By Jim Woodring
For the previous two decades or so, Jim Woodring’s liked trilobular chuckbuster Frank has loved one mindbending disaster after one other within the treacherous embody of The Unifactor, the land into which he used to be born and from which break out appeared neither fascinating nor most probably. after which, unexpectedly, in 2011’s acclaimed Congress of the Animals (the moment Woodring unique photograph novel, following Weathercraft) Frank did depart the Unifactor for uncharted lands past — the place, after a string of trials, he received a soulmate named Fran.
This improvement raised way more questions than it replied. might Frank turn into placid and domesticated? could he be jilted? may he turn into a dreadful cad? could he develop into a downtrodden and exhausted paterfamilias staring vacantly into the dimming fireplace of lifestyles as obnoxious grandchildren pulled his peglike ears and stole his porridge?
The solutions to those fruitless speculations and plenty of extra are brought in a devastatingly unpredictable style in Fran, that is in influence half of Congress of the Animals. enthusiasts of Frank, connoisseurs of unusual romance, and spelunkers within the radiant depths of photo metaphysical psychodrama probably want to upload this singular comic strip event tale to their lifetime interpreting checklist.
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Extra info for Fran
Her stomach rumbled and reminded her that the first order of business was breakfast. She’d think about the bath and bolting later. Charlotte followed Bay down the carpeted stairs. Her boots were probably ruined after spending the night out of doors, and now she didn’t have a nightgown either. There were any number of things she wanted to speak to Bay about, but her mama always said a man had to eat before he could think. The sideboard was spread with enough food to feed every mistress on the street.
He had no hesitation to punish her for her sister’s transgressions—if one thought that hours of sublime sensual pleasure was punishment. Charlotte put an ear to the bedroom door and listened for any movement. A pleasant lingering of cheroot smoke drifted into her nostrils, but the house was dark and silent save for the steady ticking of the clocks. The timepiece in the cherub’s stomach at her bedside told her it was gone on eleven. He must have left while she availed herself of the discreetly screened commode chair in the dressing room.
And then it hit her. Deb had teasingly spoken about making off with Bayard’s paintings. Said they were valuable. Lord knows, there were enough of them all through the downstairs rooms. There were breasts and bottoms and nipples and nooks on every wall, some near to life-size. But the artwork on the stairs was a manageable size, as was the one hanging directly below it. Charlotte could take them down herself, cut the canvas from their frames, and sell them. All she needed was enough money to hide out for a few weeks.
Fran by Jim Woodring