Last spring I did a painting of Martin Luther for a book jacket. In the process I tossed off this pencil drawing. It began as my favorite of three rough sketches I sent the publisher. But since it wasn't the one they picked, I gave them the cover they prefered and finished this one for myself. It wasn't the first time this had happened: I have lots of unpublished drawings laying around the house. But it did lead me to reflect on my long steady affair with the lowly pencil.
Pencil is such a common medium that it's easy to take for granted. Most of us use a pencil nearly every day and rarely think about it. Yet until I was 17 and out of high school, pencil was almost my only means of expression. Then suddenly, working on deadlines in a small Chicago studio, I had to quickly get up to speed rendering finished art. As a result, until recently, my pencil drawings were generally limited to preparatory sketches.
One example is this drawing of Mamie, a Choctaw Indian woman I met years ago in Moffet, a little Oklahoma border town. I used her as a model for a painting that was published in Playboy. In real life Mamie had pitch black hair. But for my purposes, I gave her a short blonde hairdo and made her the owner of an all-night diner set in Shel Siversteinland. The piece was called “Rosalie’s Good Eats Cafe,” and it was the second of several features that Shel and I worked on together.
Often, however, I have no models to go by, and so I use pencil drawings to work out both the characters and the compositions of what I intend to paint. In this case – a sketch for another Playboy painting – I posed my own hands and knees and made faces in a mirror until I had all the elements I was looking for.
And since the picture was to be published as a double page spread, I had to work the figures around the gutter and design the composition so that there’d be space on the right for both a title and several paragraphs of text.
In my earliest pictures for Playboy, the Ribald Classics series, pencil drawings played an even more basic role. Here the style I developed was very graphic. The pictures were usually half drawn in ink and half painted. So in addition to working out the designs, the figures and the anatomy, the sketches let me resolve which areas I was going to paint in color, which I would draw in line and if and where I’d spot the accents of black or areas of textured color.
This was especially true of drawings like the one below, where I didn’t use models at all. Here I wanted the two figures to merge into a single shape, with only a few details to indicate separate individuals. By working out the design and anatomy in advance, I saved myself a lot of grief in painting the final art.
Other times, where anatomy was going to be central to the picture, I often modeled what I needed and made up the rest. But then, without my ever intending it, studies like this one began to lead me beyond my Playboy style. Originally the art forLove Nestwas going to be half painted and half drawn. But once I got started, I was seduced by the sensuality of the figures into finishing it as a completely tonal painting.
The studies I do to prepare for paintings are usually no more finished than they need to be. But other times, I do drawings just to record what's going on around me, the same way normal people take photographs. That was the case with this drawing of my ex-wife.
She was drawing crested cranes on the lawn of the Playboy Mansion in Holmby Hills. It was early morning and as she sketched the animals in Hefner’s menagerie, several of the babes-in-residence began to stir and head out to the lawn in their bikinis. Most of them passed Judy by, but one of them stopped, looked over her shoulder, and for a minute watched her draw. Then she said “Gee I wish I had talent,” and moved on to bask in the sun with the others.
There’s something about pencil drawings that lend themselves to private moments. One Christmas Eve when I was still married, I sat in on a family card game and ended up drawing my wife's father and brother. People with cameras in their cell phones must ask themselves why someone would spend half an hour doing a drawing like this when in five minutes you could take hundreds of photos. For people who think like that, I doubt that there’s any rational explanation. But of course, I don’t think like that.
I’ve always thought of drawing as a form of thinking. As a result, a lot of my drawings have traditionally been efforts to study the architecture of something I wanted to draw, in this case roses. I did several sheets of drawings like this. When I was 17, I did the same thing with hands.
From the first, drawing came as naturally to me as speaking and without as much effort as writing. Drawing is the most intimate of media becuse it’s so direct. There's none of the mixing and matching of colors that breaks up your rhythm when you're painting. The pencil touching the paper is literally an extension of your fingertips. That means you don't just see what you're drawing, you can actually feel it.
I sketched these guys in Washington Square Park for use in a painting I was doing for Playboy. I liked the subtle profile of the guy on the left, but the brother on the right, with his "what the fuck are you looking at" stare had the attitude I needed for the picture. It's a good thing I'm fast, though. If it had taken me any longer to get these two birds on paper, my experience with them would probably have ended with a punch in the nose.
I found this street magician doing tricks for a small crowd on Prince Street in Manhattan. That was back in the 1980s, and ever since, I've been looking for an opportunity to use him in a painting. Several times I thought I had him cast as a devil, but each time I concluded that I needed to resolve the character differently. Other that that, nothing else has come up to put him to work, and in the end I’ve come to see the drawing simply as an end in itself.
I’ve written elsewhere about drawing Stevie Ray Vaughn for his first album cover. He came to the studio to pose and I did four or five sketches of him. I wasn’t very happy with the first few but with this one I thought I had finally got the look I was looking for. In the painting I darkened the shadow under his hat. It gave him a more dramatic look for the cover, but for characterization, I think this drawing did a better job.
As a rule, my presentation sketches are pretty rough. But sometimes I’ve used more fully-realized drawings for clients.
That was the case when the US Postal Service commissioned me to design a thirteen cent stamp of Crazy Horse. There are no known photographs of the Sioux chief. Photos that claim to be of him aren’t. So I began my designs by doing half a dozen imaginary portraits based on eyewitness descriptions of him in the book Crazy Horse:Strange Man of the Oglala, by Mari Sandoz. This was my favorite of the drawings, although it’s not the one we ended up using.
Before I had a chance to present my stamp designs to the Postal Service, Senator Carl Levin of Michigan got into the act and I was suddenly dispatched to the Black Hills of South Dakota to do additional "research."
There I ended up spending a couple of days with Korczak Ziolkowsky, the old Polish sculptor who was blasting and bulldozing a 500 foot high statue of Crazy Horse out of a mountain.
The account of my adventures with Korczak will have to wait for another occasion, but it’s a good story and I’ll try to tell it here one of these days.
Some years ago I spent a week with rodeo clowns in Arkansas and wrote an article about the experience for Texas Monthly. I did 12 paintings for the piece, which meant there wasn’t room in the magazine for any of the sketches I did for research, in the clowns' make-up room, or in the arena or down in the bull chutes.
My rodeo clown sketches were done in various media: pencil, charcoal and ink. I used whatever was handy or most convenient at the moment. Some of the drawings were never more than quick action sketches that I'd work up in more detail when I got back to my hotel room. Others were more finished drawings that I did later when I was composing figures for the color paintings.
Until I was 17, my lack of art training and limited access to art supplies had forced me (or allowed me: sometimes necessity is a blessing) to concentrate entirely on drawing with paper and pencil; like the drawing below of an old man who lived next door.
As a result, by the time I graduated from high school I could draw pretty well, but my strength was also my weakness: I had no experience with any other medium.
Then suddenly I found myself in Chicago looking for work and trying to develop a professional rendering style overnight. This led me into crash experiments with ink and charcoal, watercolor and the now-forgotten medium of casein. Or for some of the cheesier assignments, ink drawings toned with Zip-a-Tone and Cello-tak.
Some of these experiments were more successful than others, but however they turned out, my trials and errors were always anchored in the fact that whatever I was trying to render, I could at least draw it well.
Then four years later, I broke into the world of New York publishing; and from the first – from the afternoon I got off the train, in fact – I found work quickly.
By then I had compiled a very professional portfolio comprised almost entirely of black and white work. Although most of the samples were very stylized, I included a couple of pencil drawings of Nietzche and Schopenhauer that caught the eyes of publishers and led them to give me assignments designing book jackets.
In those days, we were expected to design the entire cover for a book, including typography. And for technical reasons, we had to supply the publisher with finished mechanicals in the form of 3-color hand-drawn separations.
But since doing full color art by means of separate black and white overlays always involved a great deal of guesswork, I tended to keep my designs simple and foolproof: a pencil drawing for the main image, a neutral PMS color for the background, and a strong PMS color for the type.
I was grateful to get so much work so quickly. But what happened next was a real blessing. Just four months after arriving in Manhattan, I walked into Playboy with my portfolio and walked out with a handshake offer to do pictures for them every issue. The art director, Arthur Paul, had given me the break of a lifetime.
In the few years since I had left high school I had developed a very graphic pen and ink style inspired by etchings and lithographs. It was an original approach to illustration, both graphically and conceptually, but I needed to develop it further. By handing me an opportunity to do it in the pages of "the most visually exciting magazine of the day," Art Paul had given me an international showcase not just for the style, but for my total approach to graphic art.
I didn't take any of this for granted and often did dozens of concept sketches for each month's issue. But in the rush to meet short deadlines and to fit my compositions to pre-determined layouts, my pencil drawings became little more than line drawings that served as blueprints for the elements that would go into the final art.
It was years before I began to rediscover pencil drawings as an end in themselves.
And when it happened, it wasn't a calculated decision. Instead, it was just an ad hoc case of developing some unfinished sketches that happened to turn up whenever I was digging through a drawer of old work. "That's a nice sketch," I'd think to myself when I saw some of these things. "I wonder what would happen if I just worked on it a little."
As a rule, the drawings I found myself developing were rough sketches originally done for old Playboy pictures. No mystery there, of course: the sensuality of the images made them a natural for the sensuality of a tonal rendering. But there was another reason.
The Ribald Classics series was always about some kind of sexual adventure or misadventure – which meant that I often drew people naked. And since it's harder to improvise naked figures than clothed ones, these were the drawings that I had most carefully defined in the first place.
Then around the same time, the French publication Nine Weeks asked me to do some drawings for their issues leading up to the national French elections. There were no articles to work around, no briefs of any kind: the publisher just asked me to send him pictures about politics, whatever that meant to me.
With a brief that open-ended, this was a guy who was speaking my language.
The images I sent the publication included paintings and ink drawings, but a couple of them, like the drawing below, were a throwback to the kind of art I had all but stopped doing two decades before. In fact, this particular drawing was the first time in all that time that I had submitted a pencil drawing to a client as finished art.
Since then, whenever an art director is interested, I've tried the same approach with other images. When Patrick Flynn showed an interest for The Baffler, for example, I sent him this.
I've also done some imaginary pencil portraits of characters from Shakespeare's plays. I thought as a design concept they'd be good foils for the more conceptual paintings I was doing.
Moreover, given the unfinished state of the drawings, I thought they'd go well with the playwright's soliloquies and, like the soliloquies, inject a certain intimacy to the more theatrical aspect of the plays.
Last fall I drew the Waverly Inn for a book about literary cafes published in Milan. The restaurant was always one of my favorites: back in the seventies I used to live nearby and ate there often.
My original idea was to do a painting of its distinctive red and green facade. So one afternoon in September I set out for the Village to do a detailed sketch. I intended to use it for reference. But once I had what I needed, I wondered why I needed anything more. So I sent the drawing to Milan, they liked it, and this is the way it was published in the book.
In Burnt Norton, TS Eliot wrote "Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future."
I've been using pencil now for a long time, and while as far back as fifth grade, I may have imagined that I had mastered the art of drawing, I now feel more like Hokusai, who at 80 reportedly said he was just beginning to get the hang of it.
We all know that in the world of popular art we work in, there's not much call for the kind of simple drawings I've posted here. It's like the old lady said who used to live next door to my folks in Arkansas, "your son's pictures would be good if he'd just do them in color."
But that's why I've posted these drawings. Because while lots of us see each others' work in publications and exhibitions, there's always a side of ourselves that we reveal in our drawings that may never be seen anywhere else.
Years ago when I was doing an album cover for Billy Joel, he nearly cringed when I showed him some sketchbook drawings. He advised me never to show such unfinished stuff to anybody else. It would be like letting people listen to the outtakes from his recording sessions he said.
But of course I disagree. I think as artists, most of us like to see the work behind the work, not just as a way of evesdropping on the process, but because it gives us a chance to see what else is on the other side.
It's like the look on Stevie Ray Vaughn's face. The finished album cover may be more dramatic, good for the image of the cowboy troubadour, but the drawing behind the painting shows more of the person behind the image.
For me all art begins in the observation of things we can see, even the observation of those things, like ideas, that we can't see.
When I was little, my favorite story was Oscar Wilde's fable of The Happy Prince. My grandmother used to read it to me so often that I was finally able to read it to her. So I was pleased last April when Cristina Taverna of the Nuages Gallery in Milan asked me to do a dozen paintings for the story for her Classics Illustrated book series. The only catch was that the art had to be ready for exhibition in London on June 6. That meant the work had to be done in a month. The edition was published in May in both English and Italian.
For those who don't know the story, it's about a town where poverty and unhappiness are common, but where the local big shots have erected a gilded statue of a Happy Prince to overlook the town.
From his perch, the statue sees the suffering below and, unable to tolerate his own splendor in the face of so much unhappiness, prevails upon a lovesick swallow to pluck out the ruby from his sword and later, the sapphires from his eyes to give to the poor.
At first, the swallow protests that he's late in joining the other birds on their winter migration to Egypt. But the statue persists and the swallow finally agrees to do his biding.
With his jeweled eyes gone the statue is blind. So the swallow stays with him to act as his eyes throughout the autumn.
Now it's the swallow who surveys the town's poverty and reports what he sees to the Happy Prince. And so, with no more jewels left, the statue commands the bird to strip him of his gold leaf and distribute it to the poor as well.
Winter comes, and with the statue blind, the bird stays with him as a companion. But with an unusually hard frost, the swallow dies and the statue's leaden heart breaks.
The town fathers tear down the statue and melt it down. But in the furnace, the dead bird doesn't burn and the statue's heart doesn't melt.
Then one day God sends an angel to the city to bring Him the most precious things he can find. The angel returns with the dead bird and the broken heart.
Here are the pictures, with captions from the text.
HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
Then the swallow saw the statue on the tall column. ‘I will put up there,’ he cried; ‘it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.’ So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.‘ I have a golden bedroom,’ he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep.
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town. He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing…At last he came to the poor house and looked in.
‘I am waited for in Egypt,’ answered the Swallow. ‘To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon.
‘Alas! I have no ruby now,’ said the Prince; ‘my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the student’s garret.
So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost…‘It is not to Egypt that I am going,’ said the Swallow. ‘I am going to the House of Death.'
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: ‘Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!’ he said…‘The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,’ said the Mayor; ‘in fact, he is little better than a beggar!’
‘What a strange thing!’ said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. ‘This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.’
‘Bring me the two most precious things in the city,’ said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. ‘You have rightly chosen,’ said God, ‘for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.’
"In Switzerland it is a tradition that we celebrate the new year with fire," my friend Roland wrote me from Zurich. One such tradition, he said, is the Swiss “table bomb." Light a fuse and boom, out come "noses, hats, colored balls and many other toys for children."
Who knew there was such a thing as a Swiss piñata?
"My very, very rough idea," Roland explained, "I thought to have a tablebomb with a face of a Santa Claus on it, and out of the bomb, instead of toys, some Santa Clauses are flying in an artistic way."
To be honest, I had never heard of a table bomb, Swiss or otherwise. In the US, I don't think we have any Christmas traditions built around explosions in the home – and if we did, I'm sure that Homeland Security would have shut them down by now. But for Roland Scotoni, one of the world's most imaginative art directors, it was a concept that led him to think of me.
I'm not sure why. It’s not as if I’m known around the world for painting Santas. Or explosions, for that matter. But Roland is a fantastic art director and a great friend so I said sure, I'd do it and began drawing.
First things first: the artistic flying Santas.
I started with these guys because at first I thought they'd give me trouble. They didn't, they came easily. Santas just came pouring out, flyng in all directions, several sheets of typing paper full of them.That was enough to convince me that the picture would work, so I started painting.
Of course, this wasn't the kind of image I'd normally have thought to do on my own, but once done, I loved it. Still, I probably wouldn't have posted it here except for something unexpected that happened last Christmas day.
On Christmas morning last year, I woke up and retrieved the day's emails. The first one I opened was Steve Heller's daily design blog for Print Magazine. Steve sends these things out every day. Some days it's about new work that he's seen and liked. Other times it's archival stuff that he's dug up from around the world.
This day, he was sending out a long lost painting I once did of Santa Claus. It was titled "Who Put the X in Xmas," and it had no text except for a short sentence saying it was a Christmas greeting from him and me.
With no other context, this made it sound as if the picture was some new work I had just painted for Steve's blog when in fact, it was something I did nearly 40 years ago. Since Steve didn't supply the backstory, I thought I’d wait until this year and do it here.
Back in our counterculture days, Steve and I both did work for a weekly tabloid called the East Village Other. EVO was the New York Times of hippie newspapers, although with potheads, knuckleheads and 16 year old runaways hanging around the joint, its offices more closely resembled a pool hall than a news room.
Among the characters for whom EVO seemed to be a home-away-from-home was an elderly radical named Vincent Titus.
That's Titus, on the right in the photograph below. The others are the self-styled "Dylanologist," A. J. Weberman (on the left) and the cartoonist Yossarian. If I remember correctly, they had just absconded with Bob Dylan's garbage and were hauling it off to comb through it to see what they could find. So much for the Revolution.
Around the EVO offices Titus never really had any legitimate function. So with lots of time on his hands he used to regale anyone who would listen with wild and wooly tales about his alleged exploits during the Spanish Civil War.
Having taken arms against the evil Franco made Titus a sort of mascot among the armchair revolutionaries of EVO. But for my part, he reminded me of the Ancient Mariner – looked like him too. More than once I thought I should paint him with an albatross hanging around his neck.
Instead, one year I decided to paint him as Santa Claus.
My idea was to paint Titus in a mug shot, with his straggly white beard and cockeyed stare, as if he had just been arrested for breaking and entering. I thought it was an amusing concept, and for the handful of people it was intended for that Christmas, it seemed to be.
But for normal folks, Titus was hardly the sort of Santa you'd like to see emerging from your hearth on a dark night, or rapping at your door going ho-ho-ho. My painting of him is definitely at the other end of the Santa Claus spectrum from the flying Santas I was painting for Roland.
I can only guess where Steve found this primieval artifact of my youth. I lost track of the original a long time ago and in those days I didn't keep transparencies. In any event, I had almost forgotten about the thing until I opened my in-box last Christmas. Then it was like getting an e-visit from the Spirit of Christmas Past.
Anyway, on the premise that one good Santa deserves another – or in this case, that a bad Santa deserves a good one – I decided this year that I'd tie up the loose ends of last year by posting this account.
So on behalf of Steve Heller – and Vincent Titus, wherever he may be – and of Roland Scotoni in far-off Zurich and of course, myself, may a thousand flying Santas fly down all your chimneys next week and for God's sake let's hope that the new year will be a better one than the last.
Last Saturday in Japan, the Niigata Prefectural Museum of Modern Art opened an exhibition of art from the 20 volume design publication Creation, launched in 1989 by the famous Japanese designer Yusaku Kamekura (1915–1997). "I'm Coming Apart," my painting from 1990, is being featured in the exhibition.
So is a letter with a drawing of a bull on it that I sent Mr. Kamekura when he invited me to be one of the 20 artists featured in the cover stories. But more about the bull drawing in a moment.
Creation was published quarterly over a period of five years by the Recruit Publishing Company of Tokyo. It was the last major work of Yusaku Kamekura who had long been a driving force on the front line of Japanese graphic design. The occasion is the 100th anniversary of his birth.
According to the Museum: "In this exhibition, we aim to introduce the charm of the artists featured in Creation alongside their supplemental materials, such as their manuscripts and rough sketches. Through these items, we are offered the opportunity to peer into Kamekura’s perspective on design and examine the devotion with which he produced Creation."
Yusaku Kamekura was born in Tsubame City in Niigata Prefecture and in a lifetime of inspired work, he helped establish Japan's international reputation for modern graphic design. You can find a lot of his own work on the Internet and read about him at the Art Directors Club Hall of Fame website.
In editing Creation, Kamekura envisioned an arts magazine with no advertising that would be limited to just 20 issues. It was to be his final statement about the art world of his lifetime and he made all the editorial decisions. He chose the artists. He oversaw the text. He designed the layout. According to Randall Ross of modernism101.com "while CREATION was around, it was a true heavyweight in its presentation of both vintage and contemporary graphic design."
"I'm Coming Apart," from Creation #6, was first published in Longevity Magazine, then republished as a poster for the Art Directors Club of Cincinnati. The poster won the Hamilton King Award at the Society of Illustrators that year and is in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art, Toyama Japan.
Since then, it's been re-published a number of times in other countries for other purposes. For example, this book jacket from Italy's Giunti Blu.
It was also published as an album cover for Champs Du Possible by the popular French singer Bernard Lavilliers.
And as part of the publicity campaign for the album, the painting was made into large banners and stand-up displays for the record stores and was widely reproduced throughout France on subway, bus and kiosk posters.
I've always found it ironic that this picture, which is one of the least commercial things I've ever done, should end up being so widely published. When I painted it for Longevity, the magazine was in between art directors and I don't remember anyone even asking for a sketch. The painting itself just came, and came so quickly and so directly that I hardly remember doing it.
That contrasts with the letter I sent Mr. Kamekura, and which is also being featured in the current exhibition. It's not much really, just a quick thank you note I sent him that year. But I had a lot to thank him for.
When my issue of Creation was published, Mr. Kamekura arranged for an exhibition of my work in Tokyo and invited me and my friend Jennifer Phillips to spend two weeks there. It was our first visit to Japan, and with his many connections, Mr. Kamekura arranged things for us that, as outsiders to the country, we could never have arranged for ourselves. In addition to being a fantastic designer, he was a very kind, thoughtful and generous man.
The drawing of the bull however, developed a history of its own that I think Mr. Kamekura would have appreciated.
Buills had begun to turn up in my drawings and paintings around the same time as my exhibition in Tokyo.
It started because I had spent some time hanging out with rodeo clowns in the Southwest and wrote an article about the experience for Texas Monthly. I did 12 paintings for the feature, all based on sketches I had done at various rodeos and in off-hours hanging around the bull chutes.
So between the dozen finished paintings for the series and all the preliminary sketches, I found that I could draw bulls in my sleep and very nearly did.
So anyway, that year the Society of Illustrators asked me to design a poster for their annual call for entries. With my rodeo experience still fresh in my head, I had bulls on the brain, and since the Society's Gold Medals have a bull on them – an homage to the bulls of Lascaux – I decided to do a painting of a bull for the poster.
I asked Jennifer, who’s a brilliant designer, to do the typography for it. She suggested that since the Society's gold medals are round, we should do a round poster.
This semed like a great idea to us, but it met with some considerable opposition from the poster committee at the Society. They told us that posters are square, they're not supposed to be round. But to us, that seemed like an even better reason to do one, so we did.