I was naked when I first met Dean Haspiel. I was modeling for a life drawing class when the attractively grizzled Haspiel—he looks like an Ashcan School boxer—swaggered in, surrounded by his fanboy entourage. What I didn’t realize was that Haspiel was one of New York’s top underground comic artists. If I had, I might not have spent a 20-minute pose with my middle finger up, pointed straight at him.
Dino is the now the critically acclaimed illustrator of The Quitter, Harvey Pekar’s latest graphic novel, but before he racked up New York Times accolades, Dino had to claw his way out of indie comics, the black hole that swallows many a talented pen.
Comics are uniquely suited to break a spirit.They’re lower paying and more labor intensive than any other form of illustration.Even top franchise artists get only $300 for each hand-cramping page. (The Times pays up to $800 for a tiny black and white spot illustration.) For those who do xeroxed zines, go into debt self-publishing books, and maybe, if they’re lucky, sell a finished graphic novel toFantagraphics, comics is a route to the poorhouse.
Dino had a few advantages. While many indie comics guys confuse the crudely drawn with the authentic, he can wield a brush pen with an old master’s panache. His style is as razor- edged as that of his hero, Jack Kirby, and perfect for the action shot.
During his years in college Dino caroused, drew comics with friends and broke his legs in an ill-advised roof-sliding stunt. When he ran out of money and had to leave school, he tried to stay in film, writing screenplays and working as a PA, but realized he was too impatient—and too much of a control freak—for the work.
With Josh Neufeld, he went on to create Keyhole, which started as self-published mini-comic in 1995. In the spirit of Love and Rockets, Keyhole was a two-man comic book anthology that ranged from semi-autobiography to psychedelic romance. From Keyhole, he developed his square jawed romantic anti-hero, Billy Dogma. But comics don’t pay, and he had to support himself as a file clerk, making $11,000 a year.
It was when Opposable Thumbs, his noirish semi-autobiography, snagged an Eisner nomination that Dino was yanked out of poverty and made an object of veneration by fanboys the Internet over. I stopped by his Carroll Gardens apartment to drink coffee and talk philosophy.
Comics, Dino says, areboth “an expression of vanity, and a way to work out universal truths.” He’s annoyed by the “sad, flaccid anti-drama” of so many autobiographical comics, where the sulky protagonist perpetually loses his punky coffeshop girl.
“At 38,” he says, “I need more heroism.”He’s into high romance, an idealized world where men are men, women are women, and the heroine is slammed against the wall in a rape/kiss. Having had enough of wispy, vaguely misogynistic emo boys, I want to applaud.
