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“The ordinary days that we live in may, in fact, be a series of miracles”
― Koujirou Sasahara, from the television series Nichijou

 

On my bookshelf there are folders, binders, and sketchbooks full of old drawings and comics. It would surprise no one that me, a queer character artist, had an intense relationship with comics and character-driven narrative material since childhood. In a red folder from 2006, there are piles of cringe-worthy comics drawn in glitter gel pen. Mostly inserting my Military Camp friend group into other content (comics, music videos, memes), I excitedly used these as a way to feel connected to my comrades during the school year. At school, I was the weird ‘cat girl’ who liked video games, Pokémon, and other things that were uncool. But during the summer, I went to camp with a group of imaginative people who let me be the character I was without shame. Together we grew, sharing manga, comics, memes, and whatever else we could find in the Wild West of internet image boards of the late 2000’s. Through these boards we were able to insert ourselves into our favourite content without same, and sometimes even made connections with others through our geekiness. Out of all the material we jived with, the most impactful in the long term for my practice was Yonkoma ‘slice of life’ manga, popularized by the likes of Yotsuba and Azumanga Daioh (samples below).

 

While I appreciate genre content (especially horror as noted in the last post), there is something incredibly charming about ‘slice of life’ content, which I have seen more prevalent in Japanese manga/anime than American media. Unlike TV shows like Friends and Seinfeld where ‘banal narrative’ is driven by the insufferably of the characters and how they interact, illustrated content benefits from the ability to caricaturize everyday moments to bring the experience closer to how the situations actually feel. Through facial expressions, exaggeration, and smart paneling, these comics are able to turn moments that we may pass by into charming, memorable scenarios. Specifically looking at the Yonkoma layout (4 panel comic layout, generally used for ‘slice of life’), I find the structure of this essential for my own narrative. This structure is as follows:

“Traditionally, yonkoma follow a structure known as kishōtenketsu. This word is a compound formed from the following Japanese kanji characters:

Ki (起): The first panel forms the basis of the story; it sets the scene.
Shō (承): The second panel develops upon the foundation of the story laid down in the first panel.
Ten (転): The third panel is the climax, in which an unforeseen development occurs.
Ketsu (結): The fourth panel is the conclusion, in which the effects of the third panel are seen.”

–Carolin Fischer, Mangaka

 

Not to be cynical, but people generally are uninterested in the plight of others, especially marginalized groups (like ‘the theys’). Combined with a media-saturated culture that perpetuates itself on clickbait titles and microposting, I feel my story of transition is not palatable in the long form. In my practice I often avoid ‘tragedy porn’ as well, wanting to show the trans journey  as a multi-faceted cycle of gender euphoria and dysphoria instead of abject suffering. With humor as a reoccurring tactic in my work, I feel I can use ‘less is more’ to bring the viewer into my journey in a way that is accessible, entertaining, and doesn’t add to the depression-pile that is 2020. Although this form was popularized in Japan, the Peanuts comic also utilized this format, so combined with the media consumption spread of globalization, viewers should be comfortable with this bite-sized layout.

 

So I began making these comics! I first wanted to think about form, and what would be easy to print and distribute. Keeping things on 8.5×11 inch card stock, I tried a traditional Yonkoma format, and a ‘widescreen’ version. Then, I created the same comic idea in both formats. Initially I thought I would prefer the traditional format, but in practice it looked like a brochure when folded. A didactic ‘informational’ form was something I wanted to avoid with this comic. After getting feedback, myself and others overwhelmingly preferred the widescreen format, mostly for the freedom in the paneling and the opportunity to make use of negative space. Thus, I went on to produce a cardboard template for the comics, and began making ‘finished’ pages.

 

 

In my OSU application Artist Statement, I talked extensively about accessibility, and how using easily obtained materials was vital to my practice. Coming from rural Southern Maryland, most of my animation materials were purchased from Dollar General (or as we called it, a Farmer’s Walmart). These comics were finally getting back to that goal, made with ink and marker and distributed for free online. Inspired by my zine work for Philly Socialists, I would like to mass-print these and distribute them once quarantine ends. I like the idea of these comics being something you ‘come upon’ in a coffee shop, university common area, or queer bookstore more than something you purchase. Combined with the monster amalgams discussed in the last post, I feel I know have a place for my character art in the ‘high art’ space, and a ‘DIY punk’ world of accessibility. I’m super excited to make more pages, and bind the original copies into a book of my own.

Before there was man, there was nothing. Before there was nothing, there were monsters.

 

Horror film was core to my undergrad media studies. Culturally speaking, horror is way for society to play with the repressed or taboo, then neatly pack it away with the defeat of ‘the monster’: a return to ‘normal’. Essays on the ‘the monstrous queer’ have been generative in understanding how queer coding fits into the construction of monsters or villainy (hello Disney villains!). I’ve experimented with ways to work horror into my art. The lemon Mitches birthed from my stitches (see last post) were a step in taking on a Dr. Frankenstein making. The next step forward came from spring cleaning my studio, and looking closely at what was already on my walls.

In my spring cleaning (pre-quarantine of course), I pulled these sketches from my filing cabinet. There was something gross, cute, and lively coming from the illustrations, and I knew character art would be something I had space for at home. Placed next to screen print tests from my flip books (more on those below), the illustrations were ‘in motion’ in a similar manner to the print test, which used pattern to display change over time. Although I loved these on their own, I knew they needed to be elevated. So I understood my inspiration, my artist toolkit, but the ‘makers mindset’ hadn’t fallen into place.

 

In my personal world I like to take on different fashion personas regularly. This semester, I moved from sporty butch cowboy (purple hair, boots, denim), to ‘too kool for skool’ art jock (pastel green hair, sandals and socks, patterned button downs). Unsurprising considering the self-portrait nature of my work, I’m obsessed with personal iteration. Part of this comes with a passion for pop culture; when I see a dope character, I want to become them, try on their aesthetic. After considering this pattern further, I decided I needed a persona as a maker to dive into this new work.

Then comes inspiration from a surprising source. In my advanced film class, my advisor had asked us to do a visual response to the classic post-apocalyptic film La Jetée. Thinking about a guiding principal of my other favourite post-apoc media pieces (Devilman Crybaby remake and Adventure Time), I considered the idea of ‘cataclysm’ as an ancient evil (or perhaps sentient monster) that plagued the earth on occasion. So I visualized this (for our world) as Monsters (the original evil), Nothing, Dominance of Man (the meteor that killed the dinosaurs), and Destruction of Man (our inevitable downfall due to resource war/climate crisis).

Showing these drawings to my studio advisors was fruitful in two ways. First, these drawings were working in my animators toolkit of artist strategies, but using repetition, pattern, and multiplicity in a more ‘painterly’ application (“Your still lives are not very still!”) Since I needed to translate that toolkit to objects next, it was good to see them working in another form already.  The next was a connection to ‘the monstrous queer’ theory I’d been eager to sprinkle into the practice. I was asked, “Man, nothing, or monster: which are you?” Well, I ain’t a man, I’m non-binary, I’m neither. I ain’t nothing ‘cuz I’m not dead yet. So the answer was monster!  This idea of non-conforming identity as monster was yummy, and this was the final step in deciding my ‘making persona’. I had always seen animation as necromancy; its the act of taking a ‘dead’, still image and bringing it life. It needs the ‘movie magic’ of video to function. Now, I would switch from necromancer to mad scientist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Earlier in the semester, I made flip books for my animation. Since my character art sits in this strange place between ‘Felix the Cat’ and ‘Junji Ito body horror’, I liked the idea of implicating the viewer in the grossness. They would make the motion by using the flip book. This lead to some great discoveries about similarities between printmaking and animation, but overall it wore me out. With 40-50 hours already invested in animation before it was even digitized, adding an extra week of labour (and needing to schedule print lab help) was just…. a lot to ask! Coronavirus made the decision for me though. No print lab meant no flip books for now, but the language of the flip book sat in this fun, childlike place that I wanted to work within.

Since coming to OSU, I’ve had this interest in drawing my characters and cutting them out. I’ve experimented with these in many forms: ModgePodging them onto objects, making cutout animations, forming a Chuck Close-style ‘painting’ from them. But now I needed to think economically about the space of my house and what could be accomplished within. Part of the interest in this process comes from loving paper dolls, and general avatar creation/creative play. Dolls (or action figures) are how we imagine/play out our future as children. Since my practice discusses how pop culture ‘makes us’ through propagating norms and stereotype, I wanted to appropriate the language of ‘dolls’ to discuss gender dysphoria. Just like the flip books felt personal because they fit in your hand, I thought going down to doll size could also be effective for my character works.

 

 

So I made my little monsters! This felt good. I’ve always wanted to be able to work free-hand with ink in the precise and cutesy fashion my partner has achieved. I’ve been developing this ‘style’ since 2017, and now it felt like it was coming to fruition. I made these over the course of a few days, sometime going on Instagram Live and working with them while staying connected to my grad cohort and followers. Just as it feels silly to have gender ‘put’ upon us through socialization, I wanted to give genitals to plants, animals, and objects to caricaturize how silly it feels to adhere to that ‘blue and pink’ system. Avatars of myself fluctuated between reality (crying from a bulbous vagina and drooping breasts) to fantasy (a penis faced foot monster). Once they were drawn, I cut them out as usual. Next would be their ‘becoming’, the *ZAP* of a lightning rod- THEY LIVE!

 

Working with my babies caused me to rethink how I’ve used cut-outs. I was hesitant to cut these apart, or abstract them in a way that decreased their clarity. But then I thought, if I’m willing, if not EAGER to put my real body on the chopping block, why was I hesitant to cut these up? The whole idea of gender transition is rejecting ‘your body is a temple’ mindset. Your body is a pimped-out monster truck, and you get to decide how to upgrade it!

So my partner and I chose which paper dolls we wanted, and began chopping and screwing them together. In previous works I’ve focused on the masculine side of my identity, but I don’t want to set myself up in opposition to femininity either. To work with this formally, the paper dolls and dainty embroidery stitches brought balance back to the non-binary concept. The result was LEVIATHAN (made by myself) and CHIMERA (made by my partner Cam). Not only did these feel generative, but they were fun to make! Which at this point, feels more important than a grand creative gesture- we’re locked indoors for two months, we NEED to have fun!

 

To conclude, this is the next big leap in my newly homebound studio practice.  I have a taxidermy cork board, pins, and sticky tack coming. Besides these ways to display, I’m also considering the idea of encasing these in resin or wax. While the formal language of the paper doll is working, it makes these very flimsy and not-so-durable. Once that package arrives I plan to experiment with display before moving into something more intricate like casting.

 

Stay tuned for more monster madness!

I pull up with a lemon
Not ’cause she ain’t livin’
It’s just your eyes get acidic

-Rihanna, Lemon

 

My objects have been historically ineffective. In undergrad, my sculpture/installation developed a ‘decorative’ visual language. Making an object that ‘looks good’ for the sake of looking good is insufficient for ‘high art’, but it’s been a major inclination when developing work off screen. Despite this marred history with object making/reception, I had an urge to make with my hands! My practice focuses on my body, it’s representation, and transitional changes, so objects are vital to that connection with the viewer. Objects occupy our space, becoming directly relational to body in regards to where they exist. On March 1st, a notion came: why don’t I make Mitches out of dried lemon slices? The formal justification would come later, but I trusted myself. Texting my grocery-managing lover, I demanded 4 bags of lemons, and the making began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll admit this idea is hard to conceptualize, so bear with me. Prolific non-binary animator Rebecca Sugar once said, “every second that you see is 24 connected pieces“. This was the wake-up quote to reconsider my artist strategies and how they could translate to physical objects. Layering, multiplicity, and transformation over time are core tenants of animation, emphasized by the importance of 24 pieces aligning to tell the story of a second. Deeply relating to the additive transition documentation of my home videos, I dove into the ‘micro’ of body and self. Thinking about the humble walk cycle as the core of character animation, this gesture was crucial to the forward motion of my gender transition, as well as the fitness aspect of the transformation. Using graph paper to map where each lemon slice would go, I drafted a simple 6-frame walk cycle, a road map to how my Mitches would be made.

 

Once these Mitches were made, I planned to make collagraph prints of each Mitch, then shoot pictures of the graph paper, lemon objects, and prints. These pictures would come together as a frame-by-frame animation; the lemon Mitch becoming through a simple walk cycle. Inspired by work in my advanced printmaking class, investigated similarities between analog printmaking and traditional animation. Both processes are repetitive and laborious. Some feel these mediums are ‘dying arts’ as digital means economize time and material. They are at risk of being lost to the next generation due to digital dominance, yet both require a transition from digital to analog means. To make my animations, frames are drawn by hand, shot on a multi-plane, converted to mp4 and edited digitally. To make screen prints of my animations for flip books, frames were drawn physically, converted into sheets using InDesign, printed digitally, then exposed on a screen to become analog again. I’ve used the analog to digital strategy in works to discuss transition before (analog data becoming a literal binary of 1’s and 0’s in digital form), and this was the perfect opportunity to expand that practice. Thinking about a reference to CYMK printing, I set aside cyan, magenta, and yellow embroidery floss for the Mitches, enough to make 2 of each color. I planned to print these in the respective colours, to again nod to that relation.

 

As I was sewing Frame 1 Mitch together, the form-to-concept reasons for this impulse arose. On February 10th, I received the insurance decision for my top surgery. Against all odds, my pre-determination assessment was approved, and surgery was scheduled for May 8th. This was exciting, but also alarming. It was real now! Daydreaming about what surgery day would look like, I thought about the implications. I was becoming ‘man-made’, a Gender Frankenstein stitched together by the will to non-conform. Just as I saw animation as a necromancy, bringing life to dead images through time, I was now manipulating time in reality; the breasts it took me 4 years to grow would be removed in 2 hours. In a similar fashion, aging the lemons was exerting my will over time. A drying process that would take days in the sun now took hours in my kitchen. The stitching of lemons worked in the same toolkit as animation, an additive process that transformed character through multiplicity. Fruit has been loaded with symbolism regarding gender/sexuality in Western art history. The lemon, the acidic fruit that leans more towards chemical cleaning product than tasty treat, felt like the symbol of interstitial living. Slices lined up, some uniform some not. The various shapes, char marks, and general inconsistencies lent a notion of nature’s ‘happy accidents’. Lemons don’t come in one or two unified ‘looks’, they’re natural forms BECAUSE of their variation. This felt loaded towards the gender discussion.

 

So I was having this grand re-connect with object making. Then the USA started to notice COVID-19, and OSU shut down our studios. Unfortunately living in a 350 square foot apartment doesn’t accommodate the lemon Mitches. In the spirit of my artistic necromancy, they will one day live again.

 

But what’s next?

 

 

Spring 2020 studio work began on January 3rd. 19 days before returning to campus, my partner Cam, my ma, and myself began the rainy trek to Baltimore from podunk Southern Maryland. Today was the day: after 2 years of therapy for gender dysphoria, I was allowed a consultation for ‘top surgery’ (bilateral mastectomy, chest masculinization). Channeling the energy of an 80’s mall walker, I strode towards the office of Dr. Del Corral, my family huffing behind. Despite the enormity of this occasion, the doctor’s appointment took less time than parking.  In 15 minutes, he assessed my chest, suggested incisions that reduced loose skin, and vetted pages of questions from my ma. Despite the fast-paced blur, I felt strangely reassured. Dr. Del Corral didn’t seem pressed: this was a fairly direct procedure, usually gets covered by insurance, and if I could lose some weight before going under, recovery looked smooth. Although my insurance covering the surgery was still on the table, this was the first time I didn’t take two steps backwards after this leap forward.

 

The nearing possibility of physical transition fed my practice. Working with my advisor in an advanced film class, I wanted to make another short experimental documentary about preparing for top surgery. What lengths could my body go to transform before surgical intervention? Would these changes be enough to satisfy me, before surgery and after? How was delving into gym culture an aspect of masculinization in itself? Sitting with these questions, I began making video work about the discomfort of gender dysphoria and the ‘under the microscope’ visibility of trans individuals.

 

And so began the shooting! Thinking about body as landscape, I was interested in the gesture of pouring and removing. Visualizing gender as something that is placed upon us through socialization, I gave form to that structure with goop. Mixing acrylic paint, Elmer’s glue, and a finely milled glitter, I created a material that dried fairly quickly and sat in a strange place between cake batter and period blood. Is it a sexy gesture of pouring and foodplay? Is it delicate yet gorey dissection? Sprawled on a table with fans pointed at my genitals, my partner and I chatted playfully while the material dried. Then began her sterile, delicate removal of material. I edited this video in Adobe Premiere, testing sound from the Pokemon Red & Blue Soundtrack and my own live bass guitar accompaniment. Stubborn as ever, I realized that I had learned last semester: Final Cut Pro generates my best film art. Taking the footage back into this software, the cut was stitched together.

 

 

OBJECT/TOO SUBJECT from Mitch E. Vicieux on Vimeo.

 

This video brought the house down. Airing to my advisor’s mix grad/undergrad class, I was gleeful to see cishet film bros covering their eyes as my partner peeled paint off my pubic mound. Finally this horror inspiration was starting to come into the formal language of my films. Instead of reinventing the wheel, I returned to my artists toolkit of layering, multiplicity, and organic audio. Unfortunately this video success was short lived.

 

Enter Theys Next Door:

Theys Next Door from Mitch E. Vicieux on Vimeo.

Teaching Moving Image Art this semester, I was inspired by a student who made a delightful comedy piece using Photoshop frame-by-frame puppet animation. Thinking about my love of reality television (and perhaps the intense subjectification my practice brings to my private life) I wanted to work with Girls Next Door. When my breasts began growing at age 12-13, I was convinced future career choice be Playboy model/Hugh Hefner girlfriend. Thinking about how that gender-entrenched goal was constructed by media, I used this content to consider my climb towards desirability. Transitioning (and developing an interest in bodybuilding in the process) is all about how I look, and the euphoria of presenting in a self-desirable fashion. How different is this from working out to be desired by others? The visibility of this transformation seemed linked to that of a Playboy centerfold. So I cut down a 23-minute reality TV episode and animated myself into scenes.

 

What resulted was an unmitigated disaster. It took 3 tries to animate the simple ‘talking head’ scene due to rookie errors ‘I been knew’ to avoid. I was running out of time to add myself into planned scenes. What resulted, I am embarrassed by. The situation worsened at critique. Girls Next Door does not agree with 3rd wave feminism. My peers thought I was punching down on the girls and commenting on unattainable body standards for women. I was confused by this. I ain’t a woman, so I’m unsure why people thought I could speak on women’s beauty standards. Horrified to think that people would see me as willing to ‘punch down’ in my work, I left feeling like hot garbage. I went into to working with this content thinking, “I’m so woke and liberated from gender, this is going to be so silly!” Instead, I fell in love with the show all over again. The show was surprisingly sapphic. There was no contrived reality conflict, just beautiful women supporting each other while doing community service work/personal development. These feelings unfortunately did not translate formally, at least to the group I screened it to. The above video is a shorter cut, but overall this had me in a video rut.

 

After recently completing/re-editing TAPES, an experimental documentary using my archival 1990’s home video mixed with my current home video, I was feeling burnt out on documenting myself. Combined with Theys Next Door, this didn’t seem to be the direction to take this semester. With the cancelling of The Arnold Sports Festival where I was planning to do some guerilla film making about bodybuilding culture, all signs were pointing away from video and towards object.

 

Where did those objects go? Read the next post, or you’ll never know!