Special Feature — April 30, 2015, 8:00 am

Saving Nelvana

The search for Canada’s first female superhero

Photograph of Nevlana TK taken sometime between 1929 and 1945. Courtesy of Kenneth Kuodluak

Photograph of Connie Nelvana, taken sometime between 1929 and 1945. Courtesy of Kenneth Kuodluak

On a visit to the Northwest Territories in April 1939, the Canadian painter Franz Johnston was introduced to a young Inuit woman named Nelvana. The exact circumstances of their meeting are unknown, but according to an interview the artist later gave the Toronto Evening Telegram, Johnston was so taken with Nelvana that he asked to paint her picture. She was uneasy about the idea but eventually allowed him to sketch and photograph her so that, when he returned to Toronto, he could complete a portrait.

In the seventy-five years since Johnston’s trip to the Arctic, no portrait of Nelvana has ever surfaced. But the artist didn’t forget her. Sometime in the two years following his return, he showed Nelvana’s photo to a young man named Adrian Dingle, who was then a struggling illustrator, trying unsuccessfully to enlist as a war artist in World War II. Dingle too appears to have been fascinated by Nelvana. According to comic historian John Bell, he was “attracted to both the wonderful name and the alluring idea of a goddess-like woman.”

The image of Nelvana stuck with Dingle. In August 1941, he published Nelvana of the Northern Lights in his inaugural issue of Triumph Adventure Comics, a series he created with two other artists who were also unable to join the war effort. Nelvana’s heroine donned a winged headdress, fur miniskirt, and cape, and traveled along the northern lights fighting the war that her creators could not. A demigoddess with a mortal mother and a royal father—Koliak the Mighty, the king of the northern lights—Nelvana harnessed the force of the aurora borealis. She also used her cloak to shape-shift and had the powers of telepathy and invisibility. A patriotic superhero, Nelvana defended her “Arctic brothers” and later Canada as a whole (in the guise of secret agent Alana North) against Axis-allied supervillains such as the Ether People and the Mammoth Men.

As World War II raged on, comics like Triumph spread across North America. By 1946, the Canada Whites—comic books so named for their black-and-white interiors—had spawned scores of new superheroes, including Johnny Canuck, Canada Jack, and the Penguin. Nelvana was one of the most popular comics—and one of the few to feature a female superhero. But then, in 1946, with thirty-one issues under its belt, Triumph folded. Nelvana was licensed to an American publisher, who would unleash her one last time, to defend humanity against alien invaders. “We of earth want no more wars!” Nelvana exclaimed. With that, she was no more.

Dingle never drew Nelvana again. Curiously, he maintained in the press that she was based solely on an Inuit deity. And so Nelvana of the Northern Lights and the story of the woman who inspired her were largely forgotten for the next six decades.

Nelvana was Canada’s first comic book superhero. Until the end of 1940, U.S. comics had claimed sovereignty over North America. Superheroes such as Superman (cocreated by Canadian Joe Shuster) and Batman colonized Canadian newspapers and comic books to such an extent that local artists had to move south for work—Halifax’s Hal Foster created Prince Valiant for William Randolph Hearst; Albert Chartier, an artist from Quebec, worked with New York’s Columbia Comics, home of Skyman and the Face; and, nearby, Ontario-born Charles Spain Verral wrote Street & Smith’s Bill Barnes Comics. The Canadian comic book industry was rescued only after the country attempted to address its trade deficit with the United States by passing the War Exchange Conservation Act (WECA), which restricted the import of “non-essential goods,” including comic books (though American strips continued to run in Canadian papers). No longer competing with juggernauts like Marvel and DC Comics, Canadian artists began creating their own caped crusaders.

At the outset of the war, Adrian Dingle found himself in his early thirties, unemployed, unable to enlist in the military because his hearing was damaged following a series of childhood ear infections. Two of his friends, brothers Andre and Rene Kulbach, also happened to be out of work, so the trio launched a bid to become war artists. “We got a large petition signed by a number of Toronto artists,” Dingle told a Canadian zine years later, “and the result was just the usual: ‘When we want lemon juice, we’ll ask for it.’ So in desperation we all got together and started Triumph Comics on about a $400 budget.”

In 1941, the three men founded Hillborough Studios and got to work on Nelvana. For funding, Dingle and the Kulbachs joined forces with an anonymous investor to produce Triumph Adventure Comics, its only title, in August of that year (Franz Johnston shared the copyright and cowrote the first issue with Dingle but did not participate further). Visually, the sixty-page volume stood out. Many comic book artists at the time were unskilled teenagers who were too young to go to war, but Dingle had worked for years as an illustrator. “Dingle’s artwork was distinguished by its elegant, bold design and by his mastery of chiaroscuro,” Bell wrote in his 1992 book on the history of Canadian superheroes, Guardians of the North.

Triumph Adventure Comics contained a handful of stories about spies (Spanner Preston), giants (Derek of Bras d’Or) and cowboys (Tang the Wonder Horse & Buddy)—among them was Nelvana of the Northern Lights. According to Trina Robbins, author of The Great Women Superheroes, Nelvana was preceded in the United States by only three female superheroes: the Woman in Red (March 1940), Miss Fury (April 1941), and USA, the Spirit of Old Glory (July 1941). She beat Wonder Woman by four months.

Nelvana soon captured the attention of Bell Features, the most famous Canadian comic book publisher of the Golden Age. The company acquired Triumph Adventure Comics when, in 1942, after only seven issues, Dingle and his partners fell into financial crisis. Bell changed the title to Triumph Comics and hired him as an art director. By the end of 1943, it was selling one hundred thousand comics a week.

From 1942 to ’46, Bell Features published twenty-four Triumph Comics—ceasing after Canada lifted the WECA ban. Soon after, Dingle put down his pens and returned to his painting career. “I think Adrian probably just saw the writing on the wall, in terms of the ability to make money in the Canadian comics industry, once the American comics started to come back in,” his grandson Nick Dingle said. “I suspect that Adrian also considered comics to be kind of a lark anyway. He would have viewed it more as a way to make some money than as a career or a creative outlet.”

In 2010, a woman named Rachel Richey, then an intern at Ottawa’s Library and Archives Canada, was researching the library’s comic book collection. Among the LAC’s four thousand or so comics, she found many of Canada’s most well-known heroes: Johnny Canuck, Dixon of the Mounted, the Invisible Commando—each stuffed inside protective Mylar pockets. Having heard about Nelvana of the Northern Lights, she sought out the Triumph comics. “When you open it and you see Nelvana it’s kind of jarring because all the other characters are male,” Richey said. “On top of that the art is just stunning—I mean you’re blown away.” As she would later learn, the comics had been sold to the library in 1970 and had since remained in storage. Sheltered by the privacy of her cubicle, she read each issue, foregoing the prescribed white cotton gloves. “I was not really supposed to read them,” she said. “But obviously I’m going to read them.”

A year later, while cataloging the LAC collection, Richey wrote about some of her finds on her blog, Comic Syrup. In September 2011, she received an email from a woman named Hope Nicholson who was working as an associate producer on the Canadian superhero documentary, Lost Heroes. Nicholson had discovered Nelvana years earlier while writing a paper on Canadian comic book history at Toronto’s York University. “I’m a nerd, a feminist, and an avid fan of Arctic literature, so I was incredibly shocked that I never heard of her before,” said Nicholson, whose outfit when we met—vintage specs and a green silk frock—was more Mad Men than X-Men. “I became completely captivated.” In February 2010, Nicholson obtained a microfiche collection of Nelvana comics from the LAC and spent the next few months digitizing them.

In June of 2013, the duo, who had been working together on Lost Heroes, decided to reprint Nelvana of the Northern Lights. But the project presented difficulties. The original acetate printing plates had been lost sometime after 1970, so Richey and Nicholson needed to rely in part on private collections to compile the complete catalogue. In October, they launched a Kickstarter campaign to fund their research and travel. “I will not say that I was fully confident that I would reach the $25,000,” Nicholson said. But they did—in less than a week. “Our party that launched the campaign actually became our celebration party,” said Richey.

In all, thirteen different collections would be used to compile the first full reprint of Nelvana of the Northern Lights, which went on sale in Canada in May 2014, and has since printed approximately 3,500 copies. “I’m constantly finding new collections,” Nicholson said. “If I got everyone in Canada to look in their attic right now, I’m sure we’d find many more.”

*Research into Nelvana’s identity has also met with questions regarding her race, which was never explicitly stated, although she was billed as an Arctic superhero. According to Bell, Nelvana “belonged to a long line of white queens and goddesses.” However, Michael Hirsh, author of The Great Canadian Comic Books, thinks she was “meant to be Inuit.” (Nelvana’s defined cheekbones seem to have been inspired by the real woman who shared her name, but, according to Nelvana reprinter Hope Nicholson, her appearance may have also been influenced by Dingle’s wife, Patricia, and a figure model named Margot Mossman.)

From the beginning, Nicholson and Richey believed that Nelvana was based on an Inuit deity, as Dingle had stated throughout his life.* In October 2013, however, after Nicholson went searching for Dingle’s family to tell them about the reprint, the artist’s son, Christopher, told her that his father had said Nelvana was in fact “an old woman who was perhaps a shaman, a seer, a healer, or something, but a toothless old woman certainly, in some Inuit village.” Nicholson searched the name Nelvana in the Library and Archives Canada and came across a photograph of a woman named Kukilukak, who was described as “Cecile Nelvana Kamingoak’s step-mother,” taken in Coppermine, Northwest Territories—now Kugluktuk, Nunavut. This led Nicholson to a book by photographer Richard Harrington, The Face of the Arctic, published five years after Nelvana went out of print. The book included a picture of a woman named Cecile Nelvana Kamingoak with two of her children. The timing of the photo seemed to fit with the Toronto Evening Telegram article in which Johnston talked about meeting a woman named Nelvana to whom he referred as a Madonna. “I remember seeing that picture of [Cecile] Nelvana with her children when she was young,” Nicholson said. “I thought, well, clearly it has to be the same woman.”

According to her granddaughter, Ellie Adjun, Cecile lived in Coppermine until her death in 2011 at the age of eighty-eight. In 1943 she married Peter Kamingoak. “My grandfather and her made a very handsome couple,” said Adjun, whose grandmother reared thirteen children while her husband delivered mail to the communities around Coppermine. “It was good fishing, they were right at the mouth of the Coppermine River, and it always had good caribou that came by,” Adjun said, “so that’s where they made their home, where it was plentiful for food.” The materfamilias was also a talented seamstress, sewing her family parkas, beaded jewelry, moccasins, and mukluks. “She was a very kind-hearted loving grandmother,” Adjun said. “She always made sure that her grandchildren shared their catch and food with the rest of the community.”

If Cecile was in fact the Nelvana who met Johnston, she kept it to herself. None of her surviving family members remember her talking about his visit. Further complicating matters are records of another woman, named Connie Nelvana, who also lived in Coppermine during Johston’s visit and was approximately the same age as Cecile. Connie appears to have been a housekeeper and a sculptor as well as a skilled caribou butcher. But she died in 2000, and neither her grandson, nor her daughter-in-law, Jean, recalls her mentioning Johnston. According to Jean, Connie and Cecile grew up together, and may have been cousins (church records suggest they could have even been sisters).

A shared last name in the Inuit community, however, does not necessarily imply family ties. “Nelvana is an Inuit name given at birth, usually by elders of the community,” Adjun told Nicholson in an email. “It is passed down from a respected elder who has passed away, or is a relative, in honor of them.” Adjun herself once saw some Nelvana of the Northern Lights comics at a flea market in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, but decided not to buy them. “I was quite surprised but I wasn’t sure who Nelvana was, who the book was about, so I didn’t grab them,” she said.

In November, Nicholson sent Adjun a box of the Kickstarter-funded Nelvana books, which included reprints of every black-and-white Nelvana of the Northern Lights story as well as eight color covers featuring the Arctic superhero blasting various enemies into the ether. When I asked Adjun if she thought it was her grandmother whom Johnston had met seven decades earlier, she wasn’t sure. But she imagined Cecile would have been tickled by the prospect of inspiring a super hero: “She probably would have laughed about it. She really enjoyed telling stories.”

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Smoke from the Lolo Peak fire (detail) © Laura Verhaeghe
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The pinhal interior, a wooded region of hills and narrow hollows in rural central Portugal, used to be farmland. Well into the latter half of the past century, the fields were worked by peasants from the old stone villages. Portugal was poor and isolated, and the pinhal interior particularly so; when they could, the peasants left. There is electricity and running water now, but most of the people have gone. The fields have been taken over by trees. Each year the forest encroaches farther, and each year the villages grow more lonely. There are remnants of the earlier life, though, and amid the trees the holdouts of the older generations still work a few small fields. The pinhal interior cannot yet be called wilderness, then, and that, in large part, is why it burns.

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Firefighters near Pedrógão Grande (detail) © Pablo Blazquez Dominguez/Getty Images
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Ghazi, a sixty-two-year-old with stooped shoulders, an ash-gray beard, and lively brown eyes, would have preferred to stay home and wait out the heat. But he hadn’t had much of a choice. He was the president of the local council of Mandaeans, members of a gnostic religion that appeared in Mesopotamia in the early centuries ad. Today marked the beginning of their new year, and Ghazi, who was born into the Mandaean priestly class, was responsible for making sure everything went smoothly: he needed to find a tent to shield worshippers from the sun and, most importantly, a location near flowing water where they could carry out the ceremony.

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Basra General Hospital (detail) July 2017 © Alex Potter
How to Start a Nuclear War·

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Serving as a US Air Force launch control officer for intercontinental missiles in the early Seventies, First Lieutenant Bruce Blair figured out how to start a nuclear war and kill a few hundred million people. His unit, stationed in the vast missile fields at Malmstrom Air Force Base, in Montana, oversaw one of four squadrons of Minuteman II ­ICBMs, each missile topped by a W56 thermonuclear warhead with an explosive force of 1.2 megatons—eighty times that of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. In theory, the missiles could be fired only by order of the president of the United States, and required mutual cooperation by the two men on duty in each of the launch control centers, of which there were five for each squadron.

In fact, as Blair recounted to me recently, the system could be bypassed with remarkable ease. Safeguards made it difficult, though not impossible, for a two-man crew (of either captains or lieutenants, some straight out of college) in a single launch control center to fire a missile. But, said Blair, “it took only a small conspiracy”—of two people in two separate control centers—to launch the entire squadron of fifty missiles, “sixty megatons targeted at the Soviet Union, China, and North Korea.” (The scheme would first necessitate the “disabling” of the conspirators’ silo crewmates, unless, of course, they, too, were complicit in the operation.) Working in conjunction, the plotters could “jury-rig the system” to send a “vote” by turning keys in their separate launch centers. The three other launch centers might see what was happening, but they would not be able to override the two votes, and the missiles would begin their firing sequence. Even more alarmingly, Blair discovered that if one of the plotters was posted at the particular launch control center in overall command of the squadron, they could together format and transmit a “valid and authentic launch order” for general nuclear war that would immediately launch the entire US strategic nuclear missile force, including a thousand Minuteman and fifty-four Titan missiles, without the possibility of recall. As he put it, “that would get everyone’s attention, for sure.” A more pacifically inclined conspiracy, on the other hand, could effectively disarm the strategic force by formatting and transmitting messages invalidating the presidential launch codes.

When he quit the Air Force in 1974, Blair was haunted by the power that had been within his grasp, andhe resolved to do something about it. But when he started lobbying his former superiors, he was met with indifference and even active hostility. “I got in a fair scrap with the Air Force over it,” he recalled. As Blair well knew, there was supposed to be a system already in place to prevent that type of unilateral launch. The civilian leadership in the Pentagon took comfort in this, not knowing that the Strategic Air Command, which then controlled the Air Force’s nuclear weapons, had quietly neutralized it.

This reluctance to implement an obviously desirable precaution might seem extraordinary, but it is explicable in light of the dominant theme in the military’s nuclear weapons culture: the strategy known as “launch under attack.” Theoretically, the president has the option of waiting through an attack before deciding how to respond. But in practice, the system of command and control has been organized so as to leave a president facing reports of incoming missiles with little option but to launch. In the words of Lee Butler, who commanded all US nuclear forces at the end of the Cold War, the system the military designed was “structured to drive the president invariably toward a decision to launch under attack” if he or she believes there is “incontrovertible proof that warheads actually are on the way.” Ensuring that all missiles and bombers would be en route before any enemy missiles actually landed meant that most of the targets in the strategic nuclear war plan would be destroyed—thereby justifying the purchase and deployment of the massive force required to execute such a strike.

Among students of nuclear command and control, this practice of precluding all options but the desired one is known as “jamming” the president. Blair’s irksome protests threatened to slow this process. When his pleas drew rejection from inside the system, he turned to Congress. Eventually the Air Force agreed to begin using “unlock codes”—codes transmitted at the time of the launch order by higher authority without which the crews could not fire—on the weapons in 1977. (Even then, the Navy held off safeguarding its submarine-launched nuclear missiles in this way for another twenty years.)

Following this small victory, Blair continued to probe the baroque architecture of nuclear command and control, and its extreme vulnerability to lethal mishap. In the early Eighties, while working with a top-secret clearance for the Office of Technology Assessment, he prepared a detailed report on such shortcomings. The Pentagon promptly classified it as SIOP-ESI—a level higher than top secret. (SIOP stands for Single Integrated Operational Plan, the US plan for conducting a nuclear war. ESI stands for Extremely Sensitive Information.) Hidden away in the Pentagon, the report was withheld from both relevant senior civilian officials and the very congressional committees that had commissioned it in the first place.

From positions in Washington’s national security think tanks, including the Brookings Institution, Blair used his expertise and scholarly approach to gain access to knowledgeable insiders at the highest ranks, even in Moscow. On visits to the Russian capital during the halcyon years between the Cold War’s end and the renewal of tensions in the twenty-first century, he learned that the Soviet Union had actually developed a “dead hand” in ultimate control of their strategic nuclear arsenal. If sensors detected signs of an enemy nuclear attack, the USSR’s entire missile force would immediately launch with a minimum of human intervention—in effect, the doomsday weapon that ends the world in Dr. Strangelove.

Needless to say, this was a tightly held arrangement, known only to a select few in Moscow. Similarly chilling secrets, Blair continued to learn, lurked in the bowels of the US system, often unknown to the civilian leadership that supposedly directed it. In 1998, for example, on a visit to the headquarters of Strategic Command (­STRATCOM), the force controlling all US strategic nuclear weapons, at Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha, Nebraska, he discovered that the ­­­STRATCOM targeting staff had unilaterally chosen to interpret a presidential order on nuclear targeting in such a way as to reinsert China into the ­SIOP, from which it had been removed in 1982, thereby provisionally consigning a billion Chinese to nuclear immolation. Shortly thereafter, he informed a senior White House official, whose reaction Blair recalled as “surprised” and “befuddled.”

In 2006, Blair founded Global Zero, an organization dedicated to ridding the world of nuclear weapons, with an immediate goal of ending the policy of launch under attack. By that time, the Cold War that had generated the ­SIOP and all those nuclear weapons had long since come to an end. As a result, part of the nuclear war machine had been dismantled—warhead numbers were reduced, bombers taken off alert, weapons withdrawn from Europe. But at its heart, the system continued unchanged, officially ever alert and smooth running, poised to dispatch hundreds of precisely targeted weapons, but only on receipt of an order from the commander in chief.

Bombhead, by Bruce Conner (detail) © Conner Family Trust, San Francisco, and ARS, New York City. Courtesy Kohn Gallery, Los Angeles

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Happiness Is a Worn Gun


Illustration by Stan Fellows

Illustration by Stan Fellows

“Nowadays, most states let just about anybody who wants a concealed-handgun permit have one; in seventeen states, you don’t even have to be a resident. Nobody knows exactly how many Americans carry guns, because not all states release their numbers, and even if they did, not all permit holders carry all the time. But it’s safe to assume that as many as 6 million Americans are walking around with firearms under their clothes.”

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