The Sculptor is McCloud’s first major graphic novel since Zot!, the 36-issue, mostly black-and-white superhero series that served as a lighthearted alternative to the dark-and-gritty world of comics during its six-year run in the '80s. McCloud has been celebrated for many other graphic and comic-related efforts since then, most notably his three meta-graphic nonfiction books: Understanding Comics (1993), Reinventing Comics (2000), and Making Comics (2006). Yet, the world of graphic storytelling is much changed today. Some of the difference shows up as strain in The Sculptor—a sprawling, sweet, superb achievement that nevertheless suffers from some severe blindspots.

Central to the story is David’s counterpart and romantic interest, Meg, a bike messenger and sometime-actress. Meg appears to David as an angel when they first meet; he falls in love with her instantly, and after things fall apart with another man, she quickly reciprocates. While he's supposed to be using the precious time he has left to secure his place in eternity—or at least in some Saudi oil baron’s loft along Billionaire’s Row—the artist instead devotes much of his time to wooing Meg, despite himself.

A name for a stock character like Meg didn’t exist back when McCloud set out to explain the mechanics of comics. But she is a manic pixie dream girl, a force every bit as supernatural as Death. She rides hard and fast on her bike, she takes in homeless people off the street (David included) despite the risks, she talks about her boobs a lot. Carefully she poaches his virginity. “I might try to push you away,” Meg tells David at one point, as she sets the message from a fortune cookie alight over a candle. “Don’t let me, okay?”

When Meg turns from manic pixie to manic depressive, David finds the strength to stay by her side through a dark spell. (It’s cast as a revelation for him, a moment of development.) At least her character grows a little fuller through her ordeal; and the scenes from a big gathering of friends and family she hosts for Hanukkah smack of real, remembered details. Still, The Sculptor wouldn’t pass the famous feminist litmus test for fiction set out by Alison Bechdel, another great comics gatekeeper. The only woman Meg ever interacts with is her roommate; the only thing we know about their relationship is that one time they fooled around. (For balance, Meg schools David whenever the conversation turns to art, cutting through the name dropping to something more insightful.)

But it would go too far to say that The Sculptor fails as a feminist text. The story boils down to a magical dilemma about weighing the urge for a family down the road against the desire for professional validation today. Only this time—thanks to a deal with Death—it’s a man whose clock is ticking. I might’ve just as soon read the story about how Mira Bhatti balanced life and death and fate and art. She explains her formal innovation as a sculptor, only for David to echo her creation in a major overture to Meg. (And to her credit, Meg isn’t all that impressed.)