As reliant on rhythm as any given pop song, Veronique Tanaka’s METRONOME is a unique graphic novel worthy of your time. Each of its 64 pages are divided into 16 symmetrical squares, slowly telling a story through images, not words.

At first, those images appear abstract and unconnected. The entire first page is taken up by the ticking of the titular object, soon joined in the next couple of pages by a wristwatch and extreme close-ups that pan out to reveal a housefly, a telephone, an odd statue, a picture on a wall, a fan, a lava lamp and a photograph of a smiling woman.

It’s this woman who comprises half of the relationship METRONOME examines. She’s young, pretty, idealistic and active, and in love with a man who doesn’t quite return her feelings. He — a chain-smoking composer — enjoys the sex, but apparently little else they do. He can find enjoyment in the grope, in the pump, but would rather be home working out a tune on the piano than enjoying her company in the great outdoors.

Sex is the only method through which they can connect and communicate, and the way Tanaka juxtaposes snippets of their couplings with, say, the floating contents of a lava lamp or the foilage of a tree, is startling. It’s a deliberate method to trick the eye: Which image is naughty? Which isn’t? How can you be sure what you’re even seeing?

It’s a great testament to the power of telling a story strictly through graphics; there’s nary a word uttered between our lovers. None is needed; their actions say it all. –Rod Lott

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