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Helen Chazan

Articles

  • Jan 9, 2025 | tcj.com | Helen Chazan

    A person, alone in their home, applies their makeup, examining the effect of their mascara and blush in the bathroom mirror. They hold a picture of themself, younger, smiling, a face dotted with unconcerned stubble. Slumped down on the edge of their bedroom mattress, they begin to cry but stifle their tears and hide away the old photo in a discreet dresser drawer.

  • Oct 17, 2024 | tcj.com | Helen Chazan

    Two men, lithe and androgynous. One is in armor, his long, white hair tied into a bun, the other in regal attire, his jet black hair straight and cropped short. The two hold each other and stick their fingers in the other's mouth. The blond looks downcast, dare I say crestfallen, while his partner appears eager, pleased and even amused, staring intently at his mate.

  • Oct 9, 2024 | tcj.com | Helen Chazan |Katie Lane's

    Bernadette Magazine #1 arrives with a feeling of momentous portent. There are a lot of great comics anthologies around at the moment, but none have carried with them the sense of being a defining statement of what alternative comics might now be quite like Bernadette. Maybe it's the large dimensions of the magazine, maybe it's the glossy paper stock that evades both the pragmatic newsprint and the boutiquifying riso format that have been the norm for so much of the scene lately.

  • Sep 11, 2024 | tcj.com | Helen Chazan

    When I was starting out in this whole comics crit thing, the standard joke about crappy criticism or academic writing about art was to say a work was about "bodies in spaces." Is that still the joke? Talking bodies in spaces is, the maxim goes, a way to sound important while saying nothing of significance. But lately, when I'm reading comics, I really do find myself wondering - what could be more interesting in sequential art than bodies? Formally, what is more compelling than spaces?

  • Aug 28, 2024 | tcj.com | Helen Chazan

    He looks tired. He looks anxious. His eyes are two wavering black holes cut into a pouch, ever so slightly indented by the face beneath or perhaps from the tear in the fabric which formed them. These eyes, or perhaps the windows from which they gaze, stream spectrally, offering the cartoon impression of a ghost, or else shame like the shame Charlie Brown felt when he covered his head with a paper bag. This man's covering is overlaid in spikes, threatening or perhaps distracting from his bodily form.

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