Stitches: A Memoir was dark, really dark. It's amazing what black and white on paper can do, no? I am left feeling a sense of something, but I'm not sure what. I identify with the central character's narrative in more ways than I'd care to identify personally, but suffice to say, I read this fast and hard and emotional. But that was the point wasn't it? I think at some level it was.
I feel sorry for this child that had messed-up parents. I feel sorry for the lack of respect displayed everywhere. And yet, I feel some joy that this dark glimpse into Mr. Small exists. It is a telling show. Visually, the piece exudes dread for me. Constant darkness, plays of shadow, and almost horrific depictions of the other characters make this story almost a ghost story in many ways. The sense of doom, dread, and dysfunction color every panel. This book is almost more an exorcizing of Small's demons than anything else, and perhaps that is what helps propel this piece into excellence. It was simply riveting. I could not put this book down. I devoured it. Gulp.
I also liked how the entire story unfolded as if painted before my very eyes, as if unrolling from some vast canvas right in front of me. Awesome. The "painted" feel seemed more engrossing to me, supplanting American Born Chinese which seemed more "comicky." When I started with Stitches, I couldn't stop. I even squeezed inguinal to stay glued to my chair and the painted-narrative. I was THAT invested, yo.
Great story. Painful and dark. Heart-rending, really. I loved it. Thanks, Mr. David Small.
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