There's a line that R. Crumb uses twice, in two separate comics, that epitomizes the major themes of his art: "Nobody understands [me]... and of course, how could they??" Periodically his work will stumble into a pit of naval gazing and self-indulgence when it comes to the subjects for his comics. But ultimately, everything he does boils down to this one line. The level of self-awareness he manages to achieve with this line, and throughout the remainder of his work, is both staggering and fascinating, enough to justify the grandiosity of this book.
I tried to read this as an autobiography, from cover to cover, taking time to carefully understand how the context of Crumb's life affected his work. Not an effective strategy. If the book wasn't so cumbersome to hold, it might have worked. But since that first reading, I've gotten much more enjoyment just laying the book open flat on a large surface, and staring at the audacious art contained herein.
The large-scale (13"x11") format has various levels of effectiveness when presenting Crumb's work. The sketchbook pages, when blown up to this size, lose their intimacy. You can see the fudges and mistakes that Crumb's made. These imperfections are beautiful in the smaller format, but become grotesque and distracting at this size. On the other hand, too often his comic book covers should have been enlarged but weren't. The details in the margins, brought out gloriously when they are blown up, can't be seen when the covers are presented as thumbnails.
Each chapter begins with a page-long, hand-written introduction by the man himself. Robert is self-effacing to a fault; you can tell that he's embarrassed by the treatment his works have been given here. He never intended them for such a wide audience, and now the incoherent ramblings of his inner mind are getting the coffee table book treatment! It's preposterous! That being said, he does a fine job trying to explain his own psychology, getting at his motivations for creating the art he did, and never apologizing for any of it. And I found that if you read his writings while imagining that great laid-back drawl of his, the experience is that much more enjoyable.
The book is a perfect companion piece for anyone who's seen Terry Zwigoff's stunning documentary, "Crumb". Many of the pieces shown in that movie turn up here too, only instead of just snippets we get the whole work. Most notable is the inclusion of "A Bitchin' Bod'!", in which the notorious Devil Girl, her head removed, is given by Mr. Natural to Flakey Foont, who proceeds to defile it, only to feel terribly guilty afterwards. This comic got the most attention from the intellectuals dissecting Crumb in the movie, and it's here in all its glory. True, it's hideously misogynistic, but it's also a fine example of what makes Crumb's work so awe-inspiring. He has a unique ability to mine his id for material, to lay his fantasies bare, and damn the consequences.
A fascinating foray into one man's artistic (and by association, personal) life, "The R. Crumb Coffee Table Art Book" would work splendidly on anyone's coffee table. That is, if you had the nerve to actually put it on your coffee table. If you want to freak out your friends, and educate them about the twisted depths that men's souls can achieve, you should.
