"Bang! Pow! Comics aren't just for kids anymore!"
Mainstream headlines along those lines have become a running joke among comics fans. The joke remains a bitter one, though. Comics these days are treated as serious art by galleries and museums; they are treated as serious literature by mainstream reviewers. And yet, the bang and the pow linger. Dan Clowes and Alison Bechdel are certainly successful and respected, but when you say "comic book," your average person and/or journalist doesn't think of Maus. They think of superhero movies.
It's in this context, I think, that you have to read Hillary Chute's recent essay at Poetry magazine. Chute is a professor of literature at the University of Chicago who focuses on comics—and for her, comics adamantly do not mean Dark Knight Rises or The Avengers. She says in her article that for her, comics bring to mind not films, but, of all things, poetry.
The most fruitful analogy to comics might be poetry. Alison Bechdel ... puts it this way. Comics, she says, is "like concrete poetry -- it has to look like what it is." ... Comics is a site-specific medium; it can't be re-flowed, re-jiggered on the page; hence, it is spatially located on the page the way that poetry often must be. The rich relationships between word and image in which spatial arrangement is significant, and which characterizes contemporary comics, had precursors in all sorts of poetic experiments.
For Chute, comics and poetry both exist on the page—the spatial arrangement is integral to the meaning. This is in contrast to prose, where the position of the words on the page isn't important and can change from edition to edition.
It's an ingenious argument—and not less so because it's fairly easy to nitpick it to death. There are plenty of poems written in prose. ("It is even in prose, I am a real poet," as Frank O'Hara said.) And there are plenty of comics that don't rely on spatial relationship on the page. I've seen Peanuts strips arranged horizontally, vertically, or even two panels staggered per page in some book collections. It doesn't change the meaning any more than narrowing the margins alters the reading experience of Moby Dick (which is to say, it alters it somewhat, but not in any substantive way.)
Such caveats, though, don't really negate Chute's main point, which is that comics and poetry share, or at least can share, a fair bit of common ground. Which is a perfectly reasonable observation. And yet it's telling that the central thematic quote of Chute's essay, the one that provides her title, is not really about comics and poetry at all.
To invoke an amusing phrase from an interview I conducted with Scott McCloud, author of the classic Understanding Comics, comics is "secret labor in the aesthetic diaspora." He explains about the form's traffic in essence: "Nobody picks a comic up off the stands and gasps in admiration at all the unnecessary panels that were left out. You don't see that -- it's secret, it's hidden -- but that process does go on."
Poetry has been so successful at defining itself as only high art that the lines of communication with lowbrow forms have been severed. As a result, poetry has turned itself into an ivory tower phenomena of painful and infuriating insularity.
Chute reads this as being about the compactness of comics, which she sees as analogous to the compactness of poetry. But in fact, it seems like McCloud's simply making the case that comics are art; that there are aesthetic choices that go into them. The labor in comics is secret not because comics are especially inscrutable, but rather because "Nobody picks a comic up" and thinks about the aesthetic choices involved. McCloud's quote is about culture, not form. He's talking about status. And the fact that that quote ends up as her title is a tell that Chute's essay is in part about status as well.