If you're at all like me, you're probably more familiar with Buster Brown via the shoes than anything else. Though certainly not as popular as they once were, I distinctly recall a time when "Buster Browns" were the 7-year-old's equivalent of Air Jordans or Crocs. However, Buster Brown was actually a comic strip character BEFORE become a shoe mascot.

Buster Brown debuted as a comic strip in the New York Herald in 1902. It was created by Richard Outcault, who is perhaps better known as the creator of the Yellow Kid from almost a decade earlier. The character was then bought by the Brown Shoe Company in 1904 and debuted as the company mascot at the World's Fair in St. Louis. Outcault continued drawing the character in the comics until 1921.

But the character continued on. Beginning in 1925, a series of live-action comedy shorts were produced featuring Arthur Trimble in the titular role. Tige the dog was played by Pal (at some point renamed Pete), who would later go on to become the iconic Petey in Our Gang shorts. Here's "Buster's Mix-Up"...

There were, I believe, 49 Buster Brown shorts in all. "Buster's Mix-Up" was #9 (I think) and was first released on May 26, 1926. Buster Brown didn't receive any notable media exposure again until a radio show in 1943, and then a television program in 1951. The Buster Brown comic book ran from 1945 until 1956, with a handful of additional one-off issues throughout the 1950s.

After that, the only new Buster Brown material I'm aware of are commercials. There were a few reprint books in the 1970s, but nothing new that I can find. Which would probably explain why many folks my age or younger aren't aware of Buster Brown's history as a bona fide comic character!

I had started playing drums when I was ten in school and, when I showed that it was something that I was legitimately interested in, my folks had me start taking formal lessons at the (sort of) local music store. It was a small place and it was a retail store first and foremost, so they didn't really have a place to sit or hang out while I was waiting for the previous kid's lesson to finish up. The first few times I inspected the various instruments on display while I waited, but it's not like they rotated stock on a weekly basis or anything so that got old real quick. What I did come across, though, was that they had a stack of Cleveland Scene on one of the counters which I would regularly pick up.

Cleveland Scene -- or, rather, just Scene as I knew it back then -- started in 1970 and is a free alternative weekly paper. It relies heavily on classified ads, which I would regularly scan for local drum equipment, but also had a lot of original articles on Cleveland-area arts and entertainment. At the time I was reading it weekly, there was a heavy focus on music, particularly big name bands whose tours came through the area, but they also had pieces on the local food scene and movies and such. After I stopped taking drum lessons (though I continued to play!) I didn't pick up Scene regularly, although I would grab a copy if I happened across one somewhere. After I graduated high school, I moved away from the area and haven't seen an issue "in the wild" since.

They're still around, though. My buddy Matt was kind enough to send me their Comics Issue until he passed away a couple years ago. I believe they started in 2013 dedeciating one issue in January to local area indie comics creators. Their in-issue descriptions have been a little light the past few years, but in 2018, they introduced the section with this...

It's a celebration of the talented working comic artists in Cleveland, those who are carrying on the city's long and storied tradition in panels and pushing it in new directions.

I think the idea was started by John Greiner, an area creator himself, whose The Lake Erie Monster comics were how I first came across him. I don't know how he came to work with Scene though. In any event, despite his parting with the magazine in 2018, they've continued on with the annual Comics Issue, with the latest one coming out about a week ago. It was curated -- as it has been for the past several years -- by Sequoia Bostick and Amaia DeGirolamo of Vagabond Comics, and features some original one page comics by Tom Waitzman, Zach Nelson, Quill Kolat, Sara Calhoun, Lindsey Bryan and Deni Lance. The cover art is by the Justin Michael Will.

The issue is still mostly dedicated to local stuff other than comics, but that they're willing to highlight several local creators every year and expose readers to their work is incredibly laudible. They do miss on including anything about "here's where you can find more of their work" so unless the creator includes their website or Facebook page or whatever, they're relying on readers doing a bit of digging on their own. But I believe the creators are paid for their work and I'm sure there's at least a handful of folks who become fans based on it, so I hope Scene continues this idea for years to come.

I believe, technically, the most recent Comics Issue is still on the "stands" (wherever it's distributed) for another week but if you're reading this post later, you can still access it -- and all the other comics issues -- digitally via their website.

One of the challenges I face when reviewing graphic novel adaptations of other books stem from not always having read the original. Something I might see as a flaw in the adaptation might have been in the original; the message(s) and theme(s) of the original are inherently filtered -- and therefore potentially distorted or corrupted -- through the adapters; many of the visual elements have to be invented wholecloth because the original author didn't feel it necessary to detail what everything looked like... Ultimately, how much credit/blame goes to the original author and how much goes to the adapters? Is it the adaption itself that's good, or was the original so good that even a poor adaption comes across as powerful?

In some cases, I'm able to at least guess that based on what I've heard about the book. In the case of This Slavery, however, I had never even heard of Ethel Carnie Holdsworth's book until getting my hands on the graphic novel adaptation by Scarleet and Sophie Rickard. The original was written in 1925 and details the lives of two sisters when the textile mill they work at burns down and leaves them -- and many other area residents -- without income. That it's not more well-known than it might be is largely intentional because, well... let me talk specifically to the Rickard sisters' adapation for a bit first.

The book takes place in Lancashire, England in some unspecified time before World War I. The Martin family -- sisters Rachel and Hester, along with their mother and grandmother -- are living in poverty, to the point of reading and darning socks in the dark to save money by not burning an oil lamp. Many of their neighbors are in similar situations, so when the local textile mill burns down, many find themselves out of work. The lack of income begins impacting the Martin's health as they can't eat properly or stay warm during colder days. Hester develops a nasty and persistent cough, and her grandmother passes away.

A new mill by another businessman opens. He takes a liking to Hester, and courts her despite her blatant disinterest. She does eventually relent, though, for the sake of escaping her family's perptual poverty. Meanwhile, though, Rachel learns that her birth father was none other than the owner of the other mill that burned down, a fact intentionally hidden from her by her mother. When he offers to buy their silence, Rachel becomes incensed and starts becoming much more active in advocating for workers' rights. The two sisters' lives diverge pretty notably; but Rachel observes that while she is sometimes arrested and thrown in prison for her "agitation" her sister Hester is living in a prison of her own as well.

As the years wear on, though, the two both work for the benefit of the common man. Rachel becomes a powerful speaker on behalf of unions and workers' rights, helping to organize strikes and the like. While Hester largely plays the "good housewife" despite her husband's increasingly abusive treatment of her, she secretly relays notes about his business plans to the workers so they can counter them more efficiently. This all comes to a head after several years, and he physically throws Hester to the curb in anger and frustration shortly before caving to the workers' demands. Although Hester is killed while police are ostentisbly "protecting" the crowd, Rachel continues her efforts and even expands toward the then-just-starting Labour Party.

I am absolutely not doing this story justice in my summary. Despite the surface story really only focusing on the lives of two women, there are so many layers of socio-political commentary and cultural observations, I can't begin to summarize everything. And even more impressive is how this was written a century ago, it still speaks very directly to our collective situation today. There are a handful of wealthy elite living in their fortified mansions largely oblivious to life outside their walls while everyday folks are stuggling to pay for food and shelter and health care.

Capitalism depends on uncertainty. It's part of the system that we are liable to be flung out of work to starve and rot at any moment. And if we object, Capitalism provides for a police force and an army to quell us using lad of our own class to shoot us down... We must accept Capitlism thrives not only on the selfish courage of Capitalists, but the cowardly apathy of workers like ourselves. Just a week's grub is enough to cotnent us to go on in the same old way.

There were several bits of dialogue like that that just rang out like a shot; I could easily fill a page with similar quotes that get right to the crux of issues like that. Barbed and succinct. You are being used and discarded like an old tissue. How much of that is Holdsworth's and how much of is Sophie's, I can't say. Or how much of is basically Holdsworth's, but Sophie tweaked it slightly or gave the dialogue to another character or in a different situation. Regardless, the phrase "spitting bars" comes to mind.

As to Scarlett's artwork, she does an incredible job setting the mood for every scene. The opening, for example, I initially thought was dark and muddy, but we soon learn that was a very deliberate choice to show how they literally are living in a muddied darkness with the lights off. And while there's nothing that gets particularly bright and cheery, the level of color and light sends a clear message to the reader what any given character's situation is. And somehow she always just uses "local color," i.e. the colors she depicts are what they actually would be in real life, not using any kind of emotional color filtering or anything. And the scenes where things get particularly bleak -- when the grandmother passes away, for example -- it's downright haunting.

Surprising to me, too, is that Sophie's linework is pretty thin and delicate, but neither does it get lost in the coloring nor does it seem to rely on the coloring for distinguishing between objects and shapes. I've seen other artists who are excellent illustrators and colorists, but their weak inking skills hinders the story. I suspect if I just saw a page of Sophie's black and white linework, I would assume the same, but her coloring works exceptionally well with her inking style, I am quite impressed.

The book clocks in at over 350 pages, and some of the elements are pretty heavy, so it's not something you can breeze through quickly. But it's absolutely excellent and has a really strong message that I think more people need to hear today in 2026. The book came out back in October from SelfMadeHero, so it should be readily available through your favorite bookstore right now. It retails for $23.99 US. Go pick up a copy, and be prepared to make a side run to the hardware store because, despite Rachel's ongoing message of non-violence, there's a good chance you're going to want some torches and pitchforks when you're done.

These days, cartoonists often take a moment on Martin Luther King Day to honor the Civil Rights activist instead of skewering whatever the topic du jour is. This generally takes the form of a drawing of Dr. King with a quote from him, frequently from his "I Have a Dream" speech. Which is nice, if unoriginal, but I was thinking that it must mark for a noticeable contrast from how King would've been depicted by cartoonists in the 1960s.

You might recall that King, while lauded as almost a saint these days, was considered a very controversial figure back in the day. That's why J. Edgar Hoover worked for years to use every FBI resource available to discredit him at every opportunity, and why he was eventually assassinated.

So how was King depicted by cartoonists back then? What did they say about his activism, his speeches, his death? I did a little searching and came up with the following cartoons, mostly from 1966-1968. Most of those I found weren't particularly kind, but the three that appeared shortly after his death were respectful at least. (The one with the hand-writing was sent to King himself, and remains in his archives.)

Here are this week's links to what I've had published recently...

Kleefeld on Comics: Surrounded Review
https://ift.tt/eYs016v

Kleefeld on Comics: 3D Back Again?
https://ift.tt/sYpQuyr

Kleefeld on Comics: The Dilbert Gauge
https://ift.tt/hf4XtIn

Kleefeld on Comics: What's with Those Weird Color Bars Across the Tops of Old Comics?
https://ift.tt/WRYQpiP

Kleefeld on Comics: Wouldn't It Just Be More Interesting for the Artist?
https://ift.tt/vVPWEHw

When I was in my early teens, I'd hoped I could become a comic book artist. Not only was I interested in comics, but I was one of those kids who everyone always said was a "pretty good drawer." Which only meant that I was just a touch better than average. But before I even realized that I wasn't talented enough to develop a career in illustrating comic books in the first place, I decided that wasn't really a career path for me anyway.

My father was something of an artist himself. Not full-time, but he did the illustrations for a few books back in the day, not to mention illustrating many of the articles he wrote. So while I was growing up, he did provide some suggestions and guidance with my drawing.

I recall at one point talking with him about comic book art specifically. I don't know how exactly the conversation started, but I'm sure it must have been somewhat informal as I can recall the two of us just standing idly in the kitchen while we talked, and we rarely had real talks in the kitchen. I'm assuming we both happened to be getting something to drink or snack on at the same time. In any event, Dad noted that he never liked the idea of drawing comic books for a living because, he figured, if you were working on a monthly book, that effectively meant that you had to draw a complete page every day, and the vast majority of the panels would feature the same character(s). If you're working on Amazing Spider-Man, then, that's six drawings of Spider-Man every day, every month until they fire you. That's 150 finished drawings of Spider-Man every month, and how many different ways can you draw the same guy swinging from the same webline? (I know the math is a little off there, but that was his example at the time.)

The tedium of that sounded absolutely dreadful, and that's pretty much when I decided I wasn't going to be a comic book artist. (I half-wonder if his comments weren't chosen specifically to dissuade me from trying to become a comic artist. Either to spare my ego from my lack of skill, or to steer me away from freelancing as a career.)

Of course, a lot of artists do find ways to keep themselves interested and engaged in their art. But that's one of the things that surprises me about superhero comics: if you're doing a monthly book where the heroes are almost all white, and largely male, and virtually all have the same muscular body type, wouldn't you want to break up the monotony byt showcasing more minorities in the backgrounds? Just as an artist, isn't it more interesting and engaging for yourself to drawing different-looking characters? Isn't it more interesting if you weren't drawning the same basic body types over and over and over? Isn't it more interesting to draw Asian characters and Latino characters? Isn't it more interesting to draw fat people and skinny people? People with afros and people who are bald? People with dark skin and people with light skin? People with disabilities, and people who are extremely athletic?

It's not a noble motivation, but wouldn't some diversity just make the job of an artist less dull/repetitive? Even if the rationale isn't high-minded, the results for readers would be the same.

Let's go back to an era when you could only get comics from a newsstand. The guy running the newsstand was getting hundreds of periodicals on a continual basis, almost all of which were running on different schedules. Some came in daily, some weekly, some monthly, some bi-monthly, some quarterly... In the days before computers, this would be an incredible amount of work to keep track of what came in when. And it was important to keep track of that because most periodicals were sold to retailers on a returnable basis. That is, if the retailer didn't sell everything he ordered in a given timeframe, he could return them to his distributor for a refund.

Naturally, though, this wasn't a completely open-ended arrangement. You couldn't return something, for example, a year after it was published and expect anything back. You had a window of maybe a couple of months at most, depending on the frequency of the periodical.

Now you'd think that since most periodicals post their publication date on the cover, this wouldn't be an issue. The December 15th issue of the New York Times came out on December 15, right? With magazines and comics, though, publishers frequently tried to look more current than they actually were. So they'd print a date somewhat later than when the book actually went on sale; a book that was actually published in January would have a February date and would (theoretically) look more current than the other magazines next to it with the actual date.

(This got out of hand eventually, and you'd have comics' publication dates off by 6-8 months!)

So to keep track of when comics ACTUALLY hit the newsstands, retailers would literally write the date it came out right on the cover. Here's a copy of Fantastic Four #1. It's cover dated Novemeber 1961, but you can see the "8/9" clearly written under the "R" in the title, indicating it really hit the stands on August 9th.

(Note that local distribution channels worked on slightly different schedules, so not every issue of FF #1 across the country came out on August 9. Some could easily be hand-dated a week in either direction. In fact, I've seen copies of FF #1 dated as early as July 30 and as late as August 21!)

Writing on each and every issue was a bit tedious, though, and retailers no doubt complained to their local distributors. What many of the regional distributors started doing was slapping a bit of paint across the top edge of the comic. So, now, instead of having to make note of the actual date, the distributors could just say, "We're accepting returns on all red-coded books." As they'd change the color with each shipment, it became easy for a retailer to just scan through his inventory and pull out any comics that had a bit of red (or whatever the color was for that week) on the top. Take a look at the top of this Machine Man #10 where you can see a bit of red splotching above the "Marvel Comics Group" banner.

Now, this wasn't done at every distributor, so it's not universal. And since it was done at the regional level, there's no consistency in color or the... ah... delicacy of application. So you can find some issues with what's called "overspray" when the person who was actually putting the color on the books was perhaps a bit too generous, like with this copy of Astonishing Tales #5...

This system lasted for about 10-12 years, primarily through the 1970s. As comics became more and more collectible, and with the emergence of the direct market, this was clearly unacceptable to readers. The publishers themselves then began color-coding their own books, so the regional distributors wouldn't have to. But, so as not to put an ugly color bar on their covers, which they viewed as a primary sales tool, the color bars were put on all the interior pages. But by running them at the very edge of every page, a retailer could still make out the colors without having to open each book.

Keep in mind that this was all done because comics were being sold on a returnable basis at least in some meaningful capacity. These color codes weren't really being used by the direct market because their books weren't returnable in the first place, but they still had to deal with the overspray and color bars because the books still came through the same channels. Once the direct market became, for all practical purposes, the only real way for individual customers to purchase comics, this color coding system was no longer necessary. This color system was only being used to tell retailers when they could return the books; with the non-returnable set-up of the direct market, this was a non-issue. Publishers eventually dropped the color bars entirely since effectively none of their books were getting returned anyway.

Not coincidentally, I expect, the color bars ceased around the same time when publishers began emphasizing the collectibility aspect of their books with foil, die-cuts, embossing, and the like. It was part of a general realization that their comics were no longer going to a mass audience, but almost exclusively to people who were collecting them. But that's another set of issues entirely!