Shoah Et Bande Desinée curated by Didier Pasamonik and Joël Kotek (review)

The Memorial de la Shoah, as a museum, cannot help but overwhelm in its solemnity. Entering the institution, one wonders if it is open; bars close off the front, leading the prospective patron to a small entry where they must pass through a metal detector, their possessions X-rayed by armed guards, a grim reminder that the persecution of Jews did not end with World War II. The sober atmosphere does not end after entry, of course, with a memorial with thousands of names of the departed inscribed and the weight of many of the institution's exhibitions. The Holocaust is an inescapable context for viewing any exhibit within the Memorial and, as such, a certain level of gravity is a given.

The exhibition, which brings together original comic art, reproductions, films, and a substantial library of the publications themselves, delves into the rich and varied array of graphic responses to the Holocaust. Fortunately, it is curated with a broad knowledge of the art form and does not lean too heavily on American traditions. In the United States, the rise of the comic book was a New York parallel to its formal West Coast cousin, the Hollywood film. Both art forms would share a long-term stigma as trash in the United States and were largely propelled by the toil and artistry of Jewish Americans. So although the United States abstained from entering World War II for some time, there were large factions of the comic book industry who made their opinions known through a blizzard of stars and stripes. The American superhero went to war years before the United States did. This sets up a pleasing tension between the American and European approaches to the comics form, particularly in their treatment of such sensitive events.

Of the American art on display, it is the work of Joe Kubert that is the most technically outstanding, and quite possibly the darkest. With his consummate brushwork and firm grasp of perspective, machines, and anatomy, Kubert is known for some of the best war comics ever made, including Unknown Soldier, Sgt. Rock, and Enemy Ace. The exhibition boasts two stunning original pages drawn by Kubert, including his infamous Unknown Soldier cover depicting the titular character hiding himself and a young girl on a cart of dead victims from the Warsaw Ghetto in order to escape the Nazis. Published in 1981, the impact of such horrific imagery had not dulled but had become more permissible. Made by a "goy," such comics work would smack of exploitation, but Kubert, a Polish-born American Jew, has always maintained an interest in the Holocaust and in war comics as a genre. Kubert clearly makes use of the pathos and melodrama available to comics as a form; his comics appear to be tantalizingly vulgar when exhibited alongside the work of his European counterparts, yet no less expressive or resonant—a fine line to walk.

Of the many Europeans featured in the exhibition, Enki Bilal stands out as one of the most accomplished (and famous) but also one of the least represented. Despite Bilal's supposed prominence (the poster for the exhibition even prominently features his work), little is included, and what is included is outperformed by everyone represented by more than five pages. Because of the usually narrative momentum of the comics form, especially when used to deliver such august and macabre examinations of one of the darkest chapters of the twentieth century, artists represented by a few pages, even with artistry as deft as Bilal's, are given short shrift. Although the exhibition is not ideal for the comic reading experience, Shoah Et Bande Desinée does a fine job of meeting the form halfway, with the many featured original pages complemented by a library of the publications themselves. This circumvents the problem of context and format for the display of comics in galleries while drawing attention to the exquisite artistry that is often lost, or at least...