![]() ![]() ![]() Los Bros bristled at being lumped in with those ostensible peers. Perhaps more importantly, the series wasn’t about superheroes. The series was touted as a breakthrough for comics: The characters were nearly all Latinx, many of them were queer, and all of them existed in worlds so richly imagined that one couldn’t help but sink into them like quicksand. It was Love and Rockets, an ongoing series that boasts a panoramic scope and deep empathy, crafted in stark black and white by the three Hernandez brothers: Gilbert, Jaime, and Mario, often collectively referred to as Los Bros. The third, spoken about in the same breathless conversations by comic aesthetes, has not turned out to be nearly as lucrative. The second was Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, the grim tale of an aging and bitter Caped Crusader by writer and artist Frank Miller. One object of adoration was Watchmen, the viciously deconstructionist take on superheroes by writer Alan Moore and artist Dave Gibbons. “Comics Aren’t Just for Kids Anymore,” was the gist of most headlines: A new wave of serialized comics art was rolling out, so provocative and mature that grown-ups might hand the products off to one another. Somewhere around the middle of the Reagan administration, a tiny handful of revolutionary comic-book series were heralded by both longtime geeks and surprised media outlets.
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