Breathing Ice On Holiday
I have just finished watching a documentary on Moebius/Gir/Jean Giraud, a man who has inexplicably escaped my attentions, despite being right up my strässe. I have yet to buy one of his books, and I feel that I understand his death as a great loss, despite only viewing his work with an outsider’s eye. I hope to change that soon.
Anyway, it reminded me of a very distinct memory that I have of early age, a time which is usually fragmentary at best in recollection. My presiding impression of my early life is of Duplo, not getting cream on my Christmas pudding, and sending my brother to his death in fictional wars (I was, cannily, always self-appointed generalissimo).
But we were on holiday. It must have been France, most likely the south, and it was just hot. Just very hot. There is another memory of sleeping in our car at the roadside due to my Dad’s exhaustion, but it may have been another year. On this particular holiday I was bought a comic, a French comic, full of close-packed lines, no speckling, and women. I remember that there were many women. In this comic, a woman was parachuting through clouds, and as she passed through she saw a curved hall of vapour, that darkened the page and constrasted with the sizzling brick surrounding me. As she passed to the other side, her face was blue, her expression lax, and I thought that she was dead.
If anyone knows which comic this is, please email me. I would like to see it again.