Consider how the form of the graphic novel contributes to the way Persepolis figures transnationalism.

In a recent conversation with a French colleague, I learned that comic art (la bande dessinée) is considered to be the “ninth art” in the ranks of French art classification. Established recently in the latter portion of the 20^th century, the French system of art classification includes architecture, sculpture, visual arts, music, literature, scenic arts, cinema, photography, and lastly, la bande dessinée. That comic art is at the end of the list is unsurprising, considering the antiquity of the other forms, but it surprised me to find graphic work neatly in line with the others, standing all alone. Surely comic art could be placed with visual arts or literature, I thought. Having grown up on Archie Comics, I am no stranger to comic books or adolescent graphic novels, but I had never before read anything like Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis as an adult. From the beginning, I was enthralled in the story and hooked on this newfound (to me) genre of expression.

In the introduction, Satrapi* gives a brief history of Iran and the many conquests the country has suffered, both internally and externally. She mentions ancient invasions, as well as the twentieth century British embargo on oil exports. Though many devastating events in Iran were instigated by Western influence, the country is not subject to the typical colonial/postcolonial classification frequently associated with Western powers and their former dependencies. The transnational approach allows the story to unfold and overlap in complicated ways. As a medium, the graphic novel is a compilation of elements. In the case of Persepolis, Satrapi mixes studio art and literary storytelling to communicate the tale of her young self growing up during the Iranian Islamic Revolution.  The title evokes the ancient Persian city, but the plot is modern. Already, two binaries collide, pushing the reader to reflect upon how the past influences the future and is represented in it.

To read about Marjane’s development as an individual is to witness it from her perspective. As an author, Satrapi is able to manipulate each scene by representing space and distance by how she places her figures in the case and in drawing a variety of shots—close up, medium, long, high and low angle, etc. (I am forced to use film vocabulary here, as I do not possess a visual art lexicon). The exclusive use of black and white allows for no in-between, no gray space. Yet, Satrapi somehow manifests texture and change. Though the images are a flat binary of color, the subject matter itself relies on movement and displacement. The narration and dialogue carry the reader through protests, historical details, social upheaval, and cross border migrations. Through the images, the reader makes a visual and imaginary connection to what is written in the text. While each scene may be analyzed individually, each page makes a unit that continues and connects the story holistically. As an art form, Satrapi’s graphic novel allows for wider readership, or viewership, as one need not read all of the dialogue in order to understand content. Moreover, in choosing a Western language (French) in which to originally publish the work, Satrapi exposes a typically censured perspective to people all throughout the globe.

In the introduction to Flexible Citizenship: The cultural logics of transnationality, Aihwa Ong writes in detail on the split identities of multiple-passport holders, or the division between “state-imposed identity and personal identity caused by political upheavals, migration, and changing global markets” (2). The question of the passport recurs throughout Persepolis, not only to convey the difficulty in obtaining one in 1980s Iran, but also to express the very identity breach Ong refers to. Over halfway through the novel in the section labeled “The Vegetable”, Satrapi documents her attempts to “assimilate” and the fear of distancing herself from her Iranian culture after living in Austria for one year.  The dominating image is of Marjane herself, colored entirely black except her face and hands, physically stretched as though she needs to represent her body as a caricature in order to portray her feelings of conflicted identity (193).  Later in the section, Marjane denies her nationality and claims to be French. Unfortunately for her, her accent says otherwise.

Though Marjane is certainly not French, Marc’s questioning of her identity demonstrates a reluctance to accept the French culture as one comprised of multiple identities. Does having an accent automatically signify the incapacity to belong to a culture or to claim identity?  Later, Marjane overhears the other students gossiping about her false claim to French identity and explodes, finally owning her Iranian identity with furious pride. “For the first time in a year, I felt proud,” Satrapi writes (197).  To designate importance, the text grows in size and the font slightly modifies. This is the only time the dialogue or narration text changes in size, thus clearly outlining an important theme of the work: “I am Iranian and proud of it!” Marjane screams (197). Not only does the exclamation point mark the passion of the phrase, the size distinctly sets it apart from the rest of the novel. It becomes its own image, sharing the spotlight with Marjane’s acceptance of herself and her transnational identity.

*Throughout this post, I use the author’s last name when referring to her authorial role. I use her first name, Marjane, when referring to the narrator/main character of the novel.