The Wasp - Volume I Fall 2019 by The WASP

The American Studies Center Student Journal The American Studies Center Student Journal University of Warsaw University of Warsaw Volume I, Fall 2019 Volume II | Spring 2019 | ISSN: 2450-5676 ISSN: 2450-5676

wasp /wɒsp/ AmE /wɑsp/ noun [C] 1 a black and yellow flying insect which can sting you: There’s a wasps’ nest in that old tree! 2 when translated into the language of the country where the weather is schizophrenic and where even refugees do not wish to go (see: Poland), it becomes an osa – a place where all meanings collapse: Yesterday, I spent an amazing day at OSA! (here: an abbreviation for Ośrodek Studiów Amerykańskich, English: American Studies Center)

LILLA ORLY Editor-in-chief ALEKSANDRA BARCISZEWSKA NATALIA OGÓREK Associate editors MAGDALENA KRZEMIŃSKA Front and back cover PAWEŁ PAŃCZYK KAMILA MARIA WYSZYŃSKA DTP JOANNA MARCHEWKA Illustrations: pages 5, 8, 11, 20, 21, 22, 23 Caricatures: pages 30-31 TERESA BAKALARSKA Illustrations: pages 17, 19 AMALIA PODGÓRSKA Illustrations: pages 16, 26 ANITA MAJEWSKA Caricatures: pages 30-31 MARTA RAPACKA Caricatures: pages 30-31

The WASP | Volume I | Fall 2019

A Sense of Humor Lilla Orly 4 FICTION POETRY Ada and Mrs. Dunham Red Krzysztof Wielgołaski Sappho Katopodi 8 16 Inwards and Outwards Party Hats Lilla Orly Sappho Katopodi 10 17 Służew Sappho Katopodi 18 gulp Teresa Bakalarska 19 Being Agata Podbielkowska 20 Madness Agata Podbielkowska 21 The Hill of Graves Agata Podbielkowska ARTICLES 22 Neo-Activist Comic Books in the Neoliberal Age The Leaf and the Tree Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya Agata Podbielkowska 26 23

The next issue’s theme: Here’s Looking at You, Kid: On Artists and Their Muses We’re still recruiting! If you’re interested in writing for The Wasp, please contact us: thewaspjournal@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/thewaspjournal American Studies Center: asc.uw.edu.pl The WASP | Volume I | Fall 2019

A Sense of Humor Before the introduction of methodology and modern science in which the body is broken down to its molecular components, medicine treated human anatomy very much like a vessel of fluid—and what, really, is the corporeal self but a water balloon of blood? It cannot be said that the now dubbed “pseudosciences” lacked any shred of logic, because, really, any statement could have been treated as fact until proven otherwise. In hindsight, the treatments available for various ailments seem extravagant if not cruel or nauseating. Many of the remedies for minor maladies and chronic conditions followed the inference of “better out than in.” Increasing sweating, reducing eating, and inducing vomiting were all seen as perfectly fit ways to treat overabundance in all of its forms. One of the most popular ways to rid the body of illness was bloodletting, a practice involving the withdrawal of blood by letting it drain out through a wound or suctioning dozens of leeches to a patient until they felt faint. The convention was somewhat inspired by menstruation, as it was believed—even by those as wise as Hippocrates—that the monthly bleeding that women endured was their bodies being purged of “bad humors.” It became so commonplace that physicians and barbers alike undertook the messy cure-all. It would seem that today’s medicine is a lot more focused on treating sickness within the body. Pills and potions are swallowed or injected; treatment of mental illness involves reflection and rumination; the food that enters our bodies must be carefully considered. We are much more focused on taking in, on consuming, on absorbing. In a century lacking the purging of the fluid that was thought to dominate our bodies, it can seem that a new form of bloodletting is being used for self-medication. Twitter is no more than a basin of blood, various accounts gushing like geysers with thoughts and opinions. Artists are no longer the only ones metaphorically puncturing their arteries to deplete themselves of the sick energy driving them, but every individual with access to a tappable surface that can search and scroll or send and receive is privy to or partaking in the collective bloodletting of the new decade. “Red,” this issue’s Piece of the Month is a poem by Sappho Katopodi which cries desperately for something, anything, to be shed, to be released, to be freed. Its back-andforth imagery of restraint and surrender with a simultaneous determination of no-defeat will stir something in you that will literally have you seeing red (I’m talking Kubrick’s cascading, bloody elevators). The author’s effortless observations on the modern world come from eyes belonging to a heritage that hemorrhaged foresight. Ready for you to read, and reread, and red, and redrum.

Lilla Orly All-nonsense Editor-in-Chief subsisting from printed word to printed word. Enamored by the grim cavities of a too saccharine existence, and tracing half-truths in negative space. Digs meandering routes and gnarly tunes as well as the concept of an ever-expanding universe.

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FICTION

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Ada and Mrs. Dunham Krzysztof Wielgołaski

“Ada, my dear, you really ought to eat more! And why is the room still a pigsty? Doctor Schultz will be visiting any moment, now!” Ada is sat in a decorative ottoman in the corner. As usual, blankly observing her visitor and wearing her morning gown. A whole chestful of garments and everyday items lay sprawling on the old, oaken floorboards and the fancy pre-war furnishing. The Kentucky sun boldly penetrates the dusty curtains, illuminating the spacious interior in a light haze. “Darling, I told you to invite more sun in here,” says Mrs. Dunham hurriedly pulling away the weathered, silky draperies. “Are you not joyful? The doctor’s coming, a new one this time. He will patch you up with haste!” the bright, reservedly ambitious woman quips, gathering and hiding garments, brushes, tiny mirrors and the like from the ground. “Hopefully...” she finally adds in a quiet murmur, subduing her smiley facade. The dim, grayish attic had been Ada’s sanctum for weeks now. Aside from the dreadfully horrid walks round the family gardens and the occasional rides in her father’s carriage—both activities which she is practically dragged on—this room has been the only place blessed with her presence. “Mmhumpf...” Ada sounds back absentmindedly, her gaze still fixed somewhere in the angled corner of the room, as though observing an entirely different, more alluring world. Ada is a beautiful woman; tall and curvy, with long, gunpowder-black hair and porcelain skin, albeit her pale complexion and emotionless expression give her an oddly distant and cold visage. Speaking, her voice grows increasingly monotone and feeble, and in movement she appears sluggardly. The talk around town is that her face has grown stone-like, as though her soul has already departed. “Cloth, where is the cloth gone? Papers, pins, this closet is so filthy!” Mrs. Dunham is now rummaging through Ada’s belongings in search of supplies the doctor might use. Her hand finally meets an unfamiliar, metallic object—a fairly new revolver, lightly used. Ada’s father’s wedding gift to her, the work of Maryland’s finest gunsmiths. “By heavens, how did this get in here?! The maid must have moved things around. Ada, when this malady departs you shall we go in the Virginia hills and at last teach you to use this thing, eh?” The younger beauty recoils slightly, showing her first true sign of life today. “N-no, thank you...” At once, two loud knocks disturb the conversation, the sound causes Ada to shift uncomfortably. “The doctor! Here he comes! I shall get the door.” Following her departure, nothing but the distant sound of steps and indiscernible conversation disturbs the irritatingly melodic bird songs and softly whistling wind for a brief moment. Not a hint of emotion, nor a tinge of conscious thought has been seen to accompany the girl in weeks. Mrs. Dunham reenters Ada’s chamber, finding her sat in the exact same position as when she left. Alongside her stands a husky, bearded man of impressive stature with a leather bag clutched low in his hand. After a round of decisively one-sided greetings, Dr. Schultz opens his dated toolbag, enthusiastically turning his attention to the uncooperative beauty. “The letter did not lie! Your cheeks are paler than Canadian snow. When did this spell start?”

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“Some few weeks ago, doctor,” responds Mrs. Dunham, sensing the fruitlessness of directing questions at Ada. The doctor, not unlike the ones before him, carefully studies and scales his patient curiously. “What are the complaints? Does she have the shakes?” “No, doctor. Apart from her disposition she seems to be swell.” The rather unreceptive girl is subject to a series of various medical tests as Dr. Schultz continues his interview. After examining her tongue, skin, and eyes, measuring her temperature and looking for any dermal changes, he diligently notes all symptoms—or, rather, the lack of them—in his journal. These moments of tense silence are only disturbed by the sound of his quill, he deliberates in a meaningful pause, takes in the stuffy air of his surroundings, and gives his verdict. “Some cholera it is, or a fever, methinks. Ailing is her body, although it resists, hence why she shows no symptoms. Has she endured the elements prior?” An uncomfortable aura descends upon Mrs. Dunham. Lowering her chin and looking towards the ground, following a short delay, she musters a response. “Yes, doctor. Briefly before this ailment a tragedy befell her family. Her husband…blessed be his soul. She says she found him lying, struck down in an April downpour. In such shock, she was, she rested alone beneath a willow out in the fields for hours. The townsfolk found her, but the murderer was never known… not even the weapon. Her poor soul… some affliction must’ve gotten her then.” Rested upon a stool, Dr. Schultz stares at the distraught woman sharing a look of utmost commiseration and pity. “Such tragedy! My sincerest condolences, my lady.” The protagonist of the story, however, remains unshaken—undeterred—as he continues. “May his soul rest easy, and may prosecution reach the abominable of the world. Dreadful was the weather in April, and I overheard news of fevers rummaging down South. Surely with the summer sun the disease hiked North. What treatments have my colleagues prescribed before?” “Oh doctor, we tried just about anything. The walks bore no effect, neither did the aromatic liquids we prepared for her; after the herbs, she became even more inattentive; the diet made her colorless and the syrups tenfold more distant. I am losing hope in remedies, doctor, for none benefit her poor soul. Is there anything for her still, doctor? Anything?!” “Modern medicine knows no disease too severe, ma’am! Seeing as traditional treatments provide no signs of improvement, I suggest phlebotomy.” Turning his attention to Ada, who, occupied in her own reality, appears not to hear any of the conversation, he continues, “We shall bleed you a little and let the disease out with the fluid! Some few months ago, down in Georgia I tended to a girl with fevers. Ma’am, by God merciful, how beautifully she recovered soon as we let off a bit of her blood! Let us make haste, each passing moment is vital. Would you hand me the gauze, please?” Before long, the two untie the decorative sleeve of Ada’s gown, strap a bandage around her forearm and hold her up. Dr. Schultz reaches deep into his bag, pulling out a sharp, menacing blade, at the sight of which Ada’s already snowy face sinks even deeper. Her eyes widening, perspiration gathering on her forehead and cheeks, she watches the incision being made, steel submerged slightly in her limb for what she would swear lasts not mere seconds, but hours. Rapidly, blood pours out in a steady stream, staining the white of her bare skin, blemishing the bandage and her gown, before dripping into a tub placed underneath. In all this, Ada makes no motion, produces no sound nor objection, rather clutches her fists and reclines her torso. Mrs. Dunham, who has been cautiously observing the scene—seeing the weakening, devilish limpness taking over her body—reaches out to hold the young girl’s head up. As she does, she notices two faint streams of tears running down her face. The patient, gazing up to meet Mrs. Dunham’s eyes, weakly, in an almost breathless mutter, finally responds: “You torture me, alas I just wanted to love…”

Krzysztof Wielgołaski Born and raised Varsovian, he is an aspiring writer and music critic. Fascinated with art, culture, and history.

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Inwards and Outwards Lilla Orly

She couldn’t recall the exact moment when she became aware of the tightness. It was at once gradual and sudden. She felt as though, in the undercurrent of her consciousness—the one that was hyper aware of the timing of her breath, the pounding of her heart, and the feeling of her clothes against her skin—a tiny red bulb had been signaling for some time. However informed she may have been, she continued to live as though switches hadn’t been flipped and sirens weren’t wailing. She took paths to and from places she was obligated to go—always stepping reluctantly wishing that she could meander off and forget that the obligation even existed. She ate to her heart’s content, her love’s content; she ate what her lover ate and she swallowed her lover whole. Her thoughts fleeted, distracted by the simple motions of birds sneaking into foliage or cars disappearing behind corners. The quick snapshots, the momentary glances, they were all infinitely more inviting and intriguing than that which stood plainly before her. It was one day when she looked into a mirror that she could no longer silence the blare of the tightness, for it had made itself visible. A small bulge on the left side of her abdomen; a crude displacement of fat, she thought to herself. It was the first and last instance of the tightness making itself seen. It was as though it could no longer contain its excitement at its success, its devastation. From that moment on, the awareness was not complete but had jumped from a subordinate level of consciousness to a higher one. She felt as though each of her movements were echoed in her internal organs. Each decision she made was criticized and reciprocated by a cry in the pit of her stomach. As sinisterly as the tightness crept up beforehand, it chose one day to leap away from its existence in respite and make itself fully known. It was a horrible rolling sensation, a pulling and tugging, an unbearable weight of the body and, at the same time, an excruciating lightness of the head. She felt the deepest instinct of fear, one that twisted her spine and made her hair stand on end. Her otherwise rational mind was absent and in its place reigned the tightness. Though she thought, and later prayed, that the tightness was fleeting, it never left or made any signs of removal. Instead it dug its roots in deeper. By the early spring when she would in other cases have felt a rejuvenation, she felt crumpled like a sheet of paper crushed in frustration and discarded. Her liver, pancreas, and stomach were melded in a sort of undried plaster. Her heart and lungs were connected by threads poorly sewn. The most affected were her lower organs, reproductive and digestive systems were cemented together, weighing her down. Her fear and agony bubbled up from her diaphragm to her throat, at times invading her nasal cavities, causing them to sting as she breathed. She felt that physical being, enslavement to a carcass whose sole purpose was to hurt, must be the cruelest form of existence. She looked with envy at those whose limbs flailed with freedom, whose words flowed like water, and those who never devoted a second thought to the secretion of juices, the contraction of muscles, or the transaction of minerals. She spent hours contemplating the coming and going of fluids and substances in the body, the drive, the life that moved things she could not see. Gone was the blissful ignorance of what was below her shoulders until something itched or scratched, something tensed or released, someone touched or let go. Now, she was all too aware. Each breeze that unsettled a fine hair left unshaven on her ankle would cause her to reach blindly, to pat, to smother the irksome feeling she was left with. She could feel the rushing blood in her veins, but rather than being a comforting sign of life, it was an incessant reminder of all the things that could go wrong inside of her. She was never one to share, never the first to open her mouth to declare some lackluster observation or exclaim a sigh of “I’m tired.” She merely nodded or “hmm”ed in agreement with the decries of boredom uttered by others. Though the tightness pressed on every membrane of her being, disrupting the delicate water, salt balance of osmosis, threatening cellular rupture, she never let a single thought leak. She did try to fight it. Born with a western mind she faithfully saw white coat after white coat, some with pens in their chest pockets, others just balls of lint gathered at the pocket seam. Many a time going particularly out of her way, settling for an hour too early or too late, a destination too far or a wait too long. It was most often on these visits she felt the all-too-convincing epiphone of finally finding someone who would look at the pages—the ones that time and time again confirmed clean blood, average antibodies, level proteins—yet hear

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her complaints of discomfort and assign a sample more. They were willing to go the extra mile, she thought to herself. So, she watched vials upon vials of her blood being let; her gushing sacrifice to the deities, always in vain. She permitted endless cutting and prodding, pieces becoming no longer a part of her but elements that were to determine the state of her body. Upon the second or third meeting with the entrusted white coat, a slight twist of the lips, shrug of the shoulders, or splaying of the fingers denoted a resignation, certifying with a seal that all her complaints were merely that; complaint. All proposed the phenomenon of the “new normal” a suggestion meant to be accepted as fact; a diagnosis for a malady outside the imaginings of medicine. One of the white coats claimed to have seen the tightness in her, the evidence of it gliding across a greyscale screen. The remedy he prescribed was not so much a treatment, but a blockade, to stop the tightness from spreading. He joked it was a bit of hair of the dog; by giving the tightness doses of what it was made of, it would stop dead in its tracks. No bodily shock occurred, and though the tightness did not disappear, or even dwindle, she could feel that it had become more sloth-like, lazily releasing runners that barely latched onto other internal frameworks. With each authorized stamp of her absurdity she fell deeper inside herself and the tightness claimed a stronger hold on every inch of her. When she looked down at her fingers she no longer saw the familiar creases of her knuckles or the green and blue roadmaps of veins crossing the ridges of her bones. The legs that carried her along the paths that she still dreaded taking were so foreign to her at times she was doubtful whether they would stop at red pedestrian lights or whether they’d walk again when the light turned green. She learned to distrust the body she possessed with the intensity of a mortal enemy. Walking on her own terms gave her some comfort, when the Point B towards which she was headed was not an unavoidable duty but rather a choice, one that could change at her every whim. Still, she was not permitted to forget. At seemingly the most peaceful moment of her stroll she’d be clutched by the tightness. It would grip her around the abdomen and twist her insides either way as though she were the arm that fell victim to a grotesque Indian sunburn; bursts and slivers and pulses of pain filled her time, defined her days, established her existence. She began to imagine her insides as the embodiment of a desolate house, a haunted mansion found in a stop-motion animation for children. Leaking pipes and faucets; a fearsome creaking and groaning emanating from every room; worst of all were the cobwebs—criss-crossing and draping every open space until they formed a dense gauze. Her heart grew rusty from all of the mildew and moisture. Her hair and nails sprouted like uncontrollable weeds. As this besieged building settled in its ruin, so she felt herself settling. It became much easier to set herself down and much harder to pick herself up. Though, surprisingly, she was ravenous for food, the act of eating itself was sucked dry of taste and the feeling of food in her stomach and intestines sent her reeling. A mist tumbled into her brain, clouding her thoughts and blurring her memory. In this fog of the mind, one idea never ceased to make noticed its glimmering presence; she would have to take matters into her own hands. One evening in mid-winter, she stumbled into a snow-covered park—one of the many sites of her endless strolling. She stepped to the edge of the lake that was frozen through and surrounded by willow trees doubled-over in solitude. She removed her wool jacket and it dropped quickly to her feet like an animal that didn’t wish to be held. She stood completely bare, the full-effect of her contortion now exposed, the marionette strings within, tugging her right side down and her left side back. Her legs were crooked, their mishappenness exacerbated by the fact that she could not stand up straight, her knees always remaining somewhat bent. Her arms hovered in a protective clutch around the abdomen, the criss-crossing of her long, curved fingernails like the bars of a cage. In all of her repulsiveness, she inelegantly stepped one swollen foot before the other, hobbling precariously across the slippery floor of water. Once she reached the center she lowered herself onto the hard bed, laying prostrate. She had taken every means possible to make this setting as uncomfortable as possible. She had starved herself for a week and not bathed in just as long. She wished to become the worst host possible for this parasitic entity. Now, shivering on her make-shift operating table, she snapped one of her grotesquely long fingernails, its structure and off-white color like the ivory of a tusk. Looking down at the body that was herself, she gauged her first site of incision and plunged the scalpel into the flesh. The pain was searing, but it was as though she were eyeing it through the base of a glass bottle. After the first slash was made, she adjusted her hand for the next one, ninety-degrees across, and then the final cut that finished just below her right rib. She lifted the flap and laid it

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back across her chest. Tears poured from her eyes as she looked at it, finally. The tightness had wrapped and woven and spun and laced itself across every possible area. She began to dig with a clawed hand, wrenching out great globs of tissue, matter, and entrails. She wept as she did so, the trees around her echoing her cries. She excavated handful after handful until she looked placidly at the gaping cavity that stared indifferently back. She plucked several stringy hairs from the crown of her head, lowered the flap that had been resting on her chest and began stitching shut the lacerations. Snipping the remaining thread, she cast aside her apparatus and admired her work. Finally, she stood up and tottered back to the snowy shore where she put on her wool jacket and walked into the thicket of the willowsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; branches. On the icy lake remained a crimson patch, creeping along the surface.

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POETRY

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Piece of the month Red

Sappho Katopodi

If there is blood to be shed let it be shed now with a ring around my waist holding me close to the ground to the earth that has long been my home If there is something to be said let it be said now while I still have hands that long and hold grounded and unchanged If there is red all around me Red of fire Red of the thing that runs beside you Red of those that have survived me Red of memory Of me Let its flow overtake me Eyes that stare, wake up and decide white and clear descending on a dream while I stick my nails on my neck Who dares shoot when weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not looking? In a modern day underworld filled with desires long unknown I arrive Empty handed

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Party Hats Sappho Katopodi

We arrive at your room late at night, wearing party hats, and I laugh as we climb on the stairs. There is a girl sleeping next to the us, and I wonder, Will she wake up by the beating of my heart? Constant ones and twos interchangeable, I sit down. Will she wake up? I take off my shoes. Will she wake up? I spill my wine all over the floor. We arrive at your room dressed in grey. I am somehow 25 and you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t smoke. We are in a peculiar universe of only reverse colors. There is your room-mate sleeping next to us, and I wonder, Will she wake up? You put on a record player. Will she wake up? A play I once read for uni is on the floor cause you have a presentation on it. Will she wake up? Your hair is much longer than it used to be. We arrive at the familiar doorbell, and it is snowing. Somebody is calling your phone relentlessly while we sit on kitchen tiles. My skin feels cold and I like it. There is your best friend sleeping next to us, and I wonder Will she wake up? We dance to the rhythm of your Christmas decorations. Will she wake up? I fly away tomorrow but I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell you. Will she wake up? We do not say goodbye, not yet. Sappho Katopodi A writing mess who tries her best. In love with poetry, art, and coffee.

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Służew

Sappho Katopodi

Pencils Papers Papers Pens Pants Papers Perfume Papers a small wooden chair holds my weight and I wonder in-between the books how I ended up here in the first place a shadow of somebody draws the curtains I walk around the city that has accommodated me and all my breaths slow and heavy ones the ones that come out when I take the stairs and still I cannot help but ask how do you drown yourself in just a bit of sky if I were back in the snow it would be easier I would lay my body on the ground and hold my eyes closed myself in Służew outside the metro station next to my dorm with only my tights on and a skirt until the cold takes me with it finding another, holding my figure speaking too soon without the strength to wait I stumble with worn out boots and perfect teeth What will you do if I disappear I ask different people with different names and different answers and different hands and who have different meanings for me As if I gather the answer that I hope for, I will stay Papers all around a nauseating room I escape while I scribble down some thoughts to keep in my skin- not to forget when I forget when I erase the voice the feelings the lights 18

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gulp

Teresa Bakalarska

twenty/ten: we take mouthfuls of sweet soda twenty/twenty: has us spit it, split up, forget * two/eleven:  even if you drown to heaven  earth will always claim your dreaming, you’re fourteen, and bad at swimming now you know that peace is brittle, glue your eyes and rest a little; (1:2) cheer away predicted losses someone’s fingers must be crosses in a world that’s made of mondays 13th paycheck falls on Friday we’ve been toying with miracles (burning angels crash from darkness) world grows smaller world grows bigger for the teen; who pulls the trigger? puttin’ names into diseases doesn’t make them any easier things that always break in half, human numbers birthed the math – from this head-count new forecasters call abundance a disaster bad years start from sweet sixteen (sell your future for your dreams) papers tear under the friction when renewing your subscription by now: where’s our happy ending? release dates are stopped by trending in one world all seven sins vileness eats us from within when a nightmare comes to life true and measured, you just run; (what if when they get kicked out eighteen-year-olds simply die?) sparks of joy and flames of fear thank your god it wasn’t here, (it can’t ever happen here) we’ve survived two oh! Nineteen

* you may choose to choke on bubbles (for a long time they will rise)  or just pour yourself a one  panta rhei, bottoms up

Teresa Bakalarska A human, crisp, professional whiner. Writes everything from poetry through prose to god-awful rap lyrics. Thinks that Buffy The Vampire Slayer is the greatest achievement of humanity. The WASP | Volume I | Fall 2019

Being

Agata Podbielkowska

The air Full of flowing memories Black and white Like in film noir So present So real Yet you still Forget about them

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Madness Agata Podbielkowska

I stood there alone Motionless Holding my breath The area was shrouded with gloom And the only hearable sound Was the sound of the clock’s pendulum

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The Hill of Graves

(Inspired by the hill at Green-Wood Cemetery in New York City) Agata Podbielkowska

Within the forgotten ones Whom only the soil remembers After it embraced them And comforted them In their eternal sleep One shall never Feel alone

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The Leaf and the Tree Agata Podbielkowska

One lonely leaf Fell from the lonely tree Now there is the two of them Together In their loneliness

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ARTICLES

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Neo-Activist Comic Books in the Neoliberal Age Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya

Susan Sontag in her essay, Against Interpretation, signaled the need for art which renders the audience aware of the reality in which the art is created. When she mentions Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, she points to the interpretation of Stanley Kowalski as, “… the sensual and vengeful barbarism that was engulfing our culture, while Blanche Du Bois was Western civilization, poetry, delicate apparel…” (Sontag, 2001: 9) Indeed, Sontag’s approach to the instrumentalization of art in an idealistic sense and the mobilization of art which comments on contemporary culture might be the same idea that revolves around the core of what I call “new activist” comic books. Since the 1980, a new, revisionary approach has manifested, most visibly in graphic novels such as Frank Miller and Klaus Johnson’s Batman: The Dark 26

Knight Returns (1986) and Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ Watchmen (1987). Indeed, thanks to this radical change in the mainstream superhero comic books, which further influenced the aesthetics and contents in non-mainstream comic books, comics as a medium started to be considered literature. With technological advancements and the expansion of marketing alongside cross-platform availability, non-mainstream comic books reached out to a much wider audience. Dan Hassler-Forest in his Capitalist Superheroes: Caped Crusaders in the Neoliberal Age extensively discussed the supportive role of superheroes that have been adapted from comic books to movies. He speaks of these as marketing instruments and commodities, along with the numerous contradictory ideologies they display (Hassler-Forest, 2012). Hassler-Forest con-

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centrates heavily on the movie sector; however, he also mentions the significance of the 1980s as a revolutionary period for comic books, in which they became abundant sources for critical interpretations and significant influences on proceeding franchises and indie comics. This is why, just over a decade later, we began to encounter works like DMZ and The Massive by Brian Wood as well as Ocean, Orbiter, and Fell by Warren Ellis. These could be regarded as the initial works of a new stage that might be viewed as the “new activist” era in comic books of the twenty-first century. Added to the titles mentioned above, one may find numerous different titles mostly under science fiction and fantasy genres, specifically when these genres are approached as thought experiments or states of mind. Arguably, the most distinguishing and significant characteristic of these “neo-activist” comic books is—as can be inferred form the word “neo-activism”—their approach to the problems that our contemporary world deals with. In DMZ, journalist Matty Roth shows us the government oppression upon journalists and the way in which governments attempt to weaponize journalists in order to manipulate the masses, particularly in times of war. Another title, The Massive, is a work that overtly reflects the current global climate crisis, although the natural catastrophes within the narrative appear to emerge “naturally,” and independent of human influence. The story takes place in a world very much like our own, in the not-so-distant future. Sontag writes in the closing of her essay that:

interpretation of the modern works of art. Invisible Republic, similarly to Ellis’s Orbiter or Ocean and Wood’s The Massive, takes place in the future, in the 2800s. This comic book, in particular, views the future with an essentialist retrospective mentality of colonialism; it wittingly presents the expansion to space as well as the occupation and exploitation of other planets as mirroring the pattern from the 15th century onwards. Interestingly, the ending of Ellis’ Ocean resembles the ultimate vanishing point to which the people of Asan, the newly inhabited planet, and Avalon and Kent, its two moons, headed for. Therefore, Invisible Republic could be read as a critique of the imminent colonization of Mars: the ideology that progresses unabatingly and preserves itself merely by growing and strengthening itself. Despite the cutting-edge technology that allowed humans to build sky-ships connected to the ground with sky elevators, it failed to prevent humans from destroying the natural habitat of Asan and its moons. In fact, the scale and impact of the economic crisis that deprived Avalon’s people of their civilized means of living compares to the one humankind suffered centuries ago. Arthur McBride, the leader of the revolution on the moon Avalon, is probably one of the key characters of the comic book. He comments on today’s ideology of progressivism as superimposed on the economic strategy of expansionism and material exploitation. Croger Babbs, the journalist who finds the diary belonging to McBride’s cousin, Maia Reveron—the narrator of the story of Avalon’s revolution—aims to reveal Reveron’s diary, which is considered by Reveron and others as an essential text that would shift the Avalonian paradigm about the va“Our task is not to find the maximum content lidity of the current Sol government. The primary motive in a work of art, much less to squeeze more conbehind all the intrigues and plots (which result in deaths tent out of the work than is already there. Our of several citizens and the imminent possibility of a sectask is to cut back content so that we can see the ond revolution) would indeed be Arthur McBride’s sucthing at all.” (Sontag, 2001: 14) cess in overcoming the Malory Regime. However, even Arthur McBride—the representation of the anarchist, Invisible Republic (August 2015–March 2017) by Ga- anti-regime, and/or revolutionary voice of the Asan colobriel Hardman and Corinna S. Beckho could be another ny—resorts merely to violence and, when imprisoned, exexample of neo-activist comic books, considering Son- poses all his comrades in order to avoid being sentenced tag’s approach on the strategy and vigorous request of to death.

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Again, taking into consideration the aspects mentioned above, Invisible Republic could be read as a metaphor that provides readers with a lens through which reality can be interpreted and understood. In a very similar narrative, especially regarding the concept of colonialism driven by materialism, Jeff Lemire and Dustin Nguyen’s 32-issue series Descender might further be of consideration to the approach to potential space colonization. Unlike the anthropocentric lens that Hardman and Beckho use, Jeff Lemire introduces an alien race, “the descenders,” from whom the first life emerged. Interestingly, contrary to our perception of the first human forms as primal and undeveloped, “the descenders” are life forms that possess the ultimate knowledge and “forbidden data” that enabled them to build gigantic human-shaped robots that can easily traverse the universe. What Lemire introduces here is the idea that the descenders, despite possessing a similar type of technology, are the pristine version of humankind. Therefore, the question that Lemire potentially projects here resembles, to a certain degree, an anti-progressivist perspective; one that states that the advancement in technology translates into worsened conditions of the working class and the tense struggle for ever-growing power.

Sources Ellis, Warren and Chris Sprouse. Ocean. DC Wildstorm, December 2004 – September 2005. –––, Colleen Doran. Orbiter. DC Vertigo, April 2003. Hardman, Gabriel and Corinna Beckho. Invisible Republic. Image Comics, March 2015. Lemire, Jeff and Dustin Nguyen. Descender. Image Comics, March 2015 – July 2018. Miller, Frank and Klaus Johnson. Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. DC Comics, 1986. Moore, Alan. Watchmen. DC Comics, 2008. Hassler-Forest, Dan. Capitalist Superheroes: Caped Crusaders In the Neoliberal Age. Washington: Zero Books, 2012. Sontag, Susan. Against Interpretation, And Other Essays. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1966. Wood, Brian and Riccardo Burchielli. DMZ. DC Vertigo, November 2005 – February 2012. –––, Kristan Donaldson, Garry Brown, Gary Erskine, Danijel Zezelj, J.P. Leon, Dave Stewart and Jordie Bellaire. The Massive. Dark Horse Comics, June 2012 – December 2014.

Moreover, this deterioration in the conditions of the lower class can also be noticed through the abjection of the alien races, both in terms of appearance and culture. Most notably, an alien mercenary that is teamed up with Tim-21, the boy robot, is assigned to accompany for life. Blugger Vance’s visual depiction could be one of the many representatives of this concept of abjection through visuality. However, the visual and cultural abjection might possibly result from the fact that Blugger Vance and his race appear to be of a rebel type, and he resists to be subjugated by humans. By contrast, the robots in the story have one sole and quintessential duty: serving humans by all means. Aside from the main character of the story, Driller, one of the miner robots designed for the quickest and maximum extraction of materials is depicted as friendlier and more similar to human beings than Blugger Vance. Of course, it cannot be suggested that Jeff Lemire and Dustin Nguyen intentionally designed the characters in order to reflect the ideas put forward above. Nonetheless, Hassler-Forest’s extensive work on superheroes shows us that it is possible to do significant meditations on the way in which these comics might provide the reader with hints of contemporary social reality and ideology.

Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

The WASP | Volume I | Fall 2019

Contributors Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

Aleksandra Barciszewska Former editor-in-chief. ASC-survivor. Vampiric psychoanalyst by nature. Extracting the sexual from the mundane, rejecting reality for the sake of the very-tale of momentary satiation of the urges for creation.

Sappho Katopodi A writing mess who tries her best. In love with poetry, art, and coffee. Anita Majewska Addicted to basketball, drawing, and Netflix. I think with images. If I look depressed, I probably just ran out of hummus. Joanna Marchewka Regular, non-artistic soul but in love with digital and traditional art, basically looking for opportunities to take up new challenges. Coffee and tea lover so nothing surprising so far, consequential in tasks where involved. Definitely gonna be someone in the futureâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;whether millionaire or fast-food worker. Has a variety of extraordinary interests such as Netflix because no one has ever pointed that out. Yep. Hi.

Amalia PodgĂłrska Artistic soul, happy traveler, dog lover. Always follows the rule to have a proper belly laugh at least once a day.

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Natalia Ogórek Singing is her biggest passion, but she does not connect her future with it. Lover of TV series and Marvel. 70% funny, 50% weird, 100% organized.

Paweł Pańczyk Graphic designer. Just be yourself!

Agata Podbielkowska She is like a vampire—she prefers to live at night. Surrounded by candles, with psychedelic music filling the space, she sits, shrouded in the smoke of the incense. She sits and writes whatever just comes to her mind. And boy, what strange stories they are… Marta Rapacka 3rd year BA student. Apart from being utterly in love with TV series, she loves spending her free time discovering mysteries of Adobe Photoshop. Coerced into accepting the new goal of her existence, namely being The Very First Caricaturist of The Wasp—an honorable title she proudly bears and exploits (see: above and below).

Krzysztof Wielgołaski Born and raised Varsovian, he is an aspiring writer and music critic. Fascinated with art, culture, and history.

Kamila Maria Wyszyńska Studies Graphic Arts at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. American Studies is her second faculty. Loves to travel. Wants to live and create across the world.

The WASP | Volume I | Fall 2019