Seth’s Ironic Identities: Forging Canadian History Daniel Marrone Toronto, Ontario 166 With distinctive brushwork that evokes a bygone era of pop culture, and stories that are by turns funny and elegiac, Seth has established himself as one of Canada’s foremost cartoonists, though the identifiably Canadian aspects of his work rarely disclose themselves in a straightforward manner. Seth’s first book,It’s a Good Life, If You Don’t Weaken (1996), chronicles his search for an obscure Canadian gag car- toonist, John “Kalo” Kalloway, whose work appeared sporadically in magazines like The New Yorker and The Saturday Evening Post. The book also contains extended first-person ruminations from Seth, and depictions of his day-to-day life in Toronto, including his friendship with fellow cartoonist Chester Brown. However, this osten- sibly autobiographical story is not quite what it appears to be: Kalo is not an actual historical figure and the entirely plausible “reproductions” of magazine pages featur- ing his work are forgeries created by Seth. It’s a Good Life constitutes an intervention into both the history of cartooning and the autobiographical mode that has become so familiar in contemporary comics. The most apt description of Seth’s work may be “historiographic metafiction,” a term coined by Linda Hutcheon. She explains that historiographic metafiction “ques- tions the nature and validity of the entire human process of writing—of both history and fiction. Its aim in so doing is to study how we know the past, how wemake sense of it” (Canadian Postmodern 22). Her emphasis on the making of the past resonates strongly with Seth’s approach to storytelling and helps to illuminate those aspects of his work that are often characterized simply as nostalgia. Stuart Hall suggests that “identities are the names we give to the different ways we are positioned by, and posi- tion ourselves within, the narratives of the past” (225). Seth’s comics draw attention to the narrativization of the past and reveal the extent to which the making of his- tory—and, by extension, identity—is an act of great artifice. Canadian Review of Comparative Literature / Revue Canadienne de Littérature Comparée CRCL MARCH 2016 MARS RCLC 0319–051x/16/43.1/166 © Canadian Comparative Literature Association DANIEL MARRONE | SETH’S IRONIC IDENTITIES Seth’s historical inventions/interventions are substantiated not only by his evoca- tive drawing style, but also by his compelling portrayal of imagined communities, to appropriate the phrase developed by Benedict Anderson in his book on nationalism. (Anderson’s communities are imagined, but not imaginary.) In The Great Northern Brotherhood of Canadian Cartoonists (2011), the community imagined by Seth serves as a stage for a particularly ironic nationalism. The Canadian identity of Seth’s char- acters can also be quite modest, at times even covert, included for the benefit of an imagined community of knowing readers. George Sprott: 1894-1975 (2009) is an idio- syncratic account of the life of a small-town hero known for his long-running lecture series and local TV show, in which he repeatedly rehearses the arctic expeditions of his early career. In its settings and cultural points of reference, Seth’s work has always been qui- etly Canadian, but in The Great Northern Brotherhood of Canadian Cartoonists the nationalist connotations of Anderson’s phrase “imagined communities” become explicit. Seth reinforces his invented national history with references to actual 167 Canadian cartoonists like Doug Wright and James Simpkins. Along with extended assessments of metafictional comics and detailed descriptions of the Brotherhood’s sprawling clubhouse, Seth spends nine pages on Wright’s popular strip Nipper, for which he clearly has genuine affection (fig. 1). The annual G.N.B.C.C. award for best cartoonist, “The Jasper” GNBCC( 6), is a tribute to Simpkins’s once nationally beloved, now nearly forgotten character Jasper the Bear. The reader who does not possess an encyclopedic knowledge of Canadian cartooning will probably not recog- nize names like Peter Whalley and George Feyer, and may assume that they too have been invented by Seth. Seth takes advantage of the relative obscurity of these real-life cartoonists, deftly incorporating them into a dense imbrication of historical fact and credible invention. In this way, the central tension that emerges in reading The Great Northern Brotherhood is between the known and unknown. This uncertainty—which might be designated as epistemological ambivalence on the part of the reader—is a prod- uct of the inherent ambiguity of metafiction, amplified by Seth’s appropriation of historicizing discourses. In the opening pages of the book, Seth playfully antici- pates the tension between known and unknown in his description of a bas-belief arch over the clubhouse entrance: “It’s a Who’s Who of Canadian cartoon characters. Some famous…some forgotten” (15, ellipsis in original). The reader with complete information (to borrow a term from game theory) knows that although some of the characters depicted in the arch may be relatively famous (Wright’s Nipper) or for- gotten (Simpkins’s Chopper), many are Seth’s invention, which are strictly speaking neither famous nor forgotten. CRCL MARCH 2016 MARS RCLC 168 Figure 1. Seth, The Great Northern Brotherhood of Canadian Cartoonists (56). ©Seth/Gregory Gallant 2016. Within the world of Canadian cartooning that Seth has imagined, however, even his invented cartoons exist in a hierarchy, some better known than others. Seth yokes together fictive and historical realities by placing them on the same spectrum between famous and forgotten. About the bas-relief arch, Seth deadpans: “It’s worth looking at carefully just to see who you can recognize” (16). The implication is that an absence of recognition signals not utter fabrication on Seth’s part but simply the natural fading of certain artifacts from the collective pop cultural memory. This gambit has a sharp ironic edge because much of the real, non-fabricated history is so obscure. Throughout The Great Northern Brotherhood, even the most careful reader experiences occasional moments of literary-historical vertigo in which it is difficult to discern—or remember—which parts of Seth’s history are invented. The integra- tion of real, esoteric Canadian history into an invented community is so seamless that for many readers The Great Northern Brotherhood may have the effect of flatten- ing all hierarchies, real or invented, into an ahistorical arcade. (In a final deadpan manoeuvre, the book closes with an alphabetical index, an entirely neutral list that does not distinguish between history and fabrication.) Writing about Chris Ware’s role in comics history, Jeet Heer reports that “Canadian cartoonist Seth, whose passion for old comics matches that of his friend Chris Ware, DANIEL MARRONE | SETH’S IRONIC IDENTITIES once noted that most cartoonists have to educate themselves in the history of comics” (Heer 4). In turn, these cartoonists sometimes educate the reader. Heer positions Ware as a comics historian “engaged in an act of ancestor creation, of giving pedigree and lineage to his own work” (4). In many ways, Seth’s literal invention of cartoon- ist predecessors is comparable to Ware’s more conventional historical endeavour. In It’s a Good Life and The Great Northern Brotherhood, Seth foregrounds his role as a comics history autodidact, but the knowledge he passes on to the reader blurs the boundary between fiction and nonfiction. These books constitute ironic versions of what Heer aptly calls “canon formation” in Ware’s work (Heer 4). Both Ware and Seth are forging histories, but in different ways: Seth’s work fully accommodates the double meaning of the word “forge” and in doing so points to the deliberate manipulation of material that even the most apparently neutral history entails. In Metahistory, Hayden White describes this process as the “selection and arrangement of data from the unprocessed historical record in the interest of rendering that record more comprehensible to an audience of a particular kind” (5, emphases in original). 169 It is the audience that finally realizes this arrangement of data as history. Seth’s work frustrates this realization because the reader cannot participate in its history- making without simultaneously setting in motion other discursive modes—satire, metafiction—not traditionally associated with historical truth. White’s very lucid remarks about “The Conventional Conceptions of Historiography” help to account for this tension. “In the eighteenth century,” he writes, “thinkers conventionally distinguished among three kinds of historiography: fabulous, true, and satirical” (49). These distinctions persist, indeed have become so entrenched that the twenty- first-century reader may regard the term “true history” as redundant, and think of fabulous or satirical history simply as genres of fiction. Seth blends the three kinds of historiography together, which compels the reader to constantly take up new posi- tions in relation to the text. In this way, Seth seems to cultivate something akin to what White calls a metahistorical consciousness, which “stands above, and adjudi- cates among, the claims which the three kinds of historiography (fabulous, satirical, and truthful) might make upon the reader” (White 51). In Seth’s work, this metahistorical consciousness usually has an ironic quality. As a result, satire, being a narrative manifestation of irony (White 8), often seems to emerge as the foremost historiographical mode, even in those narratives that are not overtly satirical. For instance: the earnest, elegiac tone of It’s a Good Life rarely takes on a satirical edge, but the mode of the work—fabulation presented as auto- biographical truth—is highly ironic. Wimbledon Green (2005), on the other hand, is outright satirical fabulation, an affectionate send-up of comic book collecting, which employs historicizing discourses (chiefly anecdote) but which no one would mistake for a truthful history.