usly think about your project having a role in facilitating social change?
NP: All of the stories I make, and much of the music I’ve made, has a strong social and political component, but it has never been my intention—my conceit—to play a role in social change. Any Empire is probably the most concrete and overtly political book I’ve done (not counting March), but it’s largely a book of questions in a Southern gothic narrative. The more I age past my dogmatic early-mid 20’s, the more strongly I feel that putting a “message” at the forefront of one’s work is the easiest way to make shitty work. A graphic novel must stand as a book first and above all else—otherwise, why spend 3 years working on it, when you could spend a couple of months on something much more rewarding, less time consuming, that will be virtually guaranteed to be taken more seriously? I never would’ve joined the March team if the book didn’t stand as its own narrative first—there were plenty of possibilities for it to be a message-first failure, and what sealed the deal for me was the sense within the script that the book was existing for its own sake, that the narrative itself was important enough.
WA: What are your thoughts on the fact that March is a collaboration of three folks of different ages and background working together to tell a portion of the back-story to such an important time in American history?
NP: …[I]t’s a very satisfying and formally successful combination of our various strengths, but its transgenerational properties (from a creative standpoint) have been illuminating. We’re all Southerners, and beyond John Lewis’ personal life narrative, so much of the visual storytelling is a product of combining my life experiences and environment (over a generation later) with his. Besides being a native Arkansan, I spent most of my elementary school years in Montgomery, Alabama, and my family hails from northern Mississippi. The shameful historical inheritance of the South is countered in equal measure by a culture, by surroundings, so distinct and beautiful that I’m honored to be able to inject some of my own memories into the visuals. In contrast to the usual narrative of how much time has seemingly passed since the Jim Crow South, I feel our comic helps simultaneously reveal how clearly fifty years is NOT a huge span of time. These are towns, streets, and farmland that we all know and recognize. By the same token, these struggles were waged by people just like us—by our neighbors, our parents, our grandparents.
WA: How did the idea of telling Congressman Lewis’s story (at least in Book One) as a series of flashbacks during Congressman Lewis’s preparation for the swearing in of President Obama develop?
NP: That comes down to Andrew, co-writer of Marchand John Lewis’ staffer. Andrew was present at the Capitol on Inauguration Day, and got to see some incredible things. His unique and privileged perspective there as a veritable fly-on-the-wall was something he thought could weave the past and present in a resonant and relevant way. So many of us were deeply moved on election night, Inauguration Day, and the months between, though many of us are confused by and suspicious of those same feelings. Especially as (in my personal opinion) Obama has firmly established himself as just another president, as a centrist- appeasing disappointment (I must counter that by also stating I voted for him both times, and would do so again), so many of us were shocked by what seemed the tangible possibility that things could actually be different on a very large scale, that it was possible to have a president who wasn’t a total bastard. I felt the same way—we fight for change on smaller fronts, but to see evidence of a larger, more encouraging step forward was exhilarating. We cried, and felt that a divergent future was actually possible. In 2014, it’s very easy to forget that specific feeling (or more commonly, to be embarrassed by it), but the Inaugural scenes in Marchserve to remind most of us how we felt on that day, and allowing the reader to tie the past and 