I first met Bardia (Fellow Weltoffenes Berlin 2024) when he participated in a queer comics workshop I led at a library in Berlin Friedrichshain. This text — an adaptation of a talk I gave at the opening of the exhibition of his comic-in-progress Boyhood Lost at the Berlin Artistic Research Programme — builds on a conversation we began then, as a way to explore the meaningful connection between queer culture and comics:

Comics as a medium have contributed to the production of knowledge historically – and continue to do so today. One way to define comics is as sequential art: the positioning of two or more images next to each other. Because we will quite naturally read stories and meaning into this positioning, it is storytelling that lies at the heart of what comics are.

Storytelling is deeply woven into our being as humans. It is how we understand the world, how we communicate with each other, and – crucially – how we pass on culture, history, and knowledge. From our Western European perspective, we often learn to think of knowledge production through the lens of books and science—a rewarding way to look at it, since we build careers in this society on that foundation. But humans have long passed on knowledge through spoken word and image. And communities that have not been granted access to academia—because of class, gender, or identity—have found alternative ways to preserve and transmit their culture: either because they lacked visibility, or precisely to avoid being seen.

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It is within this broader tradition of alternative storytelling that Bardia’s graphic novel might find its place. In Boyhood Lost, Bardia illustrates his path to adulthood. The main character of his autobiographical comic is an art-loving boy, trying to make sense of his socio-political environment, his relationships with friends and family, and, ultimately, with himself—while his family navigates ongoing processes of adjustment and readjustment within a tense and unstable reality. He doesn’t dream of becoming a comic artist one day—and yet, here we are.

© Bardia, Boyhood Lost, detail, 2025

Throughout his childhood, he seems to have a natural proclivity for all things artistic. He learns about the world—and about himself—through theater, music, writing, and reading. He doesn’t understand it yet, but already the queer ancestors are speaking to him in their coded language. Queer people have always made art. Through small nods and deliberate ambiguities, they leave clues in their work for others to pick up on—knowingly, as adults, or intuitively, as children.

Perhaps those who have had to hide so much of themselves feel a deeper need to express it. Or perhaps it is a kind of dance—a practice of code-switching—where playing different roles for different people sharpens their sensitivity.

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Broadly defined as sequential art, comics encompass a wide range of forms—and there is a global tradition of sequential storytelling. In different parts of the world, distinct histories of comics have developed, often somewhat independently. You may already be familiar with manga in Asia, Franco-Belgian adventure albums, or superhero comics and newspaper funnies in the United States. I would like to shed light on some of the particularities of the European and U.S. contexts that shape how comics are perceived today. Comics have long struggled against the notion that they are frivolous or even harmful—that they undermine serious reading or are culturally inferior, at best merely distasteful. Many of us grew up not taking comics seriously as an art form.

Not well known is the history of censorship that preceded these notions. Beginning in the 1930s and ’40s, a real moral panic took hold in the United States, fueled by the belief that, because of depictions of sex and violence, comics were teaching kids how to become criminals. I’m speaking here about the U.S., but similar views existed in parts of Europe around the same time.

From the 1930s to the 1950s, romance, detective, horror, and adventure comics were especially popular. Psychologists wrote damning articles and an alarmist book¹ outlining the psychological harms of comics. This particularly influential volume, titled Seduction of the Innocent, argued that comics caused serious damage to children. The book sparked a backlash, inspiring groups of parents to collect comics and either burn them or tear them to shreds. Even Congress held hearings to investigate the possible negative effects of comics on young people.

© Bardia, Boyhood Lost, detail, 2025

In the 1950s, faced with public outrage and the looming threat of government regulation, U.S. comics publishers agreed to establish the Comics Code Authority—a censorship body that would self-police published comics for many years.² Although technically voluntary, in practice a comic would not be published by any mainstream press if it violated the Code. Significantly, the Code banned all depictions of “sexual perversion”—by which publishers meant queerness. It’s also worth noting that the Code forbade negative portrayals of authority figures, such as the police.

Before this censorship, artists had been able to produce wildly imaginative comics that explored taboo themes. After the Code’s introduction, this freedom shrank immensely. The profession of the comic artist came to be seen as deviant, and most remaining comics became either childish or dull. It wasn’t until the early 2000s that mainstream publishers finally abandoned the Comics Code.

In the meantime, artists went underground. Because people who wanted to write and draw about topics like sex couldn’t publish their comics through mainstream outlets, they began publishing them independently. The underground comics scene that emerged in the 1960s and ’70s was largely author-driven and deliberately explored taboo subjects. Artists distributed their work under the table and built their audiences autonomously. Queer creators like Howard Cruse and Alison Bechdel began publishing stories with queer characters in alternative newspapers and with independent publishers. One influential publication was a series called Gay Comix—an anthology of comics on LGBTQ themes that ran for twenty-five issues between 1980 and 1998.

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Another avenue of underground publishing for queer artists was the explosion of the DIY scene and the popularization of zines. Zines—short for “magazines”—have been around for as long as people have experimented with amateur print reproduction. A zine can be any multi-page work that’s independently published, driven by passion rather than profit. There’s a rich history of African Americans producing literary zines in the early 20th century, as well as dada artists creating surreal ones. For queer people in particular, zine culture was a life-saving way to connect, share knowledge, and advance activist agendas—especially at a time when there were few other avenues for connection or visibility—mainstream media offered little representation, and safe public spaces were rare outside of a handful of urban bars.

I want to underline the role of comics as a tool for reporting real-life events and the importance they hold for journalists, researchers, biographers—and now Bardia—as a means of producing graphic documentation without relying on film or photography. In their transparent subjectivity, drawings are just as reliable as documentation—sometimes even more so. One of the most powerful aspects of comics is the autonomy they offer the author, the ability to produce work independently. It’s a kind of expressive freedom that Bardia told me he deeply values. For queer writers and comic artists, zines became one of the only places where they could publish their content without consequence. For queer readers, they offered a powerful source of stories that desperately needed to be told – stories where they could recognize themselves in portrayals of everyday life or learn about historical figures—all without risking the loss of anonymity that photography often posed.³

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In the 1980s and 1990s, comics “grew up,” so to speak, in the form of graphic novels. Comics like Maus (Art Spiegelman, 1986) and Watchmen (Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, John Higgins, 1987) were published in book form, tackled more complex material, and gained some recognition. The term graphic novels was coined by the industry as a marketing label, but it fittingly captures what this new wave of comics had to offer. These works were more sophisticated, could be compared to literature, or were grounded in rigorous ethnographic research or journalism.

Even though not all work by marginalized creators  is serious in tone or content, their subjects are politicized by default , and gaining  traction –especially for so-called “less serious” topics –  remains  complicated and continues to pose a major challenge. 

The underground comics that preceded and paved the way for this emergence were a powerful source of inspiration. Rooted in counterculture, community, and DIY approaches, they serve as a reminder: do not wait for a publisher to approve your work; do not wait for a critic to praise it. You do not need an art degree to start making art. You need neither the approval nor the permission of the establishment to make your artwork.

© Bardia, Boyhood Lost, detail, 2025

I want to take a moment to touch on what it can mean to work in an overlooked field. Identity isn’t always ours to claim. Sometimes, it is overwhelmingly decided for us by others. And although the production of art is an act of self-determination and a way to reclaim control over one’s own stories, once the artworks are shared publicly, one can feel a loss of control all over again. For those erased or rejected by mainstream culture, subculture is often the only space where existence and flourishing are possible. With neither status, fame, nor money to be gained, there is no competition, and community is at its strongest.

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Bardia illustrates that, while he was growing up, magazines and TV series were heavily politicized. We see how careful the family is to keep the music and books they consume within their home. On some occasions, they go so far as to hide or destroy their books. It is an exhausting struggle—trying to remain in control of one’s sovereignty. It can be hard to explain the real value of art, except that, if it is not there, we are somehow less of everything. All the more understandable, then, is Bardia’s commitment to documenting and honoring the art that formed him—the highbrow and the lowbrow.

If Bardia publishes in Iran, he faces tough questions about what he can and cannot show. In the U.S., we have recently witnessed a surge in book bans—including many comics, and more than one queer comic among them.⁴ Even here in Germany, the subjects we write about can have real consequences for our careers. We have a lot to learn from each other’s stories.

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As far as the future of the comic is concerned, there has been growing interest in the medium from journalists and researchers, who see ethnographic storytelling as a way to make complex or otherwise inaccessible information more approachable to a wider audience. The fact that comics are a visual medium, use short texts, and communicate through storytelling makes them particularly accessible in the context of contemporary media consumption habits. A comic can be easy to read, even though the content might be complex, intricate, or emotionally heavy. Boyhood Lost is a great example of this. One moment, we are immersed in the world as seen through the eyes of a boy; the next, graphic tools help explain abstract concepts or depict historical timelines.

That said, making a comic is never easy. A long-format comic like the one Bardia is working on can take years to complete, which is why grants can be essential to supporting the process of creation.

One last thing to end on: At the beginning of this talk, I said that comics contribute to the production of knowledge. But in writing this text, I’ve come to realize that speaking of a “production of knowledge” doesn’t quite do our work as artists justice. There is no singular fountain of genius from which knowledge springs. Artistic work stands on the shoulders of many who came before us, and it is consumed, interpreted, and passed on in a myriad of ways by those who engage with it. So rather than saying comics produce knowledge, I would say they mobilize it — across borders, bodies, and generations.

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References

(1) Wertham, Fredric. 1954. Seduction of the Innocent. New York: Rinehart.

(2) Comic Book Legal Defense Fund. n.d. History of Comics Censorship. Accessed June 24, 2025. https://cbldf.org/resources/history-of-comics-censorship/.

(3) Charlesworth, Kate. 2019. Sensible Footwear: A Girl’s Guide. London: Myriad Editions. 2023. (appeared in German as United Queerdom: A Graphic Memoir. Berlin: Männerschwarm Verlag.)

(4) American Library Association. 2024. Top 10 Most Challenged Books of 2024. Accessed June 24, 2025. https://www.ala.org/bbooks/frequentlychallengedbooks/top10.

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Joris Bas Backer was born in 1981 in the Netherlands, just a short bike ride from the coast. After studying art in Amsterdam he came to Berlin in 2003 where he now works as a comic artist and illustrator. His graphic novel „Kisses for Jet“ was published in 2020 by Jaja Verlag and in 2021 in English by Nobrow Press. His short comics have been nominated for the Plastieken Plunk (BE) and the GINCO Award (DE).

Editing on the adaptation of my talk to this published text by Shay Mirk, author of several books, including  ‚Making Nonfiction Comics‘ (with co-author Eleri Harris, 2025) ‚Guantanamo Voices (2020) and ‚Year of Zines‘ (2020).