“The Mess” Might Be Noah Van Sciver’s Best Book Yet

Noah Van Sciver has written some epic tomes. The Complete Works of Fante Bukowski clocked in at 452 pages, and Joseph Smith and the Mormons at 464. His newest book, The Mess, is a mere 168 pages but has just as much emotional heft. It’s also arguably more formally ambitious than any book he’s written, revealing itself in layers through inference, juxtaposition, and what its creator leaves off the page.

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The story feels deceptively straightforward. Erin Messina, a cash-strapped, bone-weary single mother, returns to her childhood home on a quest to find her “lottery ticket”—an original sketch by Picasso said to be “A dove. A woman’s face? Or both combined?” Either way, she’s convinced this singular treasure will solve her financial woes. Needless to say, it isn’t that simple.

“I smell cat piss yet I see no cat…” announces Erin as she walks through the front door.

“We’re probably walking on a million dead cats,” says her green-haired teenage son Jackson, surrounded by piles of junk. “Was grandpa ever on Hoarders?”

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The elusive sketch is buried somewhere in the mountains of junk Erin’s father collected over the years as he wallowed in the grief of his wife’s passing—“filling the void that your mother left,” as a neighbor lady tells Erin. With the stage efficiently set and the MacGuffin introduced, Van Sciver turns his attention to what makes the book great: interweaving multiple narrative threads of characters grappling with loss as they desperately cling to belief in something, no matter how far-fetched.

At first glance, the book seems to be about Erin, her troubled relationship with her father, and the anguish of confronting painful, bottled-up memories. As the book progresses, it seems to be more about Jackson, the angsty teenage boy forced to spend spring break sifting through the detritus of a grandfather he never met, preferring instead to skate, catch sick air, and smoke pot with a set of troublesome twins, Cody and Spencer, whose dad is all too happy to pawn them off on some rando their own age. Even deeper into the book, we see the seemingly peripheral neighbor Marcus—who the twins claim “slaughtered” his “roommate”—repeatedly trying to contact his deceased partner, Alan, by way of the pseudoscientific electronic voice phenomenon.

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Erin, Jackson, and Marcus may seem like a ragtag lot, but Van Sciver makes us care about each flawed, relatable one.

The creator has described his art style as “controlled looseness,” telling one interviewer, “My artistic process is immediate. I have to get my drawings out in a burst of energy. I don’t like to work on the same drawing for a week.” He also works with analog tools, rendering each page by hand with pen and ink, colored pencils, and watercolors. The result is a gorgeous blend of spontaneity and workmanship that comes alive on the page, unashamed of its quirks, reveling in its imperfections.

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The genius of The Mess is Van Sciver’s ability to tell a story that remains slightly ambiguous yet feels utterly authentic and fully complete. He gives us raw, unvarnished glimpses of his characters’ lives, trusting the reader to connect the pieces and make the picture complete. In the end, just like the title, the question of whose story it is can be read multiple ways. Van Sciver leaves that up to the reader. He tips his hand on the front cover—it’s just not clear until you’ve read the last page.

Make no mistake: This is Noah Van Sciver at the top of his game. The Mess may be one-third as long as his weightiest tomes, but you may well want to read it three times.