Manix Abrera’s 12: A review

Friday, 18 November 2011 17:35 Ofelia T. Sta. Maria

While contemplating a story angle, I wondered if it was possible to review Manix Abrera’s 12 silent comics without words. Something in the way the Kiko Machine creator did in this graphic novel—simple and without written dialogue, allowing the drawings to speak for themselves.

After reading the book several times, I decided it would be difficult. Wordlessness is not as simple as it looks.

Abrera, now on his seventh volume (entitled “Sorrowful Sorrowful Mysteries!”) of the Kiko Machine komiks, came up with something very different from the style his audience has gotten used to. After nearly a decade of penning Kiko Machine for the Philippine Daily Inquirer and releasing them as book compilations, Abrera released his first graphic novel simply titled 12 -- for the 12 stories on 141 pages of just drawings, no words.

In the Thank Yous page, Abrera dedicates the book to one of his friends, with a short message that goes, “…hindi ko makakalimutan yung tinanong niya nung nakita ang ilang bahagi nito: ‘Malungkot ka ba?’ Hehe.” (I’ll never forget the time when she saw some parts of this book and asked: “Are you sad?”) This serves as a hint on what’s in store for the reader. Regardless of whether that Thank You message was meant to introduce the mood of the work or not, the idea of sadness is something very, very crucial to the book’s entirety.

The stories touch on things that are quite familiar: the first one is a journey of a man asking questions, the second about love, the third about fighting. There’s one about family, another about speaking and listening, some about floating into space, and so on. Abrera deals with each and every story in a way that would make readers think. He incorporates details that are both funny and sad, and seemingly mundane but undeniably heartbreaking. He uses characters like cockroaches with the ability to feel, or little creatures growing out of a person’s arm, all strange but strikingly familiar.

“Mga tagpo ng kawindangan, kaligayahan, at kamatayan,” (“Scenes of confusion, joy, and death”) says the back sleeve of Abrera’s silent comics. He could have squeezed in the word sadness somewhere, but didn’t. He didn’t have to.

One of the many great things brought about the silent comic format is the absolute necessity for the reader's full attention and concentration: you need to do a lot of work yourself. Reading story number 8, for instance, made me pause every once in a while, because of a strange nervousness and sympathy for the girl searching for her mother. This story of loss—a little girl loses her mother, gouges out her eyes to find her, sticks it on a balloon, and lets it fly—is one of the most difficult things I've read in a while.

I have given this book as presents to friends in other countries, and they loved it. The universal language of silence is something that can easily be shared.

It is possible to write a review of 12 without words—but one would have to have whatever it is that lives inside Manix Abrera’s head. I think I’d be able to do it, by literally prying his brain open to look for a way (It’s possible, Abrera said—or rather drawn—so himself in story number 10). Reading 12 requires repetition, repetition with sympathy. Both of which will most likely come naturally to the reader.

“Hehe,” he said in response to his friend’s question. This is one of the first words you’ll encounter in the book. I don’t know what Abrera meant by this keyboard chuckle, this grin— but I know that it’s the best response one could give to such question. Reading the things he drew on each page will most likely give you that feeling we’re all familiar with. But this is a different kind of sadness—something that inspires, something that drives one away from the confines of just moping or going “awww.” After reading it, you may feel as if you have to do something.

12 has been nominated for the Komikon Reader's Choice Award for Best Graphic Novel.