By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Abel looks the way I'd pictured her, too, those oversize reddish glasses and short brown hair familiar from drawings in her popular comic Artbabe and from her self-portrait at the back of her latest graphic novel, La Perdida (Pantheon).
Abel started Artbabe on a lark in 1992 when she pulled some strips together to show the publishers of Fantagraphics at the Comic-Con in her native Chicago. Fantagraphics didn't immediately bite, so Abel self-published whenever she could find time between day jobs. Influenced by the likes of Love and Rockets and dominated by clever glam-rock chicks wrangling with angsty romantic entanglements or hanging out with girlfriends in grungy bars, Artbabe became a hot underground comic at a moment when few other women were drawing them. Most female cartoonists of the time exuded a confessional vibe, so readers figured Artbabe was autobiographical too, instinctive outpourings rather than well-crafted stories. "I assume that happened partly because I'm female," she shrugs as she darts into the kitchen to check something simmering on the stove. "I've always been seen to have a talent for developing characters and if they feel real, people think they must be real," she says. "When La Perdida was first serialized [in 2001], everyone assumed it was autobiographical, but as it went along people figured out Carla wasn't meor hoped it wasn't me, given what happens in the book."
An American naïf adrift in Mexico City, Carla gets in trouble while ostensibly searching for her Latina roots. A self-described "crunchy ethnic wannabe" with a serious Frida Kahlo complex, she earnestly sets out to differentiate herself from her expat friends, including her rich ex-boyfriend Harry who doesn't know any locals (except "the guy at the liquor store"). Carla, on the other hand, befriends a gang of Mexican Marxists who constantly tease her about American imperialism and her desire to go native. "I'm not a conquistadora!" she wails at one point, shredding her beloved Frida poster and smashing one of her folkloric pots. Its shards take up a whole white page, a visual emblem of Carla's confusion.
Abel herself ended up in Mexico in 1998 on a romantic whim. She'd been turned down for a grant and so decided to accompany then boyfriend and fellow cartoonist Matt Madden (now her husband) on his move to Mexico. A year later she started work on a comic about expats that morphed into La Perdida. "I wanted to create a portrait of Mexico Cityand then I set terrible crimes there!" she says with a rueful laugh. "It is rough and magical, and if you're an idiot or really unlucky, you can get in really big trouble there, a lot bigger and a lot more easily than in New York." Carla does get caught up in some serious peril, but Abel doesn't make excuses for her clueless heroine. "Carla acts dumb, and I love characters who are blind in one way or another. I never write characters who have it all togetherwhy bother?"
Carla's a recognizable type, the pious American trekker in search of something authentic. But she's not a stand-in for all Americans, as becomes clear when her brother Rod shows up for a visit. A laid-back skateboarder, Rod seems to know way more interesting people and places in Mexico City than Carla. He takes her to raves and introduces her to Mexican hipstersthe equivalent of the characters who populated Artbabe, and more like the kind of people Abel says she hung out with during her stint abroad. But Carla veers away from this cosmopolitan milieu because, as Abel explains, "She doesn't feel different or interesting enough at home and when she goes with Rod to parties, she feels like as much of a dork as she did [back in Chicago]. She wants to become somebody new when she goes away." But Carla's too wrapped up in her romanticized images of Mexico to see danger approaching, even as a stark noir edge creeps into the book's later panels.