Friday, July 22 — 12:30 PM – 1:30 PM in Room 24ABC Celebrating 100 Years of Charles Schulz Moderator Damian Holbrook (TV Guide) and panelists Robb Armstrong (JumpStart), Benjamin L. Clark (curator, Charles M. Schulz Museum), Melissa Menta (Peanuts Worldwide), Alexis J. Fajardo (Schulz Creative Associates), and Hailey Cartwright and Promise Robinson (Armstrong Project scholarship recipients) discuss the centennial and legacy of the Peanuts creator; the publication of a new book Charles M. Schulz: The Art and Life of the Peanuts Creator in 100 Objects; and Peanuts’ inspiring Armstrong Project (named for Franklin Armstrong, Peanuts’ first Black character): two $100,000 endowments to Howard and Hampton Universities to support the work of up-and-coming Black animators.
Saturday, July 23 —4:30 PM – 5:30 PM in Room 26AB It’s a Filmstrip, Charlie Brown In the 1980s, kids got career advice from Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and pals (including a new Latina friend) in educational filmstrips produced by the Peanuts animation team. Benjamin L. Clark (curator, Charles M. Schulz Museum) and Nat Gertler (The Aaugh Blog) discuss and present some of these filmstrips, with one live-cast voice performance by cartoonist Gladys Ochoa (Ribbons of Thought), Allison Gertler (Invisible Zeppelin), and more., and more.
Squib — That’s the word I spent a couple of days trying to find. So, what is a newspaper squib?
The word has a few meanings, and according to Webster’s I’m interested in the least meaningful meaning: “a short humorous or satiric writing or speech, a short news item; esp; FILLER.”
This week, while researching something else, I came upon a sort-of cartoon, but didn’t run as a cartoon as such, but was just … filler. What’s wonderful about being able to browse millions of pages of archival newspapers is the access, but there’s a downside — interpretation. I was curious if any scholarship or just collected thought had been put together around these smallest of memes (in the dictionary sense), but wasn’t sure what to call them to find anything. Often unsigned, there were many that seem to have been distributed by syndicates, and no doubt, some newspaper staff were capable of coming up with their own, as well.
A few examples:
MILITANT MARY — Arguably a single-panel comic, and not a squib, but the line of definition between them is hazy at best.
DAILY BIRTHDAY PARTY — “George Horton, the noted American diplomat, who has represented the interests of this country in Greece and Turkey for many years, and who is the author of a great number of very good books …”
“Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote his famous “Rasselas” in the evenings of a single week, to meet the expenses of his mother’s funeral.”
This weekend I read All the Answers by Michael Kupperman. It’s a fascinating graphic novel about Michael grappling with his father’s previous fame and pain. His father, Joel Kupperman, was a child celebrity in the 1940s and ’50s and the fallout thereafter, into Micheal’s life was not only painful but confusing. It’s wonderfully drawn, capturing the feel of the 1940s and the feeling of memory, of reconstructing from scant information. Parts of it look half-remembered, or places where a newspaper clipping stands though there is no personal memory. As a historian reading this, I recognized these sensations in the art.
Micheal Kupperman‘s drawing is excellent (this has really never been a question). His own appearance throughout, of himself, is of a haunted man — at least to me. And that’s what this story is really about. The ghosts we live with, the ghosts that surround us, the ghosts of our own making. Ghosts that become ancient in our lives as generational pain passes on, reconfiguring itself into whatever form it needs to survive into the next generation.
Drawn in stark black-and-white, this story is quite gray. Gradations of memory, impression, and hunch. Kupperman has extracted the history as best he could, given his father’s refusal to talk about his experiences as a child star of the show Quiz Kids. And later, his father’s detachment from his past as he slipped into dementia.
The images Kupperman has drawn representing the promotional photographs of his father as a boy on Quiz Kids stand out in my mind. Laid into the context of his father’s experience and how it affected him and how that experience hurt him, and how his father passed down that pain generationally was fascinating and heartbreaking.
A really great conversation with Michael Kupperman and Noah Van Skiver is here for Kupperman’s reflections and observations by Van Skiver, who is someone in the know to ask good questions. I was cruising through Van Skiver’s channel (also recommended) and stumbled on Kupperman’s and immediately borrowed the book from my library.
Of course, the book was fresh in my mind when I went to see some monster trucks this weekend. Not that I expected them to connect, but a reader’s life is funny that way.
The Sonoma County Fairgrounds in Santa Rosa hosts monster truck events with some regularity. We had not yet been able to attend one, but with a free calendar for the Easter weekend, why not? Instead of the big stadium-style performance, it was a more subdued “drive-thru adventure.” We weren’t sure what that could mean, but the weather was nice and thought it may be a fun enough outing to give it a try. I’m glad we did. Our five-year-old loved it.
We drove through an out-and-back loop at the Sonoma County Fairgrounds. Classic rock and revved recordings of monster truck rallies of yore throbbed through huge speakers along the road, drowning out the short audio clips prepared by the organizers to play from their event website through my phone over my car stereo.
We were awed by the monster truck made from an old firetruck, ate churros, and sipped strawberry lemonade with all the windows down and the sunroof open.
Then when we saw these cute, small monster trucks. They had information about each of them printed on banners hung by each truck. It took a moment to realize what I was reading fully. According to the banners, the drivers are children. The idea of child performers came crashing back down on me. I don’t know that these kids who drive monster trucks are child celebrities. Admittedly, I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of the subculture of monster trucking. Maybe these kids know they’re super lucky to get to do that work, to have that experience. And maybe it’s niched down enough not to draw the attention that becomes such a burden on young performers. At least, that’s what I’ll assume.
But if there’s a Joel Kupperman of the mini monster trucks, I hope they get some hugs and space to be a kid. More than a kid who gets to destroy stuff with a custom-built monster truck. I wish young Joel could have had a turn in one. Maybe we all should.
Skull Krusher Mini monster truck
Skull Krusher Mini
Monster Buddy Mini monster truck
Monster Buddy Mini
High Risk Mini monster truck
High Risk Mini
Warhead Mini monster truck
Warhead Mini
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
It’s been 20 years since Charles M. “Sparky” Schulz died. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long ago. As tributes and remembrances pour forth today, I can’t help but remember that day too.
Charles M. Schulz at the drawing board, 1956
I remember it pretty well when I read the news, though for me it was otherwise unremarkable. I was a Sophomore at York College in York, Nebraska. As was my routine, when I was “home” on campus for the weekend, I went to the library when it finally opened after lunch to read the Sunday newspapers.
It was cold. In rural Nebraska, the winters are cold and February can be the worst. My friends and I were excitedly planning a trip to the west coast for Spring Break. It would be my first trip there.
Going into the library, the periodical racks weren’t far from the entrance. At that time (perhaps still?) there were a couple of couches and comfortable chairs where one could relax and read. It was one of my favorite places on campus.
The display was such that you could see several front pages at once and more than one newspaper had the news that Charles Schulz had passed away. I probably read the story, but I don’t remember anything about it. Maybe I didn’t read it first. Maybe like millions of other readers, I found the comic section to see the final comic from the man himself. I remember that final strip crystal clear, realizing as I read the message over and over that he announced his retirement, he somehow knew it meant his life was ending. It still brings a tear to my eye all these years later.
Peanuts by Charles M. Schulz, 2/13/2000
Peanuts was on the front page of the Sunday comics section, above the fold in our newspaper. It had earned the spot long before I was born as the most popular, most syndicated comic of all time. That day, I remember also wondering what happens to comic strips when the creator passes away, not knowing that the comic section in my hands included several strips by artists who had died long ago.
Of course, back then I had no idea I would one day get to know the life and art of Charles Schulz on a much deeper level than as a more-days-than-not reader of the funnies. Since becoming the curator of the Charles M. Schulz Museum in Santa Rosa, California two years ago today, I’ve read pretty much all the books about Schulz, I’ve watched all the interviews, I’ve read all his comics. I’ve read his personal correspondence and squinted into his family snapshots. I’ve met his kids and have gotten to know his widow. I can recognize his handwriting. In that time, I’ve gotten to know him about as well as I can not actually knowing the man. Schulz was a lot of things, and to me, I’ve only become a bigger fan.
