Monday, January 30, 2012
YOU CAN'T EVEN MOVE OUT OF THE SPACE YOU'VE BEEN GIVEN
You are enchanted. The Invisibles places you, plays you, works you over, wears you like a skin. It is prison warden and puppeteer, set and stage director.
"LOOK IN THE MIRROR," Tom commands, dictating Dane's gaze and our own. We stare into the blank space of nothing and are told that we are nothing. This is theater. The reader submits to being processed by the writer, the artist, the inker, the colorist, the editor, etc. The reader becomes content as sensory order is tweaked and tuned - palettes color the reader, words grip and constrain as spells and curses, panels and pages become the sacred geometries of a magic of boundaries, of constraints, of the collapse of potentialities into the actualities of print.
All of the violence in The Invisibles is against the reader - to read the page is to have it inflicted upon us. The page is a death sentence - awareness is drawn across the surface almost by rote, quartered by each panel. The reader haunts the page, but not as free spirit. Rather, every line and color are gestures in a grand ritual of summoning, every panel a circle of power framing the reader's space. The reader is not in control here, but awash in the mysteries of submission.