By Alex Boney
I
never begin reading a memoir without some sense of
trepidation. Memoirs are intrusive by nature, even if the
reader has been invited in, and I never really feel like I
have the right to access someone else’s personal memories
and reflections. Memoirs are different from autobiographies
in the same way that blogs are different from online
profiles: in each of the former, the writer is expected to
divulge information in a deeply personal, confessional way
that often makes the reader uncomfortable. At worst,
memoirs come across as excessively self-indulgent and
narcissistic. But at their best, memoirs give readers
insight into human experiences they may not have
encountered before. And usually, greater understanding and
empathy emerges. Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, probably the high-water mark for
graphic memoir, works this way. Although the subject matter
of Bechdel’s memoir is difficult, painful, and sensitive,
her techniques—specifically, her use of literary
underpinnings such as Proust and Joyce—create a detachment
that allows the reader a comfortable distance from which to
view her experiences. Not so with David Heatley’s
My Brain is Hanging
Upside Down.
Heatley is as visceral as Bechdel is cerebral, and the
result is a book that’s embarrassing, provocative,
uncomfortable, and…well, enjoyable in much different ways.
Heatley labels his book a memoir, but My Brain is Hanging Upside
Down is not
structured in any recognizable way. The book is broken up
into five thematic chapters (Sex, Race, Mom, Dad, and Kin),
each of which explores Heatley’s life experiences from
different perspectives. The chapters occasionally overlap,
but no clear sequential or chronological thread guides the
book from beginning to end. Rather, Heatley’s memoir is
comprised of a series of narrative fragments. Using a
technique pioneered by Rick Veitch in “Rare Bit Fiends,”
the first four chapters of My Brain is Hanging Upside
Down begin with
graphic renderings of dreams that Heatley has had over the
years. The dream sequences, while bizarre and surreal, set
the thematic tone for each of the chapters.
Heatley’s disjointed technique runs the risk of throwing
the reader entirely off from the very beginning. There
never seems to be a solid footing in this book, so at times
it’s difficult to care very much for the “character” at the
center of it. Heatley doesn’t trace any distinct growth or
development, and the stories he relates are often offensive
and disturbing (especially in the dream scenes). The art of
self-deprecation has become a staple in underground and
independent comics, from Crumb to Pekar to Ware. And in
many cases, intimate self-revelation is used to shock
readers into believing that the artist is way cooler or
more “human” than the reader. Shocked by circle-jerks, drug
use, or body fluids? Well, brother, you just haven’t lived
the real life. But in Heatley’s book, these experiences
never really come across like this. They aren’t rendered in
a way that solicits indie cred or empathy. Heatley’s not a
schlub like Pekar or a reserved outcast like the characters
who populate Ware’s stories. He’s just telling the story of
his life and not holding anything back. And it works.
The most effective (and by far the longest) chapter
in My Brain is
Hanging Upside Down is the section titled “Race.” While the
rest of the book is colored in traditional multi-tones, the
“Race” chapter is rendered in black-and-white pencils and
inks. The correlation between style and content is obvious,
and it would be easy to read Heatley’s approach to this
chapter as gimmicky and too-clever-by half. But the
experiment pays off in unexpected ways. Heatley’s style is
minimalistic to begin with, but the black and white
technique simplifies his work even further. The trick is
that this chapter deals with the most complex issues and
experiences in the entire book. Aside from surface aspects,
there is nothing black and white about the vignettes and
commentaries that guide the reader through the most honest
and engaging section of the memoir.
My Brain is
Hanging Upside Down is a book that I wanted to give up on
after the first few pages. I wasn’t pulled in immediately,
I didn’t particularly care about the author’s subject
(himself), and I was about to dismiss it as yet another
pretentious, indulgent, too-cool-for-school indie project.
But I’m glad I stuck with it. While it took a while to
catch the rhythms of Heatley’s narrative, I did eventually
find the structure interesting and the subjects compelling.
Essentially, this is a book that reflects how fragmentary
human life is—especially in our interactions with other
people and our limited understanding of each other’s
experiences. There is genuine, convincing, lived-life value
in the stories Heatley relates, and I’m glad that there
isn’t a whole lot of self-analysis along the way. Some of
these experiences are poetic and significant, while others
are not; I appreciate that I’m allowed to see them and
evaluate them on my own. Although I certainly wouldn’t have
wanted to experience many of these episodes myself, I’m
thankful that I was able to see them through someone else.
