Hi there! Co-admin RG asked for some assistance with his Halloween count-down (admittedly, 31 posts in a row is a bit much), so I’m here each Tuesday for the month to come, a throw-back to the Tentacle Tuesdays of yesteryear.
As you probably noticed, we like supposed bad omens around here, and lean into superstitions, too. I consider a black cat crossing my path is as a definite stroke of luck, as is having one of those beautiful silky beasts at home at all times (we are blessed with one such beast). The anglophone world has long had a tortuous relationship with black felines. Harbinger of luck or malevolent pawn of Satan? Flip a coin. Nevertheless, in the 20th century black cats seemed to have had a charmed streak, and appeared in many postcards as definite auguries of good luck. For my own self, I am sympathetic to witches (though not to the point of actually believing in their existence) and also of anarchism, of which the black cat has been adopted as a symbol from the late 19th century. Whatever way you look at it, black cats are cool.
Here are some postcards from the very early 20th century, say around 1905-1906. Unfortunately I cannot say who R. L. Wells is, other than noting that they have a very district style and seem to have created a wide array of postcards.
Our very own silky black beast. My camera usually has trouble focusing on his blackness, so this is a rare decent — and most recent! — photo.
And the following postcards are by the equally mysterious H. M. Rose (or is my Google-fu weak as water, today?), from 1913.
For a great selection of vintage black cat postcards, affix your peepers on this collection, among which is found this cat, my absolute favourite for its strangely human teeth and dazed expression of sorrow mixed with euphoria.
« I know you’re lookin’ for a ruby in a mountain of rocks, but there ain’t no Coupe de Ville hidin’ at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. » — Jim Steinman
Crumpets!
It began with crumpets. I was picking up a couple of packages of those scrumptious British griddle cakes at the only store in our small town that carries them — as far as I can tell. Glancing about, I noticed on a nearby shelf something I’d never encountered: packages of Cracker Jill*.
I’d been toying with the notion of a Cracker Jack post, but this surely was a sign. When I got home, the merest bit of research turned this up:
« Introducing Cracker Jill™! After more than 125 years with our iconic Sailor Jack mascot, we’re adding Jill to the team to celebrate the stories of the women and girls who are breaking barriers in sports. With her tenacity, vibrancy, and strength, Cracker Jill™ takes inspiration from the women that change the game on the playing field, and beyond.
Join us in supporting the next generation of athletes by donating to the Women’s Sports Foundation through CrackerJill.com. With a $5 donation or more, we’ll send you a bag of Cracker Jill™ while supplies last. Remember, keep an eye out for Cracker Jill™ in baseball stadiums around the country. »
It’s a most worthy cause, obviously, but a) Jack the Sailor (and his pooch Bingo) has only been the brand mascot since 1916. A mere 107 years, so the math’s off. And b) “Introducing”? There was already a Cracker Jill. Exhibit A, this product from 1977:
Prudently keeping in mind that this is a huge topic, with reams of historical ramifications, I’ll narrow my focus on a tiny area of the map: the four Cracker Jack prizes I’ve held on to for decades, and that turned up in a box I was browsing through the other day.
« Prizes were included in every box of Cracker Jack beginning in 1912. One of the first prizes was in 1914, when the company produced the first of two Cracker Jack baseball card issues, which featured players from both major leagues as well as players from the short-lived Federal League. Early “toy surprises” included rings, plastic figurines, booklets, stickers, temporary tattoos, and decoder rings. Books have been written cataloging the prizes, and a substantial collector’s market exists. » [ source ]
Like many a cartoonist (just ask Chip Kidd, Charles Burns, Mark Newgarden, Ben Katchor, Wayno, Chris Ware…), I’ve always been irresistibly drawn to the anonymous sprouts of advertising and industry: the artwork adorning matchbooks, cheap novelties and their packaging, beer coasters, liquor labels… so much toil that surely paid peanuts (and perhaps popcorn), unsigned and unappreciated. But a surprising portion of that work, ubiquitous and yet invisible, was created by skilled craftsmen. There’s a necessary economy of means, a simplicity of line — saving time and allowing for crappy, ‘it’ll do’ reproduction, but also effective design and a certain timeless je ne sais quoi.
Back when The Cracker Jack Company was its own entity, a lot more care and attention were bestowed upon minute details. Most of these tattoo booklet cover designs predate the company’s 1964 acquisition by dairy company Borden. The bottom right booklet is a Canadian variant from the late 1970s-early 1980s.
And so, here’s the cream, so to speak, of my small collection of Cracker Jack temporary tattoos. Enjoy!
I’m picturing some Bible Belt toddler proudly sporting this one on his arm and giving grandma a massive coronary.Terrible reproduction, obviously, but this line work is splendid. Does the grin make this one less bad-ass… or more?I just love the sheer randomness of some of these entries. I presume no-one was really paying attention.Surely Dan Clowes must have encountered this one. You never know what’s going to linger in your DNA.Well, they got all the accents right in the French text, though the execution, I’m sure you’ll agree, could have been more elegant.Since our Tentacle Tuesday feature is currently on hiatus, I can use this charming pair of cephalopods.He’d make a fine sports team logo… well, not nowadays, since all the humour, joy and brightness have been painstakingly excised from pro sports design. Gotta look *tough*!This this not need a second colour. As a tattoo, I’m sure it was a murky fiasco. But it’s a nice bit of drawing.
-RG
*I’m only a year behind the news on this item, which isn’t too bad in my case.
« He made the cat his own. He invented a cat style, a cat society, a whole cat world. British cats that do not look and live like Louis Wain cats are ashamed of themselves.» — H. G Wells
British artist Louis William Wain (1860-1939) had one of those lives that capture one’s imagination* – from a sensitive child born with a facial defect (a cleft lip) and prone to terrifying nightmares, to a youth that would wander around London instead of attending classes, to ultimately a man committed to the pauper ward of a mental asylum. Along the way, he married a lower-class woman ten years his senior despite the scandal this caused, lost her three years later to breast cancer, and produced thousands of cat drawings and paintings.
Wain started out as a illustrator of country scenes, houses and estates, livestock at shows, and so on, for publications like Illustrated Sporting, Dramatic News, and The Illustrated London News. His wife’s Emily’s health decline gave Wain the push into feline territory, as he consoled her with caricatures of their cat Peter during her illness. Emily pushed him to try and get this work published, so he showed some drawings to the editor of The Illustrated London News, for which he was freelancing. He was commissioned to paint A Kittens’ Christmas Party, which featured 150 frolicking kittens, took 11 days to finish, and was an instant hit. Emily died soon after in 1887.
Some sources say 200 kittens, I didn’t count them.
Source diverge – according to some, in his grief, Wain threw himself heart and soul into cats and animals in general – he was involved in animal charities and championed a better treatment for animals, including fighting against the routine muzzling of dogs. In another version, he Emily’s death was a ‘merciful release’ and threw himself into work, ended up being considered a ‘cat expert’ just because he drew so many of them (and had distinctly outlandish ideas of their physiology). This can be said of much of Wain’s life, actually – the basic facts are known, but interpretations of the whys and hows vary wildly.
His first cat Peter was black-and-white with a white forehead, and his prototype often appeared in illustrations.
It goes without saying that Wain doubtlessly influenced generations of future artists. These days art with anthropomorphized felines is quite a humdrum sighting, given how much our current culture is obsessed with cats. In this context, it may be hard to recall that several centuries ago people often thought of cats from a practical standpoint, as somewhat filthy-yet-useful vermin-destroyers. This began to change during the Victorian era, and surely Wain’s cats, omnipresent in newspapers and magazines, accelerated this shift in thinking.**
Wain was an immensely prolific artist, but sadly that did not guarantee him a peaceful and wealthy life. When he was 20, his father died, leaving Wain to financially support his mother and sisters, so he had a heavy burden to bear from a young age. By all accounts a modest man, he was quite naïve about financial matters, a walking demonstration of the financially inept artist stereotype***. He often gave his art away, or sold it without retaining copyright, which meant no royalties despite all sorts of merchandise with his cats – postcards, books, toys, biscuit tins, china, et j’en passe. His work was so ubiquitous at some point that publishers did not need to pay him for new material, they could just go on reprinting in perpetuity with nothing but financial gain to themselves while Wain got further into debt.
These cats are obviously cute, but I think what makes them interesting is that Wain would satirize what he saw around him. He might have been an impractical dreamer, but he had a keen eye for human flaws.
He also produced a series of designs for ceramic cats (and some pigs and dogs as well). These sculptures were exhibited in 1914, but did not result in significant sales. A shipment of cats headed for the United States was taken down by a German U-boat torpedo, and that was it – Wain’s financial investment was lost.
« By the time the war broke in 1914, Wain found himself struggling to find a market amid the wartime paper shortage. By the 1920s, he was in poverty. His depression continued, and his mental health deteriorated. Often known to strike out in violent and erratic ways, he was eventually committed to the pauper ward of London’s Springfield Mental Hospital in 1924. »
A lot of articles about him focus on mental issues. Did his wife’s death push him into some form of dementia? Was it just hereditary (one of his sisters was committed when he was 30)? Was he autistic? Was he schizophrenic? The former is a more modern view, whereas the latter theory was proposed by psychiatrist Dr. Walter Maclay in 1939 and stuck when he made a whole case out of it.
«Maclay collected the work of artists suffering with mental illness and in 1939 he came across eight pictures by Louis Wain in a shop, which he arranged in an assumed chronological order to demonstrate the progression of the schizophrenic mind. His theory was that as the sequence of cat illustrations became more fragmented, so too had the artist’s mental state deteriorated. […] The series of drawings, now known as ‘Kaleidoscope Cats’, became a popular visual example of the schizophrenic mind. Long gone was the Edwardian interpretation of Wain’s work as ‘charming’ and ‘humorous’. Instead, his art was often presented as ‘psychotic’ or ‘disturbed’, both words used in a major exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum in 1972.» [source]
Perhaps it’s a modern perspective, but what on earth is ‘psychotic’ about this image?His later work, colourful and somewhat surreal, has been identified by some as an important precursor to psychedelic art.
I think it’s quite depressing to think of Louis Wain first and foremost as an interesting case of mental illness. While it’s an important topic to address, it’s hard not to interpret this emphasis as a side-effect of the human tendency to bask in someone else’s tragedy – we’re avid of gory details and stories that support the general consensus that artists are tortured souls fighting inner demons. Perhaps that’s what reassures ‘normal’ people – we may not be brilliant or creative, but at least we have a healthy psyche! Except that we don’t, but that’s a conversation for another day.
«It is also highly possible that his experimentation in style was inspired by the family’s background in textile design. […] Indeed, these later kaleidoscopic cat patterns were often constructed around a clear grid system, revealing them as careful compositions rather than the product of impulsiveness coming from someone who is gradually losing his perceptive skills. Additionally, some of Wain’s later work was figurative and proves that he continued to be an accomplished and coherent artist whilst in a mental health care setting.» [source]
In 1930, Wain was transferred to Napsbury, which had a colony of cats, and stayed there fairly peacefully until his death in 1939. I hope he’s surrounded by friendly cats, wherever he may be now.
~ ds
* As a matter of fact, a movie about his life, The Electrical Life of Louis, was released in 2021 .
** I am obviously not saying that Wain introduced anthropomorphism to art, as that has been around since the days of early human history, but he did make a large dent in the public’s perception of cats.
*** Such skills have to be taught, as artistic temperament need not necessarily go hand-in-hand the inability to handle everyday matters such as finance, but add that to the list of ‘things we should do as a society’.
When I looked up Czech painter-caricaturist Josef Lada (1887-1957), I was surprised to find him called ‘one of the best-loved Czech painters of all time‘. There’s no question that Lada’s work remains immensely popular among Czechs, but I suppose the question for context would be « how many painters from that corner of the world are well known outside of outside of the Czech Republic and ex-USSR countries » (probably not many). Lada doubtlessly deserves his lasting fame, at any rate.
My familiarity with his style comes from his illustrations for Jaroslav Hašek‘s sardonically hilarious novel The Good Soldier Švejk, a favourite family book from which we can all quote at length, and which I own in several Russian editions (thanks to inheriting my grandfather’s copy). There have been many adaptations of Švejk, but I can only imagine him the way Lada depicted him. Visit BibliOdyssey for a glimpse of the good soldier.
While his renown is assured thanks to his work on Hašek’s magnum opus, the entirely self-taught Lada is also fondly remembered for his illustrations to children’s books (which he occasionally wrote himself), as well as paintings of pastoral life, probably inspired by his childhood in the small village of Hrusice. For a fuller biography, head over to The Genius of Josef Lada, the most complete source of information that I could find online in English.
Here’s an assortment of images from various books – among others, Ezopské bajky (The Fables of Aesop) from 1931; Kocour Mikeš (Tomcat Mikeš), written and illustrated by Lada between 1934 and 1936, and being a sort of a take on Puss in Boots; Nezbedné Pohádky (Naughty Fairy Tales) from 1946 – as well as some postcards and aforementioned village illustrations.
A typical pub night, 1929.
Winter Pleasures, 1936.
« In the first year of his life, [Lada] had a life-altering accident – he fell on his father’s knife and the injuries sustained permanently blinded his right eye. Some art historians later attributed the artist’s flat-perspective painting style to this incident.»
Lada’s depiction of ‘vodnik‘, an evil water spirit.
A page from Zvířátka (which translates to ‘beasts’ or ‘animals’), a book comprising a dozen animal illustrations.
A New Year postcard from 1928.
A collection of Lada’s caricatural cartoons – ‘A Hundred Cheerful Drawings’ – published in 1970. I found this little volume in a used bookstore, and was delighted to find what was clearly the work of the artist who illustrated Švejk – I didn’t know Lada by name, back then. I don’t speak Czech, but it’s still plenty fun to leaf through.
Underground comix artist Kim Deitch probably doesn’t need much of an introduction, other than perhaps to mention that he’s the son of amazing illustrator/animator Gene Deitch, about whom we have talked before (see Back When ‘Hipster’ Wasn’t a Dirty Word: Gene Deitch’s The Cat). For the most part, I respect more than enjoy K. Deitch’s work, appreciating his style and attention to detail, but unable to maintain more than a passing interest in the dream logic of his tales. The story we are sharing today charmed me, as it combines his typical soaring and detail-driven landscapes with a really fun ‘what if?’ plot and a clear appreciation for cats, always an advantage for an artist, in my book.
These Cats Today! comes from the pages of Big Fat Little Lit (2006, Puffin), which collects most material from the three volumes of Little Lit, Art Spiegelman and Françoise Mouly’s anthology that featured comics created for children by a varied roster of artists (a lot of whom have collaborated with Spiegelman on RAW), as well as some Golden Age additions by the likes of by Walt Kelly, Crockett Johnson, and Basil Wolverton. School Library Journal described it as ‘a sensational introduction to traditional literature for a visually sophisticated generation‘. If by ‘traditional literature’ they mean ‘traditional folk tales’ (before they got bowdlerized*), then sure. The stories of Big Fat Little Lit are cynical and pleasantly warped; people get beheaded, eaten, and transformed, and often find that what they thought would bring them happiness just engenders its own problems.
Actually, it was quite difficult to select which story to run, as this anthology is packed with wicked goodies, but this whimsical tale won out (my other favourites are by Kaz, Maurice Sendak, Richard Sala and Joost Swarte, and may yet pop up in another post). Note that if you look beyond the surface of These Cats Today!, you’ll find plenty of cruelty in this fun narrative – dogs enslaved to power up the majestic and glittering Katropolis, force-fed stuffed mice**, these details are briefly mentioned, yet in plain view for those perceptive enough to notice. Truly, for its seeming gentleness, this story belongs into the Little Lit line-up.
« We never knew his name; we only knew him as “the good artist”. But his style spoke for him. He was instantly recognizable despite his anonymity — at once different from the other funny animal artists and better. » — Dwight R. Decker
The great Duck Man, Carl Barks, despite having little interest in the holiday, drew over two dozen Christmas-themed stories featuring Donald and his relatives (and wrote the bulk of them). Now, so very much has been written and said about Barks that I won’t bother to add much here. I’ll just let his work speak for itself and breathe. I opted for a lesser-known ten-pager, not coincidentally one of my favourites. “The Code of Duckburg” originally saw print in Walt Disney’s Comics and Stories no. 208 (Jan. 1958, Dell), but I’m using a more contemporary issue boasting better printing and a commendably tasteful colouring job, from Walt Disney’s Uncle Scrooge no. 317 (Jan. 1999, Gladstone). It must be said that the folks at Gladstone did right by the ducks — it was more of a labour of love than a strictly commercial venture.
Here’s a closer peek at a panel from page 3: just look at the joy on Roscoe’s face. Unlike Donald, his nephews are unfailingly kind to (other) animals, great and small. That’s what makes them such sterling exemplars of the Junior Woodchucks. The issue of WDC&S where our story first appeared didn’t have a Holiday-themed cover, but this one reprinting it did. This is Walt Disney’s Comics and Stories no. 376 (Jan. 1972, Western); pencils by Tony Strobl and inks by Larry Mayer.
And as a bonus (there has to be a bonus!), here’s a look at a Barks model sheet. « The Barks sense of whimsy extended even to the model sheets he drew for other artists to follow. » I made it a larger image so that all the small details remain discernible. Happy Holidays, everyone!
« I’m not saying I’m cool. That’s your job. » — Happy Bunny
When it comes to Jim Benton‘s work, it seems I got in on the ground floor, thanks to a friend’s shrewdly chosen gift of the man’s first cartoon collection, ‘Dealing With the Idiots in Your Life‘, twenty-nine years ago this Christmas. Yikes!
In a way, Benton’s nearly too obvious a subject for a post: his work is everywhere you turn, but such a large audience seems to have been reached at the cost of relative anonymity. In other words, people know his work, but they may not know his name. I’m sure his name does, however, enjoy some currency with a couple of generations of younger readers familiar with his Dear Dumb Diary (nearly 10 million sold!) and Franny K. Stein (over five million sold) series.
Given his intimidatingly formidable output, I’ll stick to material from his first collection, which I like best anyhow… which is not to say, echoing what all and sundry tell Sandy Bates in Stardust Memories, that I strictly prefer “the early, funny ones“. Mr. Benton is possibly even funnier — or at least more sophisticated — today than he was at the dawn of his career, but these early cartoons are less ubiquitous than this century’s crop.
At this stage, Benton’s style — both in concept and execution — still wore some heavy influences, namely that of Bernard Kliban.It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if this cartoon had near-universal appeal, given the fearful hold of cognitive dissonance: after all, most of us think others have a tenuous grasp on reality.Cute Citizen Kane reference.A timeless and oddly poignant state of affairs.Some of you will likely have occasion to muse over this very question during the Holidays.This one’s *very* Kliban-esque.In this one, I see a bit of his fellow Scholastic alum Tom Eaton‘s touches. All for the good.More Kliban (surely intentional!) but with sprinklings of Nicole Hollander and perhaps Scott Adams. Taking Will Rogers’ famous bon mot to its, er… logical conclusion. Here’s a jolly one for the season.
In closing, a bonus one from quite recent days. While I’m less fond of the digital tablet aesthetic of his latest work, his writing has acquired some even sharper edges. Sadly, this strip will likely be relevant only to medieval citizens of the German town of Hamelin, right?
« I love the scents of winter! For me, it’s all about the feeling you get when you smell pumpkin spice, cinnamon, nutmeg, gingerbread and spruce. » — Taylor Swift
It occurred to me, just the other day that I’d failed to feature, over the course of five and three-quarters countdowns, anything by Gene Colan. And this despite the fact that I’ve always enjoyed his work and his undeniable adroitness within the horror genre.
Still, I decided to sidestep the obvious touchstone, his monumental run on The Tomb of Dracula, and opted instead for another of his big series at Marvel: Howard the Duck.
I was a fervent fan of the series as a kid, but I honestly haven’t returned to it in decades. Which is not to say that I’ve forgotten it. There’s no doubt that I should give it a fresh look — I’d probably get more of Steve Gerber‘s jokes than I did as a twelve-year-old — but in the interim, let’s focus on a couple of pertinent issues.
This is Howard the Duck no. 6 (Nov. 1976, Marvel); cover pencils by Gene Colan, inks by the recently departed Tom Palmer (1941-2022).Colan’s style meshes surprisingly well with Mr. Gerber‘s madcap comedy… he plays it straight, and that’s why it clicks. Savvy move.I wasn’t sure about Steve Leialoha‘s appropriateness as a Colan inker at the time, but I really don’t see what I could have objected to. Let’s see, what have we here? The Addams Family, Shelley’s Frankenstein, gothic romances, Nathaniel Hawthorne, religious sects… in this case the reverend Sun Myung Moon‘s Unification Church, better known as The Moonies…
I won’t leave you in suspense! On to the following issue…
This is Howard the Duck no. 7 (Dec. 1976, Marvel); pencils by Colan, inks by Palmer.
And that’s it! Steve Gerber had a refreshing knack for subverting and upending the Marvel formula: instead of some drawn-out, epic standoff, Howard disposes of the threat — a threat worth two cover features! — in a couple of panels, then the story moves on… to another range of targets.
« Do not be a magician – be magic! » — Leonard Cohen
In the spirit of celebrating the spirit of Hallowe’en even from places it’s not traditionally celebrated, it’s now my turn — and my pleasure — to draw from the wondrous inkwell of Massimo Mattioli (1943-2019) and his finest creation, M Le Magicien, which ran, largely unappreciated, in the pages of France’s Pif Gadget from 1968 to 1973. My co-admin ds devoted, back in January, a post to the artist and his creation: Massimo Mattioli Mania: M le magicien, but I’d been reserving the rare but excellent ‘spookier’ M strips for this occasion. Mattioli would delve much, much further into the macabre, in the early 1980s, with his frankly excessive Squeak the Mouse. Ahem.
And now for the good stuff!
Why, hello, Nosferatu! Originally published in Pif gadget no. 164 (Apr. 1972, Vaillant). M’s robot mosquito discourages the blood-sucking competition.This one also works for Fungus Fridays! Originally published in Pif gadget no. 205 (Jan. 1973, Vaillant). « I’m still myself! Monsters don’t exist! »Originally published in Pif gadget no. 209 (Feb. 1973, Vaillant).Originally published in Pif gadget no. 210 (Mar. 1973, Vaillant).
« Why does a silly bird go on saying “chiff-chaff” all day long? Is it happiness or hiccups? » — A. A. Milne
Greetings! I am very temporarily standing in for co-admin RG, who can probably use a break from his harrowing post-a-day schedule. Either that, or I muscled my way in after chaining him to the bathtub, your pick.
We have never talked about the adorable cartoonist Jack Kent (1920-1985) on WOT?. While he has illustrated some 40 children’s books, no humble achievement, his momentous oeuvre is surely the endearing King Aroo (from that intriguing class of literary creations ‘adored by the intelligentsia, but [that] bomb in popularity polls’*). Often our most cherished comics are considerably harder to discuss than something one holds less dear, and this is a prime example of that. Among worries of ‘would I able to do it justice? Would I be able to explain its charm?’, I have been postponing the conversation about King Aroo, Monarch of pocket-sized kingdom Myopia, to an indefinite, much later date.
In the meantime, and since it is very much of the season, let us concentrate on the short, but no less lovable for its length, Cindy Lou and the Witch’s Dog, a children’s book (well, nearly more of a booklet) from 1978. Aside from the presence of a witch in the tale (as announced by the title), it also features hiccupping as a main plot point, a state of things close to my heart as I am quite prone to this affliction, though I fortunately do not undergo metamorphosis with each involuntary contraction of the diagram. Here’s a factoid of the day: the medical name for hiccup is singultus, from the Latin singult which means ‘to catch one’s breath while sobbing’. My grandmother always thought there was something profoundly wrong with me with all these hiccups… but then she was also convinced I’d grow up to be an alcoholic from sharing an occasional beer with my dad, so perhaps her forebodings can be dismissed.
Enjoy the following few pages (probably about a third of the story, so definitely more than just a sample).
Regretfully, we do not get to see what party the witch goes to.
Of course Prince’s collar magically adjusts to his neck, whether it’s the neck of a giraffe or that of a mouse.
Skipping a few pages to share this tree’o’cats, which neither RG nor myself could resist including:
Who's Out There? 