Prizes used to be the winning domain of very few people in the world, not toys for savvy publicists and marketing agents to play with that guaranteed franchise success through lucrative licensing deals. The Pulitzer Prize, for instance, meant a lot to me as a young reader, because its status conferred an honorific upon the writer that was like a Michelin star of literary greatness. It meant that an expert panel had agreed upon, and recognized, the strength of the work. This, amongst a group of people that counted rigorous, heated debate as an intrinsic part of the narrative artform.
After I had studied "The Art of the Book" at its chosen institute for Higher Learning, the newest iteration of illustrated narration, the graphic novel, won our discipline's greatest honor. It was no surprise to me as a young apprentice that the first real Art Director I ever worked with had designed the cover for Art Spiegelman's Maus, which I only discovered after he asked me whether or not it should be included in his "book": the portfolio of cover designs that we show prospective clients. I was taken aback for a moment. Are you kidding me? It's so famous, and it's such a great book! What's the question, here? Keep it in there! I didn't see the point of asking.
"Yeah....", he mused to me slowly, in a way I'd learn to find as normal for a mentor leading junior talent through a question, "but, is it still fresh? I designed it sooo many years ago." It was a telling statement about the shortness of memory publishing had recently acquired, as an industry that capitalizes on the new and trendy like a viciously starved dog. But, my former mentor was supposed to be different than the rest of the pack. He'd won many prestigious book awards as the creative lead of a selective literary imprint. This was a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel! Their gold seal meant more than Oprah's Book Club seal-of-approval! This was an award judged by our peers. It meant something. Right?
"Well...", he went on to explain its limited recognition to the university press he was meeting with, that served the needs of younger minds with much less reference material to work with. Why would NYU care about a trade book cover, no matter how famous it was? They were looking for someone who could design for their current curriculum. He got the freelance gig to design their catalog, but he lost respect with me. There was no question in my mind what the better job was, but with his conditions, he was at the office until 10-11 pm anyway, after making a noontime appearance that only the very best divas were afforded for their prize-winning productivity. In his OCD/ADHD-manic world, it was all about NEW! NOW! NEXT! Not old, dead Jews.
Just like the movies that depend so much on our creative output for their industriousness, his idea of freshness was based on a series of serious medical diagnoses that we only had euphemisms for in the public world of 90s America, as we struggled with the sickness of other people's madness behind closed, locked doors. The way he shut out his own storied past became an apt metaphor for the same climate that produced the modern worlds' most horrifying genocide, done with the same efficient penstrokes of so many office workers "just doing their job(s)." It was a perfect example about the banality of evil my father had so often warned me about that lurked in the corporate world, perpetrated daily in office cubicles by a dully unfeeling people frightened only by the threat of a paycheck to pay for their next escapist entertainment.
Maus remains the best true life account I have ever read about the horrors of the Holocaust, told through the fabled cat-and-mouse of Art Spieglman's family history in so many pen strokes, and it is not to be missed. Add this book series to your college curriculum.
I dare you.
I dare you.
