today over at The Hollywood Reporter about Stan Lee and what’s come to be known as the Marvel Method reminded me I own a few things which I feel shed a small amount of light on the collaborative nature of creating comics when there’s no full script prior to the art —

Stan’s typed plot for a romance story intended to be titled “But One of Us Must Lose!”

Ross Andru’s pencils turning that plot into seven pages of art.

And then the published story, as inked by Jack Abel, which appeared in Our Love Story #17 (June 1972) under the title “When Love is Lost!”

Since so few plots remain from that period, and even if they do, the accompanying pencil art has rarely survived, I thought something could be gained from a comparison of Stan’s plot to Ross’s art to Stan’s final dialogue.

I won’t share all of Ross’s pencil art here, both because what I most want to point out is the altered ending … and because my scanner isn’t large enough to capture full pages of ’70s-era original art. Maybe someday I’ll share it all, but for now, here’s what I think matters.

First, Stan’s plot —

Though I’m fascinated by Stan’s direction to Ross that he should — “Always make sure most of the panels in a romance story show the heroine looking sad rather than happy. For some reason, girl readers want to read about people with PROBLEMS, not happy-looking people.” — that’s not the part that speaks most to the collaborative process. For that, I direct your attention to the ending.

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I thought I pretty much knew everything about comics. But thanks to The Superhero Book: The Ultimate Encyclopedia of Comic-Book Icons and Hollywood Heroes, I just learned a couple of things more. And in case you didn’t know these two facts either …

Charlton Comics was created by two guys who met in jail

Charlton was the home of such superheroes as Captain Atom (co-created by Steve Ditko years before he went on to co-create Spider-Man), The Question (where I got my first taste of Ditko’s Ayn Randian pontificating long before I ever encountered his Mr. A), and others.

But it all began because someone got arrested for copyright infringement:

In the early 1930s, Italian immigrant John Santangelo, a bricklayer, was encouraged by a girlfriend to produce a magazine that printed the lyrics to popular songs. His effort landed him behind bars for copyright infringement. In jail, he got a crash course in copyright law, courtesy of fellow inmate Edward Levy, a disbarred lawyer, and they joined forces upon their release to start a legitimate publishing house, Charlton.

Which basically means, no copyright infringement—no Watchmen!
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I headed to Manhattan Saturday for a visit to the Bernarducci Meisel Gallery so I could see for myself those Sharon Moody paintings which had so ticked me off three weeks ago. Would experiencing the real-world art hung on a gallery wall, as opposed to seeing them diminished into relatively small .jpgs, change the way I felt? Would attempting to see the artwork with the guidance of gallery director Frank Bernarducci lessen my irritation about what I saw as an obvious attribution issue?

I believed both the art and the artist deserved a shot at changing my mind, so it was worth a trip before the exhibition closed, which it will do on the 15th. So if you want to see it yourself, you’d better hurry.

[And since I don’t want to recap everything I’ve said before, if you have no idea what I’m talking about, and want to catch up, check out this, this, this, this, this, and this, in that order.]

But first, before diving into the visit itself … a tangent.

One reason I’m sensitive to this issue is because the artists whose work has been repurposed here are more than just names to me. Sure, some of them I may know from their work only (albeit work that affected me deeply and helped transform my life), but there were others who were far more than that to me. I worked alongside many of these creators during my days on staff at Marvel Comics (and yes, that’s what I looked like below, seen with my then-future wife in photos from the 1975 Marvel Comics Convention program book) and later as a freelancer for both Marvel and DC.

So I think of these people as friends and colleagues. And when I see an image by Jack Kirby or Ross Andru or José Luis García-López (the last of whom actually drew one of my own stories) or any other comics creator used without even a tip of the hat, I take it personally.

Ironically, even the gallery visit itself was personal. Because 37 West 57th Street happens to be only a block and a half away from 575 Madison Avenue, where I spent so many years working for Marvel during the ’70s. Whenever I’m in that part of midtown Manhattan, I usually pause in front of the building to remember of how my life was changed there. So you can see how wading through the geography of comics past to speak up on behalf of comics past might have gotten me a little verklempt.

But enough misty-eyed nostalgia … (more…)