“F. Premise awoke one morning from troubled dreams to find that her innocence had gone missing.”
With this sentence we begin “(In a Sense) Lost and Found,” a surreal Kafka-esque journey of self discovery that at times feels more like visual poetry than sequential art. The first graphic novel effort of Roman Muradov (that goes on sale this week), the book is reminiscent of when David Lynch made his first film with Eraserhead, a complex film open to wide interpretation that many ascribe their own thoughts to the true meaning of, oft depending on their mood or thoughts when viewing it (as, to this day, Lynch claims no one has correctly translated the film’s purpose). “(In a Sense) Lost and Found” takes a similar stance as we follow the book’s lead, F. Premise, as she travels in search of her lost innocence.
In one way, the book is fairly straight forward. Treating “innocence” like an artifact that one can own and lose puts F. Premise on a journey of self-discovery, not unlike a coming of age story. However, what’s remarkable is that despite how inherently simple the book’s plot is, it’s still widely left open for interpretation: how did F. Premise lose her innocence; what does the F. stand for; is this something that can be tangible; what does it even mean to lose one’s innocence in the first place? Treating the idea of innocence as something more tangible allows the book to skew away from typical tropes found in your average stories about growing up, though when we explore Premise’s world the question is opened up as to what is real in the first place — not only tying back into the issues posed by innocence being an actual item you can lose, but relying on the threads being pulled together so we can talk about what losing your innocence does to you as a person. Is the world distorted because that’s what life is, or did losing her innocence change the way Premise looked at life?
As it turns out, the greatest success of the book is also its potentially biggest flaw. While leaving things open to interpretation is by no means a general detriment to art, the book is a bit atypical in that despite utilizing a visual medium where we can see her world and what happens to her it still leaves most of itself up for interpretation as to what we’re seeing. The journey of F. Premise is a complex one, something that can at times be difficult to follow as she encounters things that blur the line between reality and fantasy. So much of the book seems to happen essentially in conjunction with where Premise is emotionally when she encounters something on her journey, whether it be a seemingly friendly store clerk or a city full of slightly anthropomorphized citizens; the book relies on the rather evocative art translating intent more than story, and as such relies very little on narration with a heavy lean on the artwork.
The book primarily succeeds through Muradov’s quaint style and imaginative expressionism. With an emphasis on shapes reminiscent of the work of Seth, Chris Ware or the cartoons you’d find with the New Yorker (in which Muradov has appeared before), this art style is expanded throughout the book while playing with expectations; there are times where the images feel like still, motionless encapsulations of mood, where others seem like storyboards from lost Pixar shorts. Muradov frequently shifts in expectations if not style, whether through a fantasy sequence or the reflection found in a mirror, and as simplistic in design as the characters are it doesn’t hold them back in any way. Emotions can seem stilted and it’s tough to see happiness or sadness apparent on most faces, but in this particular lens we’re able to view the world Muradov has created through an outsider’s perspective that is incredibly engrossing to discern information from, especially on multiple reads.
It’s through this that the book feels less like what you’d generally expect from a graphic novel, but rather something infinitely more poetic. It’s not that silent comics are all that strange to the norm in comics (nor is this really a silent comic; just mostly), but rather the way that this book approaches the concept. While there is some dialogue involved, the simple grid structure of the book as well as the pacing gives it a different, more romantic feel; the book is ostensibly tragic and yet it never feels morose, but rather hopeful. The more Premise searches for her innocence and the more the world warps around her, the more that it is left to us to rely on our feelings in order to understand. “(In a Sense) Lost and Found” is atypical to comics in that fashion, as it reads more like a song sounds — while I can’t definitively say that this was the central intention, so much of my interpretation of the book felt like a reflection of myself against the material, resulting in a challenging but interesting and decidedly different read towards the books I’m more used to reading regularly.
Continued belowThis is of course not to minimize the role of the writing in the book. With a heavy emphasis on wordplay and douplespeak, Muradov crafts a language of his own throughout the book. Perhaps obviously “(In a Sense) Lost and Found” leans more towards the role of the art than the writing as that’s where Muradov’s known talent lies; whether looking at his commercial work or at this book in particular, it’s not difficult to see which hat he’s more comfortable wearing. However, the dialogue and the ways that characters treat and talk to one another helps elaborate on the theme of the lost innocence, as it becomes difficult at times to fully understand characters; Premise is the only character that seems to address us in any way that’s inherently always clear, but as is incredibly visible in the way that Premise’s parents talk to one another in the opening scene (with onions being referred to as both “anyons” and “fermions”), the stage becomes set for her inevitable journey.
As the book opens, Premise realizes that her innocence is lost and that she must find it. Looking out her window which is enveloped in light, she steps outside into a dark city full of people sticking their noses up at her and avoiding eye contact. She’s attacked by colors, time is non-linear and at times she’s reduced to nothing but simple lines — but still, everything ties together. It may not be clear at first, and a second read may even skewer your initial readings, but “(In a Sense) Lost and Found” is a book that demands a few reads to be fully appreciated: once to enjoy Muradov’s cartooning on a grander scale, a second in order to pay close attention to the dialogue, and a third to come to your own conclusions about the material.
“(In a Sense) Lost and Found” is an impressive debut from Muradov; a challenging and surreal journey steeped in hypnagogic imagery that could end up being one of this year’s breakout graphic novels.
