This is not a comic. If it is indeed, then this comic is uncanny.
First and foremost, this comic was not conceived to be comfortably read while on an armchair. It is birthed so that its original pages be put in good view, hung to the walls. It is the reader that has to physically move, browsing from one page to the other, following the articolated narration at the price of comfort.
Additionally, this is a biography like the others, but not in the form of a graphic novel that loses its meaning by walking at the edges of common sense. This is the narration of an important life, all in just a few pages, without crashing onto cliches and without losing the sight of narration.
Last but not least, the delicate equilibrium between words and images – a central element of comics – is absent. In these pages, the verbal code disappears to leave room to a music that fills everything: the main character’s life, the environment in which he acts, the strips, and even the spaces between each square.
