Collecting Comics: A Snapshot of Graphic Novel Research in Public Libraries

2.1 Representation

This unique combination of text and image, and the relationship between the reader and the content, leads research into graphic novels to often be explored through a lens of representation and inclusivity. From cultural background to the expression of gender identity, diversity and representation are vital to literature (Vaandering and Rosenzweig 2023) and it has been suggested that the use of text and images in graphic novels “can illuminate experiences and emotions in ways that textbooks and other materials do not” (Gavigan 2021, 42). Researchers have explored how graphic novels can promote empathy and understanding, from representing subject matter and experiences as diverse as mental illness (Hill 2017), embodied disability (Christensen-Strynø et al. 2023), social justice (Garrison and Gavigan 2019), First Nations perspectives (Garrison et al. 2018), refugees (Wee and Quiroa 2023), and racism (Gavigan 2021) to science, equity and diversity more broadly (Matuk et al. 2021). This relates to graphic novels’ complex integration of text, images, and other diverse forms of communication and their capabilities as tools for teaching and learning, as well as emotional intelligence and inclusion.

Graphic novels are frequently produced as part of interpretive or arts-based research through collaborating with a variety of participants, such as capturing descriptions of living with disability (Christensen-Strynø et al. 2023); reframing experiences of living as a young queer person in Africa (Meer and Müller 2023); investigating literacy development in incarcerated high school students (Gavigan and Albright 2015); and exploring alternative avenues of literacy learning in school libraries and classrooms (Garrison et al. 2021). Representation in graphic novels has also been explored through critical analysis of specific texts, such as through a lens of Critical Disability Studies (Smith-D’Arezzo and Holc 2016) and content analysis (Smith and Pole 2018) to support teacher understanding of graphic novel complexity. Graphic novels often enable readers to learn about a greater diversity of experiences than their own circumstances, thereby teaching them about the challenges and inequalities faced by many people in the world (Garrison and Gavigan 2019, 3). Conversely, memoir comics may also allow the reader a greater connection with their own heritage, community, or culture (Telgemeier and McCloud 2025), with Manouach and Foka (2025) arguing that digital comics—many of which become successful published works—constitute the archiving and preservation of culture by creators and readers in real-time. This is a vital consideration for libraries as places of empathy, learning and compassion (Australian Library and Information Association n.d.; American Library Association 2024a; Clark-Hunt and Creel 2024), offering culturally safe collections that reflect their diverse communities without restriction (Australian Library and Information Association 2024) and asserting patrons’ rights to read whatever they choose (Urrutia 2024).

2.2 Censorship and Stigma

Libraries have a responsibility to withstand any attempts at censorship, from the restriction of access to a resource to the outright banning of a particular book (Australian Library and Information Association 2018). As stigma can be seen as the presumptions made against graphic novels due to historical or other assumptions about their content and value (Moeller and Becnel 2022), these concepts interlink where assumptions lead to books such as graphic novels being limited or banned (Moeller and Becnel 2022; Noe et al. 2023). In their qualitative interviews investigating librarians’ views of censorship, Clark-Hunt and Creel (2024) found that censorship of books including graphic novels is on the rise. Indeed, censorship statistics have skyrocketed in the United States (American Library Association 2024b; Oltmann 2023) and Australia (Urrutia 2024) over the last few years. Similarly, a quantitative survey revealed that librarians can face community backlash when selecting and promoting graphic novels for their collection (Lo et al. 2019). These challenges speak to various social pressures and prejudices, including historical preconceptions against comics (Cabero et al. 2021, 7).

Studies have investigated censorship disputes in libraries through freedom of information requests (Oltmann et al. 2017) and, conversely, have interviewed librarians in institutions where materials have not been challenged (Oltmann and Reynolds 2020). Librarians have also been found to make assumptions against graphic novels as lesser reading (Moeller and Becnel 2022) or even limit access to books out of fear they will be challenged, which amounts to self-censorship (Lo et al. 2019). Oltmann (2023) points out that books written and published by authors from diverse backgrounds and book challenges against diverse and inclusive books have risen in tandem. Not only are graphic novels disproportionately affected by book bans and challenges, but the majority of books being challenged depict LGBTIQA+ experiences and themes (Noe et al. 2023). LGBTIQA+ stories continue to be silenced through censorship in the United States (Clark-Hunt and Creel 2024), which can be seen clearly through the graphic novel Gender Queer: A Memoir (Kobabe 2019) becoming the most banned book in America (Alter 2023; Kobabe 2023). Gender Queer has been the subject of two reviews by the Australian Classification Review Board (Department of Infrastructure, Transport, Regional Development, Communications and the Arts 2025), following extensive campaigning stemming almost exclusively from a single conservative individual (Taylor 2025). The continued banning and challenging of diverse books may further complicate already-tense relationships between libraries and marginalized groups, including queer communities (Kitzie et al. 2022), Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities (Thorpe 2019), and the broader public affected through silencing diverse voices. In order to provide library collections that cater to the diverse needs of library patrons (Clark-Hunt and Creel 2024), it is vital that librarians alongside the wider community understand and disrupt the current climate of book bans and censorship.

2.3 People, Patrons and Programs

A central theme of graphic novel and library research is a focus on participants’ interpretations of their experiences and memories with reading graphic novels in libraries, including Moeller’s (2023) study interviewing and surveying adults on their childhood reading habits and experiences of stigma within graphic novel fandom. Studies like these tend to highlight the thoughts, opinions, and perspectives of graphic novel readers, library patrons, and library staff, as well as how these experiences coalesce. Lo et al. (2019) completed comprehensive quantitative survey research into librarians’ perceptions of graphic novels across libraries in Australasia, finding that graphic novels have the capacity to engage with young people and encourage them to visit their school library, fostering both a love of reading and strengthening their literacy skills. Quantitative surveys have also been used to interrogate library relationships with comic conventions, finding that many comic convention attendees also regularly engage with their libraries, signifying a potential market for librarians to target and collaborate with (Schneider and Cannon 2020). This diversity of research methods utilized in libraries is consistent with information research often drawing from research across a broad spectrum of multidisciplinary approaches (Williamson and Johanson 2017) and reflects the multifaceted qualities and applications of graphic novel collections.

As Vitella (2022) concludes, “the comics reading community is diverse and the methods public librarians are using to approach their collections and programmes related to comics is myriad” (88), which necessitates that research into graphic novels and libraries be equally as diverse as their methods, to reflect the unique challenges and opportunities they face. The literature also reveals a significant gap in research into graphic novels and public libraries, in favor of other information institutions including school and academic libraries (Finley 2015; Gavigan 2014; Lo et al. 2019). In addition, with few exceptions (e.g. Garrison and Gavigan 2019; Lo et al. 2019), research into graphic novels and libraries is overwhelmingly conducted in the United States. Research abounds on subjects benefitting libraries and librarians, but research reflecting the lived experience of being a public librarian is sparser. Clark-Hunt and Creel (2024) point out a relative lack of research derived from the experience of public librarians; and Baker (2024) posited at a library conference that despite high circulation rates, graphic novels are often the “least understood parts of the collection by library workers” (n.p.). This article aims to bridge the gap between the two through a librarian-centred experience of working with graphic novels to de-mystify these collections.

3.1 Limitations

As the “base unit of analysis is [me], the author, and the researcher” (Cooper and Lilyea 2022, 198), the reality of the research project primarily reflects my own version of reality working in libraries and reading graphic novels. A common critique of this method is the overreliance on the researcher’s subjectivity which may narrow the view of the researcher (Reed-Danahay 2019), and, at times, autoethnography can raise more questions than what it answers (Andersen 2024). Further, no raw data was collected from further participants which may enrich the story; and generalizability in the traditional sense may not exist in favor of the text connecting with a reader in a more interpretive manner (Breuer and Roth 2005). For this to occur, the author abdicates authority (Williamson 2017), inviting the reader into the research journey with them while also making room for the research to be more accessible and engaging to the public (Ellis et al. 2011). Autoethnography flouts conventional rules of research (Freeman 2015) and can only ever share part of a story (Ellis 2020), as it is the thinking and experiences of just one person situated in time and is thus resplendent with gaps and fragmentations.

As Garner (2002) extrapolates, all writing presupposes a constructed persona and this is integral to the undertaking of autoethnography. Further, in Patton’s (2015) “Criteria for Judging the Quality of An Autoethnography” based on Richardson (2000a, 2000b), the author’s subjectivity becomes “both a producer and a product of this text” (103). In this way, autoethnography seeks to mythologise objectivity by placing the researcher and their subjectivities at the centre of research (Lapadat 2017). This is something that Sarah Firth (2023) hints at in her graphic novel: “The raw data of life is huge and way beyond our limited sensory capacity. We literally can’t absorb reality as objective, rational observers” (184). While I was particularly interested in leaning into this subjectivity to explore my experiences working in public libraries and what this says about graphic novel collections, I was cautious of my own internal biases and reflect on the particularities of my perceptions.

When writing about the self, we inevitably write about other people which has associated risks of identifying others (Ellis 2007) and as such, I have anonymized the library services where I have worked, including their specific contexts and geographic locations. I also aimed to employ autoethnography’s emphasis on storytelling and meaning making (Ellis 2020) in favor of explicit detail to further obscure specific situations and circumstances. As the researcher and participant, I become the sole participant of this autoethnographic study. However, as Anteliz, Mulligan, and Danaher (2023) point out, autoethnography necessitates an informed understanding between the self and others, to allow for a more reflexive and relational understanding of one’s community and social context (Ellis et al. 2011). In this way, autoethnography zeroes in on the complexities of memory and life that already exist (Bochner and Ellis 2016) and readers are invited to make their own distinctions as to what really happened throughout my reflections.

3.2 Data Collection

Having worked at five different libraries over seven years, inclusive of three public libraries, one school library, and one academic library, I explored these workplaces as rich reservoirs of inspiration for writing, with the aim of contributing to a deep understanding of information behaviours and graphic novel collections, as “information plays a crucial role in the lives of individuals, groups and societies” (Williamson and Johanson 2017, 61). To achieve this, I set out to draw on my own work and experience as data (Patton 2015) where my observations and experiences working with graphic novels forms a dialogue with the research. As autoethnography focuses on the life experiences of the researcher, there are various methods that these experiences can be explored and collected as data (Cooper and Lilyea 2022). Autoethnography is often constructed out of the writing of vignettes of various lengths (Ellis 2020; Kertyzia 2020; Kitzis 2023). These vignettes take the form of anecdotes, described by van Manen (2014) as relating to short, self-contained pieces of writing that tell stories through their emphasis on detail and experience, typically describing one instance and using quotes to further contextualize the experience (Pitard 2016). I chose to journal self-reflective data in the form of 18 individual vignettes approximately 400–800 words in length, exploring different experiences in a single Word document, with a particular emphasis on autoethnography’s relationships to “the literary, aesthetic, emotional, and therapeutic” (Ellis 2020, 209). When completing multiple vignettes in one session, this became an average of 1,270 words in each sitting. This added up to 10,211 words by the end of the eight-week reflective writing period.

Some vignettes I returned to, adding more information or becoming a jumping-off point for further writing, and in this way, the autoethnography process revealed itself as highly recursive in form and function (Butz and Besio 2009). As autoethnography is informed by the researcher’s experiences and style (Cooper and Lilyea 2022) and positions the reflective writing as central to the research process rather than separate or circumstantial (Poulos 2021), I allowed my own voice to emerge in the writing process. As such, the tone of the reflections oscillates between academic and colloquial, reflecting a hallmark of autoethnographic writing as conversational and accessible to a wider audience, appealing to practitioners in the field and other relevant readers (Grant et al. 2021). Encouraged by the conceptualization of autoethnography as an invitation to engage and participate (Anteliz et al. 2023; Underhill 2024), these vignettes became a container for reflections of my professional practice working with graphic novel collections in various libraries.

3.3 Data Analysis

Autoethnography has an open relationship with data analysis. Where evocative autoethnography favours reflexivity, vulnerability, and emotional resonance over traditional data analysis tools such as validity and generalizability (Bochner and Ellis 2016), autoethnography can also borrow from a whole suite of qualitative and arts-based data analysis techniques (Cooper and Lilyea 2022). Through autoethnography’s focus on the personal, there is also scope to reflect on and analyze data in numerous individual and idiosyncratic ways (Adams et al. 2021). I used the “manual” coding data analysis employed by Wilkinson and Wilkinson (2020) and MacLure (2013) to deeply connect with and explore my data through various and repeated forms of highlighting, thinking, and marginalia (MacLure 2013). With autoethnography requiring “careful examinations of the researcher (or self) in relation to other forces” (Underhill 2024, 15), my data analysis aimed to uncover these impacting forces on me and my work as reflected in my vignettes. As Augustine (2014) points out, analysis often overlaps with Deleuze and Parnet’s (2006) principle of assemblage wherein the researcher is the product and producer of gathered themes and theories. As such, I reflexively gathered both the internal themes I had preconceived in my mind and the external themes that tied this research project together. At the completion of the data collection, I developed two sets of codes, as outlined in Table 1.

The first column aimed to describe the content of each autoethnography vignette to clarify which aspect of the researcher’s experience were being investigated, namely one of three topics: Professional Practice, Reflective Reading, and Researcher Journey. Reflections on Professional Practice accounted for over half of the data, with Researcher Journey making up four vignettes when I was reflecting on the research process itself. The Reflective Reading components then show where the present impacted on the past; these areas share when I was reflecting on a text (usually a graphic novel) I had recently read that had stirred a memory or otherwise inspired me to write a response. This reflexivity also supported my capacity to remain open to new themes and patterns to emerge (das Nair et al. 2021), allowing a sense of serendipity and ultimately revealing a focus on Generative AI not found in the literature review. After the contextual categories were developed to clarify what the vignettes were exploring, this allowed me to create more detailed thematic codes for what the data meant. While the majority of autoethnographic writing intersperses the reflective writing and storytelling throughout the research (Ellis et al. 2011), showing an intermingling of autoethnographic findings and analyses, this article takes inspiration from Wilkinson and Wilkinson (2020) and Kitzis (2023), where the findings section makes use of my reflective autoethnography writing as short vignette excerpts in which to explore the central themes.

4.1 People, Patrons and Programs

To begin the process of reflective writing, I started with descriptive accounts of graphic novel collections and resources I had worked with. These ranged from simple photograph-like renderings like the below to more complex reflections and experiences. In this first vignette example, I meditate on what it is like to work with graphic novel collections—the sticky reality of these well-worn books that show their use on their covers and in their missing volumes from overuse or even theft:

Stacks of graphic novels everywhere. Dog-eared and frayed edged, slightly sticky in places, well-loved and well-read. Almost never a complete series and almost always just beyond needing to be weeded from the collection. If you are a librarian with a comic collection, this picture is probably familiar to you as forming an incredibly popular and high-use collection across public libraries; school libraries; even university libraries and most definitely classrooms. (Autoethnography reflection 1, excerpt from “Sticky”)

Considering a favourable aspect of autoethnography involves the development of the author’s work including the creative cul-de-sacs and dead ends that we may traverse (Grant et al. 2021), the everyday observation of this vignette still felt significant in showing the community use and value of graphic novels and comics in libraries. Through remarking on the at-times grimy state of graphic novel collections, we can see that these collections are often highly circulated and therefore highly valued by the community, underscoring both the popularity of the medium in libraries (Lo et al. 2019; Moeller and Becnel 2022) and the need for specialized collections practices for these high use collections (Becnel and Moeller 2022).

4.2 Censorship and Stigma

Censorship and stigma can coexist. This was something that I felt keenly in one library service, which formed the basis of a memory captured in the following vignette. In the case of this library service, I had worked extensively to build the graphic novel collections, informed by patron feedback. However, a new restriction was then introduced which required staff to loan one graphic novel per patron, rather than a previous unlimited number of loans per patron. In my view, this restriction served to promote the borrowing of traditional books and dissuade borrowing of graphic novels, which were usually borrowed in far greater numbers than traditional novels. As explored further in the full vignette, I express that I cannot recall whether I had voiced my opinions to library leadership at the time about this policy. I remember brainstorming alternative suggestions to this policy, felt that it had impacted the collections work I had done, and assumed this policy would lower circulation statistics and impact patron experience. However, I felt overwhelmed at the perception of graphic novels as less valuable than other forms of literature, and I express disappointment that this popular graphic novel collection that I had helped build was devalued in this way:

Maybe I wasn’t very eloquent. Maybe I just expressed frustration and missed out on articulating the research-driven points I knew I was capable of making if I had the chance. And maybe I was just immediately silenced by a lack of understanding or not wanting to hear my point of view in a workplace culture that didn’t value graphic novels as ‘real books.’ (Autoethnography reflection 2, excerpt from “Job interview”)

Freeman (2015) suggests that while “memories can be accurate… they are not always accurate” (146) and explains that memory is constantly in a state of reinterpretation. In this way, a key consideration of autoethnography can be understood as exploring one’s experiences in a subjective and open-minded manner. This vignette and many others freely explore the fragility of memory. In addition, an academic paper is not usually seen as an appropriate place to express emotion, something that is challenged by autoethnographic writing (Jewkes 2012) which seeks a balance between experience, emotion, and research. Here, I hope to channel the view that reflexivity and reflecting on emotions can turn them into a canvas to explore identity, work, and power structures (Hine 2020). Through reading the autoethnographies of Andersen (2024) and McElroy and Castillo (2022), I became familiar with the links between librarianship and burnout, particularly through Ettarh’s (2018) concept of “vocational awe,” wherein libraries are characterized as revered institutions that are “inherently good and sacred, and therefore beyond critique” (para. 3). Librarianship is underpinned by noble values of supporting the rights and information needs of individuals and communities (Australian Library and Information Association 2018); however, this can be challenging—and at times emotional—work when considering conflicting interests of staff, stakeholders, and the wider community.

4.3 Representation

The following vignette example stems from an experience where library management took time to deliberate on whether a new rainbow collection that included graphic novels should be signposted, which begins to show a strong link between diverse books and censorship. At this library service, we had built a borrowable collection of LGBTIQA+ books, including numerous graphic novels and newly ordered rainbow spine labels. However, I was asked to place the rainbow books aside for a time while decisions were made on whether the books should be explicitly labelled. This meant that patrons had to ask to see the collection at the desk, restricting a popular collection to those confident enough in themselves to ask for a rainbow book.

The main thing I think I’m trying to convey here is pride for getting these books into the collection and to see patrons reading them. These books felt like signposts on the shelves that said, ‘this library is a safe space for you, your thoughts, your feelings and your belonging.’ However, that was often not exactly the case for patrons or for staff, and these kinds of books and others like them with our newly bought rainbow spine labels were endlessly contentious. (Autoethnography reflection 3, excerpt from “Representation”)

This passage is consistent with Becnel and Moeller’s (2020) findings that “searching for vulnerabilities in an item, instead of evaluating its appropriateness overall… amounts to self-censorship” (130). As we have seen, there is a rise in the number of graphic novels—particularly those with LGBTIQA+ characters and stories—that have been challenged and banned in libraries (Campbell 2023) which also echoes my experiences. This is especially significant, as Cumberland City Council in New South Wales faced backlash in 2024 for a proposed ban against an illustrated book on same-sex parenting, which threatened library funding at the State level (McLeod and Rose 2024) and was widely condemned by various library associations and other organisations (Australian Library and Information Association n.d.). Following proclamations of censorship and community outreach, the proposed ban was overturned (McLeod and Rose 2024). It is this same suspicion of LGBTIQA+ people and stories that continue to have library events such as Drag Storytime cancelled, banned, or even placing libraries in lockdowns due to complaints and protests (Sargeant 2024; Susas 2024) and which warrants further research and discussion of the ripple effects these instances create within the community.

Cultural safety is defined by Ramsden (2002) as the understanding and acknowledgement of difference, whether it is expressed by “gender, sexuality, social class, occupational group, generation, ethnicity or a grand combination of variables” (6). This definition also takes into account implications for Indigenous people through reflection and reflexivity (Eckermann et al. 2010). With these multifaceted and ever-growing definitions for cultural safety in mind, I believe there is a place in collection development polices to focus on culturally safe books that uphold diversity, pride, community and inclusivity. As Podoshen et al. (2021) have found, when characters are created with the input and the needs of the community they represent in mind, authentic representation can occur that allows readers to feel seen and valued. However, barriers to culturally safe collections can exist if library staff do not know about the potency of these inclusive materials, or do not know what materials to select. As McElroy and Castillo (2022) state, key competencies of library staff members include open and active communication as well as an ability to sit in the discomfort of not knowing something and thus seeking out more information or make referrals. Thankfully, there has been a recent tendency towards greater representation of LGBTIQA+ content in books (Vaandering and Rosenzweig 2023), but challenges remain for library staff when collecting and arranging diverse materials.

4.4 Generative AI

There is a need for further research in graphic novels and libraries (Clark-Hunt and Creel 2024; Gavigan 2014; Oltmann and Reynolds 2020) or replication of research (Moeller and Becnel 2022) to build on the current studies to deepen our knowledge of the field of information research as it interacts with graphic novels, censorship, and other forces. Surprisingly, the reflective vignettes revealed a significant gap of my literature review which I did not expect. Throughout the data collection period, I had been reading and reviewing news articles on graphic novels and comics to reflect on and respond to, when I came across an intersection of graphic novels and libraries which warrants further thought and research: the impact of Generative AI.

When an AI image was used for the new webpage – even as a stand-in for the new website – I was slightly horrified. It seemed obvious to me that graphic novels, as with other forms of art, are increasingly used as fodder for feeding AI algorithms and I wanted no part in perpetuating this feedback loop. (Autoethnography reflection 4, excerpt from “Who Wins? Generative AI, artists, and comics”)

As cartoonist and illustrator Sarah Andersen (2022) says of her experiences with Generative AI, “for artists, many of us had what amounted to our entire portfolios fed into the data set without our consent” (para. 13). Allegations abound of artistic works being used to train AI without the creator’s consent, including thousands of Australian authors (Burke 2023). In a single instance, Midjourney was found to have used the works of around 16,000 artists to train its AI image generator (Tapper 2024), which begs the question, how can consent be obtained for all of them? The book industry appears under threat by an “unfettered appropriation of published works” through a reliance on “huge corpuses of ‘data,’ including copyright-protected published works such as books, articles, and essays, for training and development” (Australian Publishers Association 2023, para. 5–6). For data to be mined at this scale, authors and other copyright holders are frequently left in the dark about the use of their works, leading OpenAI to quip that it would be impossible to create AI tools without copyrighted material (Milmo 2024). This ethical dilemma has affected the scholarly publishing world, too, with academic publisher Informa-owned Taylor & Francis brokering a deal with Microsoft for its AI arm (Potter 2024), reflecting a growing trend towards the use of existing works to train Generative AI without author consent.

Reading between the lines of this extensive use of copyrighted material in webcomics and books, it would be no overreach to suggest that Generative AI has the capacity to have a profound impact on graphic novels, comics, and library services. In fact, David Blumenstein’s (2023) graphic novel demonstrates how Generative AI directly affects graphic novel creators by undermining their work: a front-of-mind issue for local creators. According to leading library and information institution bodies, libraries intersect with AI tools in their capacity as educational institutions, cultural custodians, and information experts to equip patrons with the information and skills they need to utilize and benefit from Generative AI technologies (Australian Library and Information Association 2023, 3). As (mostly academic) libraries position themselves as leading partners in the teaching, research and learning around Generative AI (for example, at the University of Sydney; Xu et al. 2023); expand their service delivery to include workshops on Generative AI (University of North Carolina University Libraries 2024); and increasingly adopt and understand Generative AI tools in academic library work (Lo 2024); we can see that knowledge and informed use of Generative AI is an emerging issue. While it is essential that tertiary education interrogates the uses, applications, and moral underpinnings of AI literacy within its sector (Lo 2024), it can therefore be argued that public libraries can also promote AI literacy and question the effects of Generative AI on anything from the arts to employment, as well as host creatives like Blumenstein to talk to the practical impacts of Generative AI in the community. Only research on the relationship between graphic novels and Generative AI—and the capacity of libraries to support creators and patrons—will reveal the potential effects of this on library and information institutions and their communities of authors and artists that they help to platform through their collections.