as well as being very funny and acute, Wendy, Master of Art is also weirdly touching. For all her faults, his heroine is intensely likable. When she texts men late at night, half-cut, you long for someone to wrest her phone from her hand; when she cries (or tries not to cry) you feel for her, even though you know she’s deluded to tell herself that her boyfriend’s two-timing is in fact polyamory. On the page, rendered in Scott’s thick, black lines, she’s so vivid. You know she’s getting in a state because her lips tulip comically, and her big, round eyes become two unseeing black craters.