Monday, February 08, 2016

 

Obscurity of the Day: Illustrated Sunday School Lesson




When you think about long-running comic strips drawn throughout their life by the same cartoonist, you probably don't have Illustrated Sunday School Lesson pop to mind. But it is a near-champion, following relatively close on the heels of Charles Schulz' Peanuts and Ed Payne's Billy the Boy Artist.

Illustrated Sunday School Lesson debuted on December 26 1931, and Alfred J. Buescher handled the art for the next forty-two years, penning the final strip on February 24 1973. The strip was a weekly offering for Saturday religion pages and usually gave pretty barebones accounts of Bible events. My impression is that they were written to make sure no denomination could possibly take exception to them, so philosophy is eschewed in favor of dry retellings of events. Buescher's art also gives the production a generic feeling. Although Buescher was a good cartoonist (his editorial cartoons for Hearst are often good if rarely great), in this strip he seems to be dead set on exhibiting no stylistic flavor or showing any action beyond the occasional pointing hand (there's a LOT of those, see above).

The strip was initially offered under the auspices of the Central Press Association, until Hearst discontinued use of that brand. It then moved to King Features. Buescher outlasted three writers on the strip -- the Reverend Alvin E. Bell through 1938, Newman Campbell through 1966 and R.H. Ramsay through 1971. Buescher himself apparently managed the whole production for the last few years. I guess he ought to have known his subject pretty well by then. After Reverend Bell the other writers did not take a byline on the strip, and their credits were determined through the author listings in the Editor & Publisher yearbooks.

Tomorrow look for Alex Jay's Ink-Slinger Profile of Alfred Buescher.

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Sunday, February 07, 2016

 

Jim Ivey's Sunday Comics


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Say it ain't so!

Craig
 
Maybe just a 7th inning stretch,
and then back to it?
D.D.Degg
 
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Saturday, February 06, 2016

 

Herriman Saturday


Monday, November 2 1908 -- "'Tis the day before election, and all through the house...". Oops, hold on. Looks like Herriman has chosen a different poetic allusion.

Abou Ben Adham by Leigh Hunt


Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

 The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

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Friday, February 05, 2016

 

Walt McDougall's This is the Life: Chapter 8 Part 3

This is the Life!

by 

Walt McDougall


Chapter Eight (Part 3) - BLOSSOM TIME IN BOHEMIA





When it was announced that Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty would shortly arrive in America, there was no commotion, as the sculptor had a weak press agent. I made a cartoon showing Liberty with her skirts hoisted to her knees, wading about dejectedly in the mud of the Harbor seeking a site. John R. Reavis, an energetic hustler whom J. P. had found in Missouri, was inspired by the picture to suggest the formation of a fund raised by public subscription to build a pedestal. It was several days before J. P. would accede to his urging, and then he reluctantly put John in charge of the most popular and successful of all of the World's many undertakings. He raised over a hundred thousand dollars in a very short time, and the name of Joseph Pulitzer is inscribed upon the tablet on the pedestal—but Reavis is not mentioned.

Grozier, who died in 1924, was a small, impetuous and very ambitious city editor who was willing to try anything once. When the blizzard of '88 had buried the city a dozen feet deep, all news sources were stagnant. A harum-scarum reporter named Jack Farrelly informed Grozier that he was an expert snowshoeist and proposed to go forth into the suburbs to learn the fate of many delayed trains, about which startling rumors had begun to drift in. Eddie, delighted, gave Jack money to purchase the Indian footgear, and he bought a bottle of excellent whiskey, took a room at the Astor House and climbed into bed.

At eventide he produced an epic that brought the perils and sufferings of a blizzard home even to those who had experienced the horrors of a winter in Tuxedo. It was a gem. It told of a train in the remotest wilds of Westchester buried deep in snow, gave the number of the engine, the names of the conductor and engineer, and with keen sarcasm mixed with pathos, described how rapacious unfeeling farmers had sold sandwiches at a dollar each, and coffee at fifty cents a cup, to the famished passengers, many of whom he had interviewed, to the extent of four or five columns.

The next day Grozier bought fifteen pairs of snowshoes and sent a corps of reporters into Staten Island with instructions to learn to use them while they gathered the news. The results were negligible, most of the boys returned bruised, knee-sprung and frostbitten, all but Jack Farrelly, who brought in another grand bit of realism dealing with conditions in darkest Jamaica and points east.

About two or three years afterward Grozier was editing the World Almanac. At that time the task consisted mainly in compiling a modest record of the paper's glorious achievements of the past years. I asked him if he had mentioned his notable snowshoe expeditions. Strangely, he had overlooked this luminous spot, and he at once proceeded to transcribe a fitting account of the performance. An hour passed, and then I asked casually if he had ever heard the true story of Farrelly's blizzard yarns. When I related the amusing tale, Eddie was so chagrined that he tore up all he had written and the Almanac has never referred to this proud achievement.

The Astor House, corner of Broadway and Vesey Streets, built on the site of my grandfather's cabinet and furniture factory, although as a hotel swiftly becoming an antique, still retained a large restaurant trade, and its circular barroom (it had also a select, cloistered drinking room on the second floor) was the resort of almost all of the great men of the city. There one might encounter Mayor Gilroy, Collis P. Huntington, Austin Corbin, Hamilton Fish, Senator Conkling, Bob Ingersoll, Chauncey Depew, Elihu Root, Jake Hess, Inspector Byrnes, Ed. Lauterbach, at noontide, with a sprinkling of literary stars like Howells, John Brisbin Walker, Alden, Curtis, Lathrop, Hawthorne, Habberton and Gilder, and mingling with them the rising journalists, such as Julian Ralph, James Metcalf, Irving Bacheller, W. J. Lampton, J. K. Bangs, Howard Fielding, Julius Chambers, Jimmie Huneker and Edward Marshall, belonging, many of them, to the high-browed and select Lantern Club down in William Street.

The men who made whiskey, whose names were blown into bottles and printed on labels, fraternized here with the men who consumed it, and the eminent wine-agents like Osborne, Heckler and Somborn, who were civic institutions, all began their daily rounds of joy in this circular temple of Apicius.

 One of the town sights was the Chemical Bank at 270 Broadway, where strangers halted to catch a glimpse of Hetty Green, the richest woman in the world, who would not have her photograph taken and whom one could always throw into a panic by pretending to make a sketch of her from the doorway, for she was always accessible. The average bank had not yet taken on the solemnity of a cathedral, but the Chemical possessed an awful, sublime dignity. When Bill Nye and I received our first checks from Major Smith of the American Press Association, we repaired to the Chemical Bank. Bill presented his check and the cashier rather testily informed him that he would have to be identified.

"Do you mean I've got to go and find somebody who knows me and whom you know before I can get the money?"

"Precisely," assented the cashier. "Step aside and let that gentleman get to the window."

"Oh, he's with me," said Bill. "He can identify me."

The cashier, not knowing me, demurred and an argument ensued. Finally Nye asked him, in turn, if he knew Grover Cleveland, De Witt Talmage, Senator Breckenridge and Queen Victoria, eliciting a snappy "No!" ach time, whereupon he said, with a protesting gesture: "There! You see, you don't move in my set! How can I find anybody who knows us both?"

Then he pulled out that morning's paper, exposed his portrait, and took off his hat. The cashier glared, melted and, with a grin, began to count out the money. Then Nye introduced me and he cashed my check, after which we invited him out to lunch and found him to be entirely human and companionable.

In 1887, in front of a wooden house in Greene Street, there hung a large faded sign, "Laura's." In my early teens almost every house on the street bore such an advertisement, and the simple Jersey commuter wended his way to and from the ferry through a section given over to sin. In time the growing needs of the provision business evicted the fair occupants of the establishments, filling the ground floors with potatoes and the upper floors with virtuous Levantines and Armenians. The Red-light District, an actuality and not a mere name, then shifted to the region south of Macy's new store in Fourteenth Street, but the practice of hanging out signs ceased.

This district, with its monotonous rows of silent houses darkened by day, with its flow of cabs by night, was awesome and fascinating to growing, curious, palpitant Boyhood. As I endeavor to form a picture of the night-wanderers of those times, I get an impression of furtive forms, rather pathetic, of seemingly middle-aged, drab women, none under twenty, at any rate, and certainly not a hint of the brazen, flippant creatures of thirteen and fourteen who at present give color to our garishly lighted thoroughfares.

About the period when Mrs. Grannis began to agitate against the segregation of vice, business needs drove the Cyprians northward to the Thirties. Then, in Thirty- first Street, the newspaper men established the Tenderloin Club in an old mansion opposite the notorious "House of All Nations," and Gunn, Luks and I did the decorating of the interior in an entirely novel manner. Everybody who was anybody, it seems, belonged to the club; it had a membership of seventeen hundred and its reputation was simply devilish, but it was actually a worker's club and generally as dull as dishwater.

Nothing more exciting than a boxing match in the back yard or a poker game on the top floor ever happened, but before it went into bankruptcy it had witnessed "the suppression of recognized vice" and seen the painted women driven from brothels into private flats, lodging houses and homes, some twenty-five thousand of them. Its sophisticated members predicted evil to follow. When I recall the tawdry attractions of such oft-assailed dens of iniquity as Billy M'Glory's Armory Hall, Tom Gould's subterranean dive at Sixth Avenue and Thirty-first Street, Huber's Prospect Garden and Theiss's on Fourteenth, Harry Hill's dingy hall and the Haymarket, I marvel at the crudity of those remote, uncultured days and rejoice that all that sort of thing is done away with, as the prophets predicted it would be when vice was no longer "recognized." Gould would be shocked, however, at the goings-on in dance halls, supper rooms and public parks today. Perhaps "strip-crap" games, necking parties and nude exhibitions are some of the fruits of knowledge disseminated by the twenty-five thousand Phrynes. Also, another ripe fruitage may be the vast increase in a certain class of hotels.

At this time "Citizen" George Francis Train was largely in the public eye, due to his conspicuous appearance, eccentric manners and thirst for publicity. I early became acquainted with him, but how, I have forgotten. He was tall and well-built, with a countenance so different from the common herd's as to attract instant attention, and he wore the oldest of clothes in a distingué manner. He was then, I suppose, well into the fifties. A millionaire and an owner of steamships at nineteen, promoter of the underground railways in London, and a master mover in the Crédit Mobilier, he dressed negligently, lived in a cheap hotel, subsisted by turns on peanuts, apples or oatmeal, and spent the daylight hours on a bench in Madison Square with children and sparrows as his preferred company.

At times Train's talk was wild and disjointed, and his fine eyes flashed a weird and feverish light; he would talk with anybody and he was almost always surrounded by an admiring, if sometimes too familiar, group of workmen, tramps and out-of-town visitors, who regarded him as one of the city's sights. He wrote doggerel in alternate lines of blue and red, and I have still a "poem" written by him not long before his death, in terms of friendly but preposterous eulogy. 'Gene Field had this same queer custom of writing in various tints.

But Train was not, as many supposed, a man insane. Perhaps in his early strenuous life too much concentration upon self had developed a mild form of megalomania, but his food fads and health hobbies were no more extreme than those of many a physical-science professor of today and his megalomania never blunted his wit, sarcasm or apperception. I think he stepped aside from the world of action voluntarily and adopted the odd pose of clown and seer combined in response to an instinct that the role has always been popular with the common people.

One of his pet fancies, which he never abandoned, was the notion of a comic Bible; he believed that if I would illustrate it we would make a fortune. I am afraid that I assisted in this delusion, for I often suggested a sacrilegious picture which, if ever published, would have brought down upon us the wrath of all the elect of the earth.

He and Bob Fitzsimmons used to take the same early Sunday morning train for Jersey when I lived in Glen Ridge, where Train's daughter resided. Train used to take an inexplicable pleasure in suddenly introducing Bob and myself to the passengers on boat or train, using extravagantly laudatory language and affording the passengers, many of whom knew him by sight, immense amusement. To poor Fitzsimmons and myself, although we were accustomed, as professional beauties, to the spotlight, it was painfully embarrassing to be held up to public admiration after a long hard night at poker. Train, wiry and ruddy, believed that he would live to an extreme old age. John L. Sullivan held the same belief. Train would not wear an overcoat or gloves, and often bared his chest to the winter blast at the bow of the ferryboat. He was taken off by pneumonia at about seventy-seven.

It was always a mystery what he had done with the fortune he had so early acquired; indeed, he must later have made considerable money from his lectures, some of which I had heard in my teens with immense astonishment and enjoyment. They always filled a theater. It was about the time when the same class flocked to the absurd performances of "Count" Joannes, who travestied Shakespeare in a screamingly funny manner, although apparently perfectly serious, and was barraged with ancient eggs, vegetables, dead rats and pennies by his audiences. Nothing of that sort ever happened to George Francis Train. He made them laugh but he compelled them to think by his logic and his striking, if often quite obscene, diagrams.

Sam Gompers, then working at his trade of cigar-maker, short and slight and extremely opinionated, used to frequent my office, where he debated with B. B. Valentine, who wrote the Fitznoodle Papers for Puck, and Bill Sulzer, then a good imitation of the young Henry Clay and already making an impression on Dick Croker; D. Frank Dodge, the scenic artist, recently arrived from California and still unused to stone pavements and regular meals, used to amuse and amaze us with his incredible bear stories, Irving Bacheller, just starting in the syndicate business, Lafcadio Hearn, sloppy and purblind but a genius, Abe Hummell, seeking diversion from a fast-growing law business, Harry Dixey, then playing in "Adonis," and Lew Dockstader, with a theater on Broadway and losing a fortune every week, M. Quad, Dave Warfield, Paul Boyton, Billy Muldoon, Marshall P. Wilder, John Kendrick Bangs, Albert Payne, Moses P. Handy, John Mackey and, occasionally, Herrman, the magician, at whose performances the beautiful Alice Raymond played the cornet as it has never been played since—these and dozens of others made my office just such a forum as my father's or Matt Morgan's had been.

Charles Dana Gibson was just beginning to amaze us with the grace and humor of a new style of illustration that was to alter the very figures of our boys and girls and create hundreds of imitators. I imagine that nothing but the hurry and stress under which I worked prevented me from becoming the most slavish of his imitators, but to acquire the apparently careless line of Gibson necessitated constant drawing from life, and a man turning out from five to twenty drawings daily saw life on the jump, with little time to reflect or meditate.

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Thursday, February 04, 2016

 

Ink-Slinger Profiles by Alex Jay: Sherry B. Bowen


Sherry B. Bowen was born Sherry Bowen Krauskopf in Maywood, Illinois, on March 13, 1900, according to the Cook County, Illinois, Birth Certificates Index at Ancestry.com. His parents were Charles C. and Mary Hort. Bowen served in the Army during World War I and on his Report of Interment card, his birth surname was crossed out and “Bowen” was written above it. A note said he had legally changed his name but the date of the change was not recorded.

The 1900 U.S. Federal Census said Bowen was the only child and his father was a school teacher. In the 1910 census, the family still resided in Maywood and their address was 900 8th Avenue. Bowen had a younger brother, Karl, and their father was a principal and teacher.

According to the Interment card, Bowen’s Army service started May 28, 1918. He was a private in Company B, 336th Battalion, Tank Corps. He was discharged July 18, 1919.

In 1920 Bowen was a university student and still lived with his parents at the same address. The Rochester Democrat and Chronicle (New York), August 5, 1956, said Bowen studied at the University of Illinois and then joined the Bloomington, Illinois, Pantagraph. Bowen’s move was reported in the Daily Illini, February 1, 1922.

Krauskopf Resigns Illini Position for Job on Pantagraph

Sherry B. Krauskopf ’23 has resigned as one of the news editors of The Daily Illini to accept a position on the editorial staff of the Bloomington Pantagraph. He will leave to assume his new duties Saturday.

Krauskopf will start as a reporter but will be given a taste of the mechanical side of newspaper work and will De training on the city editor’s desk as he intends to follow the editorial phases of newspaper work.

Beginning as a reporter in his freshman year Krauskopf has rounded out five semesters of work on the staff of The Daily Illini, two years as a reporter and thus far this year he has been one of the six news editors.
The Illini, January 20, 1923, reported Bowen’s marriage to Ruby Butts.
Ruby Butts Take Vows Of Marriage To S . B. Krauskopf

Another romance of The Daily Illini culminated in a wedding last night when Ruby D. Butts ’23 became the bride of Sherry Krauskopf ’23 at 7 o’clock in the home of the Rev. James C. Baker, 1209 West Green street, Urbana. Mr. Baker read the service before members of the immediate families.

The date for the wedding had originally been set for June, but owing to the serious illness of the groom, the ceremony was performed last night.

The bride wore a gown of black satin and Spanish lace and a corsage of American roses. Geraldine Hegit ’23, who was bridesmaid, wore blue taffeta and carried a shower bouquet of La France roses. Karl H. Krauskopf ’26, brother of the groom, acted as best man.

Mrs. Krauskopf has been a member of the staff of The Daily Illini for the past three years and was society editor this year until forced to resign because of ill health. The groom was a reporter on The Daily Illini in his freshman and sophomore years and was a news editor last year.
According to the Democrat and Chronicle, Bowen moved on to the Springfield, Illinois, Register. In Tucson Arizona, Bowen was at the Independent and then worked 16 years at the Arizona Daily Star.

The 1930 census recorded Bowen, a newspaper reporter, and his wife, in Tucson on North 1st Avenue. The 1933 and 1934 Tucson city directories listed his address as Route 1, Box 399A. In 1935 he resided in the Tucson Mountains. Bowen’s address was Anklam Road in the 1936 directory.

Bowen’s home and surroundings were described at the Pima County website.

Bowen brought his wife, Ruby, to Tucson from Rockford, Ill., in the late 1920s in hopes that the climate would improve her health. Bowen was a typesetter and later city editor at the Arizona Daily Star. The Bowens homesteaded in the Tucson Mountains and began living in a cabin there in 1931 while Bowen built the house of native stone. They expanded their claim to 2,000 acres.
Ruby Bowen wrote for Desert Magazine of the Southwest. Her diary of her first year in the Tucson Mountains refers to the wildlife she saw, including javelina, deer and wild mountain sheep that came to the base of the cliffs nearly every evening to graze. She wrote that a mountain lion would pace about when she was cooking meat and once attempted to get in the window.
In 1944, Bowen moved to New York City to work for the Associated Press. Some of his reporting can be read in the Spokane Daily Chronicle, the Southeast Missourian and Toledo Blade.

American Newspaper Comics (2012) said Bowen wrote The Story of Santa Claus which was drawn by Ed H. Gunder and ran from December 17 to 22, 1951. The strip was syndicated by the Associated Press.

Bowen passed away August 4, 1956, in the Bronx, New York. He was buried at the Long Island National Cemetery. Bowen’s wife, Ruby, passed away November 30, 1961. Bowen and his wife are survived by a daughter, Gloria, who lives in Nevada. Ten-year-old Gloria was profiled in the Tucson Daily Citizen, March 27, 1954. 


—Alex Jay

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Wednesday, February 03, 2016

 

Obscurity of the Day: Looping the Loop


If you are a serious cartooning fan, E.C. Segar's Looping the Loop, drawn for the Chicago Evening American,  is well-known by name but certainly not by sight. To my knowledge, only a few scant samples of the feature have even been printed in cartooning history books or seen online (try Googling it and you'll see the very same sample on a plethora of websites). The sample above is the only one I have in my collection, and the tearsheet is so fragile and tattered that a small section near the bottom of the cartoon, in the newspaper's fold, has disintegrated. But beggars can't be choosers.

It's a shame we don't have more Looping the Loop samples to peruse, because the feature chronicles an incredible evolution from the startlingly amateurish Segar of the Chicago Record-Herald, to the bright upcoming Hearst star of Thimble Theatre. It's almost impossible to believe that it is the same cartoonist. In this seminal feature Segar all of a sudden seems totally self-assured in both his writing and art. The jazzy, playful, and confidently-drawn strip above shows that Segar was ready for the big-time.

Looping the Loop offered Segar's very rah-rah reviews of Chicago entertainments, like the vaudeville acts discussed in the sample above. Whether he was instructed by the Chicago American to be a booster I don't know, but from the admittedly tiny sample I have seen, Segar seems to like everything he sees. It is probable that the American was trying to stimulate advertising sales from Chicago's burgeoning entertainment venues, so no shows were to be panned, just needled good-naturedly.

In Nemo #3, Bill Blackbeard (who is one of the few who have ever had access to a good run of the Chicago Evening American), says that Looping the Loop began on June 1 1918. Blackbeard doesn't offer an end date, but does say that Segar left for New York "late in the winter of 1919", which would seem to indicate that the series ended sometime around March or so.


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I have 30 or 40 Looping the Loop brittle tearsheets from 1918 and 19. In one, Segar reviews the silent film Turning the Tables with Dorothy Gish which was released in early November of 1919, so he did this daily strip right up until he left Chicago and moved to NYC and Thimble Theatre at King Features.
 
Segar moved to NYC in late 1919 and Thimble Theatre first appeared on December 19, 1919. The panel pictured here of the Lady Sitting Next to Me are caricatures of Segar and his wife Myrtle.
 
Lucky you to have so many Looping strips!

Blackbeard seemed to be of the opinion that Segar moved to NYC quite awhile before Thimble Theatre debuted. That seemed a little odd to me. I don't get the impression that Hearst was the type of organization that would have given him six months or more to develop a strip. My guess is they would have said "Just copy Minute Movies, kid, let's get this show on the road".

If you've got Looping the Loop in November 1919, it seems like Segar moved to NYC after Thimble Theatre had been given the thumb's up at headquarters, which makes more sense.

Thanks, Allan
 
Segar also drew special cartoons for the Chicago American sports page in October 1919, attending both home and away games for every Chicago White Sox and Cincinnati Reds World Series game (known as the Black Sox Scandal). Pretty solid evidence that he was still in the Windy City until late 1919.
 
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Tuesday, February 02, 2016

 

Ink-Slinger Profiles by Alex Jay: J.K. Bryans


Judge 5/7/1917


John “Jack” Kennedy Bryans was born in New York City in 1872. Bryans’ birthplace was determined through census records, and his birth year and full name were published in the Catalogue of Copyright Entries, Part 1, Group 1, Books, New Series, Volume 27, Number 38, June 1930.

In the 1880 U.S. Federal Census, Bryans was the oldest of six children born to James, a shoe dealer, and Mary. The family resided in Manhattan, New York City, at 411 West 34th Street.

Information about Bryans’ education and art training has not been found.

According to Broadway Magazine, December 1903, Bryans’ earliest work was published in the New York World newspaper: a political cartoon of President Grover Cleveland whose second term was from 1893 to 1897. American Newspaper Comics (2012) said Bryans produced comics in silhouette, from June 6, 1900 to February 5, 1914, which was handled by the New York Evening Journal, McClure Syndicate and the World. For the World Bryan drew the Fluffy Duff Sisters from August 12 to October 14, 1900. He was a contributor to Metropolitan Magazine which advertised in the Sunday Telegraph (New York, New York), August 5, 1900 (see the bottom for Funny Fancies and the list of artists).





The World, December 9, 1900, featured Bryans, T.E. Powers, R.F. Outcault, W.F. Marriner, Paul West, C.G. Bush, and W.W. Denslow in a full-page titled “Grand Congress of a Galaxy of Wit & Humor”.




Some of Bryans’s comics in the World are here.

In 1901, Bryans was one of eight cartoonists who contributed two illustrations to Toothsome Tales Told in Slang. Bryans’ art is here and here. Harper’s Bazar recognized Bryans’ talent and included him in its roster of Bazar artists.

The following year Bryans illustrated Grace Miller White’s A Harmless Revolution, a punctuation guide, and James D. Corrothers’s The Black Cat Club.




Bryans marriage to writer, Zoe Anderson Norris, was on the front page of the Morning Telegraph (New York, New York), March 28, 1902.


Zoe passed away February 13, 1914. Bryans’ first marriage was to Ader Brown on June 20, 1896.

Laughoettes was a panel Bryans created for the McClure Syndicate. According to American Newspaper Comics the panel debuted March 29, 1903.

Bryans was profiled by J. Dempster Cater in Broadway Magazine, December 1903.

Bryans, Silhouette Artist

Like most artists, J. K. Bryans commenced his artistic career under strong parental objection. The idea of money failed to connect itself with art in the heads of his father and mother. A proposal on the water is always safer, because she cannot get away from you without risk of her life They saw only the long hair, the Turkish cap, and the unpressed trousers. Hence their distaste. Particularly was this so in the case of his father, who, a New York shoe merchant, naturally ran to the practical, endeavoring to the best of his ability to steer his sons in the same direction.

This, then, was how it happened that at an early age little J. K. was set to trying on shoes and swearing at his luck because he was not permitted to scribble caricatures of the buyers all over the paper before he wrapped them in it.

Indeed, so stern and unbending was the paternal objection to this same scribbling, that, upon perceiving a longing in his eye to put pencil to paper, his mother was wont to say to him:
”If you must draw now, Jack, for the love of heaven, go on up-stairs to your room, where your father can’t see you, or there’ll be no living with him.”

And Jack went up to his room on the top floor, where he drew to his heart’s content. He tacked his pictures up all over the walls and sat back gazing at them admiringly, dreaming dreams of High Art, and Recognition, and Steam Yachts, and beheld other radiant visions common to embryo artists, far from danger of contact with the paternal boot.

Failing signally as a shoe merchant, a position was presently found for him as bookkeeper in a downtown store.

It is needless to say that this failed quite as signally.
One day, unexpectedly discovering caricatures of himself drawn with more or less dexterity upon every available flyleaf of the ledger — which, as a matter of fact, should be the last place in the world to find caricatures — the proprietor promptly fired him. This was too much. There ensued high words from the exasperated head of the family; and Jack all at once found himself cast adrift into the cold, cold world, minus a home.

A special Providence, however, appears to watch over small children, artists and young married people. It was, therefore, at about this time that the New York World started out on its famous hunt for erratic genius, and brought the Comic Artist into fashion.

Bryans made his debut on this paper with a political cartoon of Grover Cleveland, then President. Excuse me, but we have poetesses of passion to burn — unless they burn us first.

Then the Journal, emulating the World, also sought out the festive Comic Artist, making him more and more the fashion...and not a little, too, to his gratification, Bryans found himself in the proud possession of a permanent salary of so much a week, his hitherto empty pockets hilariously jingling with real coin, and the paternal eye fixed upon him animated by a curious mixture of anxiety, admiration and awe.

Stranger still, this salary, with some slight fluctuation, of course, has fortunately continued, even to the present day; and while he has had some few insignificant imitators, the Bryans silhouettes have held their own, unique in the clean-cut excellence of their drawing and in the facility of their humor.
Mr. Bryans works for Life, Harper’s Bazar, McClure’s Syndicate, The World, The Journal, and The Times. The examples herewith are reproduced by permission of McClure’s Syndicate.

Though his specialty is comics, Bryans has done considerable illustrating of short stories and made a few clever covers for books.

Being a young man, hardly thirty-two yet, he may be said to have the world before him, at least in the matter of silhouettes.
A postcard with a Bryans silhouette was published in 1905.




Caricature: The Wit & Humor of a Nation in Picture, Song & Story (1913) included four illustrations by Bryans here, here, here and here.

Cartoons Magazine, February 1916, reported the Central New York Art League exhibit which included Bryans.

In the 1915 New York state census, Bryans was counted in his father’s household at 371 Convent Avenue in Manhattan, New York City. A 1915 New York City directory listed Bryans as an artist residing at 35 West 104th Street. Bryans’ address from 1917 to 1920 was 507 West 111th Street according to city directories.

Advertising Arts and Crafts (1927) had this listing for Bryans: “Bryans, J.K., 53 West 105th, Aca 1873 New York City. Black and White.”

For King Features Syndicate, Bryans produced the panel, Shadow Kids, beginning in 1927.



Syracuse Journal 10/19/1927

In 1929 Shadowkids was published by the Platt & Munk Company which published, the following year, Shadowkids at Play.

Art Young mentioned Bryans in his book, Art Young: His Life and Times (1939):

On the walls among the array of weapons were framed drawings which had illuminated Sunday World feature stories that Will had written, and originals done by the artists on the World staff; also drawings for the “funnies” of that era, by Dick Outcault, George Luks, Anderson, Bryans (whose silhouette pictures were then popular), Tony Anthony, Gus and Rudy Dirks, Joe Lemon, Walt McDougall; and illustrators such as Will Crawford (he made comics as well, but always seemed too dignified and artistic to be classed as such), “Hod” Taylor, Al Levering, and others.
Bryans has not been found in the 1930 and 1940 censuses. 

The passing of Bryans’ sister, Marian, was published in the New York Times, October 31, 1943. The death notice said: 
Bryans—Marian E., suddenly, Oct. 30, daughter of the late James H. and Mary Kennedy Bryans and beloved sister of John K., Sara, Carlotta, and Mrs. Philip J. Faulkner. Funeral services Monday, 2 P.M., at the Hallett Homestead, 147th St. and Northern Boulevard, Flushing, L.I. Interment Bronxville Cemetery.
What became of Bryans after 1943 is not known.

—Alex Jay

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Monday, February 01, 2016

 

Obscurity of the Day: J.K. Bryans' Silhouette Cartoons









While many cartoonists enjoy employing silhouettes in their cartoons on occasion, no one could possibly match the steadfast love of the form exhibited by J.K. Bryans. In his long career at the New York newspapers, only one of his earliest short-lived strips (The Fluffy Duff Sisters of 1900) was not done using the silhouette technique.

Because Bryans' newspaper cartoons were instantly identifiable simply by the large blobs of black ink that drew your eye to them, naturally he didn't see any pressing need for a consistent running title to advertise his wares. He did sometimes use recurring titles, though, which generally refer to the technique: Silhouette Repartee, Fun in Black and White, In Silhouetteville and so on. He also had additional calling-cards: his cartoons generally appeared in pairs of subject-related gag cartoons under a common masthead, and the underlying art style was very much in the debt of William F. Marriner, whose copyists were legion in those days.

Because I generally don't consider single-panel gag cartoons without a unifying subject, title or genre as a series, assigning a start date to Bryans silhouette cartoons is a challenge. I feel that although he made contributions to New York newspapers in the 1890s that he doesn't have a real series going until June 6 1900, when the New York Evening Journal began featuring his cartoons regularly and giving him a byline.

The next year Bryans began submitting his trademark silhouettes to the McClure Syndicate's Sunday section, and they appeared there semi-regularly from August 18 1901 to October 9 1904 (in 1903 the C.J. Hirt-edited McClure section gave them a consistent (and awful) title for a short time -- Laughoettes). This moonlighting seemed not to have set well with the Hearst folks, and Bryans' cartoons were dropped from the Journal sometime in 1902 (unfortunately I cannot offer an exact date as the Evening Journal microfilm is woefully incomplete).

Bryans evidently wasn't totally thrilled with his gig at McClure, because he left them in order to take a position at the New York Evening World. His cartoons for them, which followed the same pattern as usual, began appearing on October 26 1904.

Although Bryans had a long relationship with the Evening World, he went through a few periods of hibernation. The first hiatus began after the cartoon in the April 28 1905 issue, and he didn't get back on the World horse until October 9 1906. What he did in that 17-month period I don't know. His return didn't last long, and once again he disappeared after the cartoon of December 11 1906. This time he disappeared for close to a year, returning on October 3 1907.

Finally Bryans settled into a groove, and his silhouette cartoons appeared on a semi-regular basis in the Evening World for the next seven years, finally ending on February 5 1914. By this time they were looking quite distinctly old-fashioned among the comic strips that were running alongside them. While Bryans would try sporadically to revive the silhouette cartoon business for at least another decade-and-a-half, he met with little success. Time and style had passed him by.

Tomorrow Alex Jay will fill in some of the biographical blanks with an Ink-Slinger Profile for Mr. Bryans.

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Saturday, January 30, 2016

 

Herriman Saturday


Saturday, October 31 1908 -- Herriman commemorates the soon-to-be third losing campaign of Democratic candidate William Jennings Bryan.

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Friday, January 29, 2016

 

Walt McDougall's This is the Life: Chapter 8 Part 2

This is the Life!

by 

Walt McDougall


Chapter Eight (Part 2) - BLOSSOM TIME IN BOHEMIA


There was another memorable meeting place for years, the top floor of Mouquin's in Fulton Street, where the "Hammer Club" grew, by degrees, into an institution. Beginning with a daily gathering of a few jealous souls who discussed at noon the foibles of their heartless masters and their own unselfish efforts, it acquired in some unknown manner the name and character of a club. I was its permanent president, probably by right of my unearthly beauty and flow of language (with the exception of an interval of revolt—brief and cruelly suppressed), during its long career. Although we had no constitution or by-laws, I had the power to fine any member a bottle of Pommard at my option. This insured a flow of sentiment and good feeling, hence the club endured. Police captains, bishops, priests, conjurers, judges, theatrical managers, brokers and poets mingled with editors and artists at these daily luncheons, for in those golden days before Prohibition, income taxes, balloon-tires or hardened arteries men took life less seriously. Nor were these meals drinking bouts. Undoubtedly, much time was often lost at them by individuals who should have been at work, but grand ideas were often gained.

Not so very long ago I dropped in on Franklin P. Adams, then on the Tribune. He invited me out to lunch and we went around to Whyte's. There a number of young fellows joined us one by one, and at the end of the meal there was the usual gentle skirmish for the check until it was proposed to match for its payment. I had come to town with about ten or fifteen dollars in my pocket, plenty for the average farm-hick's afternoon enjoyment, and I viewed this suggestion with ill-concealed dread. As may be guessed, we matched and I paid the check. It was for eleven dollars and thirty cents without the tip, but, thank Heaven, I had enough to get back to Goshen on. Now a thing like that could not have happened at the old Hammer Club.

Since then I have shied at all luncheon invitations except those of publishers, who have some sense of the value of money.

In these days of huge circulations, unbounded advertising and universal commercialism, newspaper individuality or personality has become almost extinct and it is difficult to comprehend the sort of popularity which the World so swiftly attained. It was read in the Tennessee mountains and in Mississippi valleys, and while it had its enemies it had a thousandfold more friends. When in my enthusiasm in '86 I predicted a million circulation I was gently derided, but its phoenix-like rise warranted the prediction. Of course, I did not foresee that ten years later the young and opulent Hearst, the best judge of sure-fire hokum living, would buy Albert Pulitzer's Evening Journal and proceed to do everything J. P. had ever done, and in a bigger and more sensational manner.

Which leads me to relate a most curious and amazing bit of personal history to illustrate this point. Raymond Duy Foster, a boyhood chum, had joined me in buying a thirty-foot sloop of ancient lineage from ex-Gov. Leon Abbett, and we spent upon her all our spare time and much of our cash. When the Puritan was to race the Genesta in '85, Pulitzer ordered George W. Turner, his business manager, to engage a steamboat for the occasion. This boat bore a gigantic banner on port and starboard with the legend "THE WORLD" in letters four feet high. Everybody who could escape from the office was on board with a host of the paper's friends.

As we moved slowly down the river amid a tangle of vessels, Turner asked me: "Where is your yacht today, Mac?"

"Foster has her down the bay somewhere," I replied, noting a hint of satire. Then, seeing far over toward the Jersey shore a long black yacht sailing northward, I added, unconcernedly: "There she is, I think, sneaking up the river."

Everybody within hearing concentrated his gaze upon the distant craft, and some uttered jealous and malignant comments upon the fact that a mere cartoonist could afford such a plaything. Suddenly the beautiful, costly craft luffed and ran, half-off the wind, straight for us. As she neared us, I discerned a group of guests in yachting attire about her stern and fifteen or twenty white-clad sailors scattered along her hundred-and-twenty-foot deck. My heart flopped as I realized that presently she would cross our bow and all would read on her gilded stern the name of a famous yacht and my reputation for veracity would be a total loss. She flew nearer, the cynosure of jealous eyes.

Only a cable-length away, however, she came about cleverly with every face aboard of her fixed upon the World's modest banner, and as she passed us like an albatross in flight, a hoarse voice from her deck roared: "Three cheers for McDougall!" which cheers rang out with a will across the rippling waters. We returned the salute with interest, I being the cheermaster.

She bore no name astern, nobody aboard of us recognized the peerless beauty, and I never learned to whom she belonged, but, of course, he was a World admirer. I came, in time, to believe she was the Flying Dutchman of seamen's fables; certainly, if not a miracle, it was a marvelous coincidence.

Airily I waved my hand at her, made some comment upon the fit of her sails or the like, and turned to enjoy with diabolic zest the expressions upon the faces of my envious confreres. This inexplicable happening made me a yachting authority on the World and firmly established my credit with a couple of Fifth Avenue tailors who were the guests of Jim Townsend, our Society Editor, that day. Also, it may teach young and aspiring cartoonists the value of signing their names in large plain letters so that they may get as much advertising as the owner of the paper.

After J. P. had, so to speak, erected the Statue of Liberty pedestal, I was called upon to design a new heading for the paper and substituted the figure of Liberty for the globe, Jay Gould's selection. This is the basis for a boast that although I left the paper in 1900, not a day has passed that I did not have a picture in the World.
McDougall's Statue of Liberty NY World Masthead

An exciting experience of that year of the Puritan-Genesta race was the blowing-up of Hell Gate, which operation it was feared would seriously jar the old town, but the jolt was as nothing compared to the awful Seeley Dinner. Seen from the press boat, it was only a majestic, foam-laced curtain with deeply serrated edges raised against the summer sky for perhaps two seconds and falling in dull thunder. Realizing the impossibility of drawing its outline correctly, my pencil flew automatically across the paper following the rising peaks of green water, but lo! when the picture was printed and afterward compared with the official photographs, my hasty sketch was found to correspond almost line for line!

This, of course, was purely accidental. The only man to whom the gift was given to draw accurately a scene merely glimpsed was Dan Smith, who came later upon the World to enormously raise the prestige and status of the downtrodden but patient toilers, not only by his piety and sobriety, the same being the son of a parson, but by his marvelous technique. He did not need to make sketches, this wizard of the pen and brush, one swift squint at the scene was enough. He is going strong still, but I wonder that our envy did not poison him in early life!

Among the many admirable qualities attributed to the mythical Joseph Pulitzer by his secretarial biographers who saw him through the larger end of the telescope, was a marvelous initiative. As a matter of hardpan fact, eager and energetic as he was, his genius was mainly evinced in his capacity for extracting loyal, hard work from his crew, and this was effected by office oratory of a sort I have never seen displayed by any other newspaper proprietor. I have known no other boss who personally infected his employees with fiery ardent energy; each one whom I have studied shot a jolt into his managing editor when and as needed, and left the transference of the enthusiasm to him. Thus Bennett, Dana, Hearst, Munsey and Wanamaker managed, and none of them was served as was J. P.

When he first came to New York, both he and Cockerill knew very definitely just what their policy was to be in order to electrify the corpse. A little gum-shoeing and thought sufficed to show them that all New York needed to set its monetary glands flowing was a daily dose of new, tingling sensations, and thenceforth the main demand was for novel and striking ideas. Circulation! Yet more Circulation! Big Ideas and more of them! And ideas were as plenty then as mushrooms in an Orange County pasture, being trampled underfoot unnoticed by the editors of the sedate, old-fogy papers, who thought that a bit of snappy personal repartee on the editorial page was a humdinger and that pictures, for instance, were degrading, if not actually improper.

Once, in a moment of pique, I went to Charles A. Dana in the Sun office and proposed to him that he take a plunge into illustration as J. P. was doing so effectively. He listened with increasing disgust plain upon his fine features, and when I paused, he almost shouted, pounding his desk vigorously:

"Splash the Sun with penny valentines! McDougall, I'd see the Sun in hell before I'd permit a frowzy woodcut to deface it!"

I sneaked to the door, opened it, and looked back at him across the big room; then my personal feelings overcame me and I retorted quite as loudly:

"It looks as if you'd be in hell if you don't!"

Then I slammed the door and almost fell downstairs in getting away from there. Dana came to using pictures ultimately, and very good pictures, but without any enthusiasm, yet he employed superior artists like C. J. Taylor, W. A. Rogers and Wilder. The trouble was that he would not splash and use penny valentine effects and J. P. took his scalp, although not without a long hard fight that left permanent scars on the hides of both. Some of the bitter personalities indulged in by the two able scrappers on their editorial pages would read now like a ruckus between two movie magnates, and the staffs of both sheets were kept in a constant state of expectation and delight.

J. P. always cherished in his heart a sincere if unacknowledged veneration for rank and family. This was probably atavistic, coming as he did from a land where rank meant all that is desirable but, to a peasant, unattainable. He showed this feeling by an exaggerated contempt for persons of wealth and standing, yet the truth is that he was moved by quite different feelings, a strong hunger for wealth, luxury, power, predominating over all other emotions. This was manifested many times by certain trivial circumstances in those days when I was in constant contact with him and studying his words and actions. These betrayed that he was moved by a keen desire to establish amicable relations with New York's Four Hundred and their guide and counselor, McAllister. This was the source of his keen interest in a heavily manned society page headed by James B. Townsend, aided by Gil van Tassel Sutphen, a pair of live wires who acquired the fluttering Town Topics only to sell it to old Col. Mann, who made a public nuisance of it for years. Townsend was the scion of an old New York family and knew everybody in town who owned a dress-suit. It was claimed that he was the first New Yorker to kiss the hand of the Infanta Eulalie on her arrival here, but I think Ward McAllister beat him to it by hours.

I am convinced that very few of the "Big Ideas" ever germinated in Pulitzer's harassed brain. I know that certain memorable achievements when first submitted as suggestions were greeted with scorn and often quite stubbornly opposed, and others of lesser importance, even trivial and silly schemes, such as Brisbane's proposed crusade against the cigarette or Grozier's plan to communicate with Mars, were hailed as genuine whales.

The Grozier idea was sprung at a conference at which I happened to be present, for I abhorred those time-wasting meetings and avoided them. E. A. Grozier, afterward the owner of the prosperous Boston Post, was city editor, and he proposed to signal to Mars by means of enormous letters of fire on the desert plains of Nevada or Arizona, signs that would make the blasé inhabitants of that distant planet sit up and take notice. Eddie had his scheme elaborated in detail and it impressed one and all. It was surely a Big Thing in Ideas.

The conference discussed the mechanical and physical difficulties, ways and means, costs and supply problems, with animation until, at last, in my irreverence for massed brain work, I threw a monkey wrench into the works by asking Grozier what language he would use on his colossal billboards, for, strange to say, nobody had thought of this important detail. There was a great silence.

"I'll tell you what I think!" I suggested in mock seriousness. "I'd make them in Hebrew letters, for there certainly must be Jews up there, and you'll get quick action."

J. P. fell back in his chair with a sudden spasm of genuine laughter, a rare event, and in a few minutes there was nothing left of the Mars idea but a pile of papers.

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Thursday, January 28, 2016

 

Death Valley Days Promo Comics



Page 2

Page 4


Here's an interesting promotional item from the radio show Death Valley Days, which was sponsored by 20 Mule Team Borax. Although there is no copyright evident on the 4-page 'comic section', it almost certainly dates from 1938. The new box for20 Mule Team is heralded on page four of the promo, and that gives me a way to date it. Checking on period advertising of the product, I find the old box in 1937 ads, and the new one in 1938 ads.

So what's actually intersting about this promo? Well, to me it's because the comic strips are signed by Fred Morgan. As you may recall from a long-ago Ink-Slinger Profile by Alex Jay, there has been some confusion regarding the biography of this supremely great editorial cartoonist. The problem stems from the fact that several other Fred Morgans, one a British painter, another a cartoonist who went by the working name F. R. Morgan.

Presuming that the above work is by the old Philadelphia Inquirer editorial cartoonist Fred Morgan, and the signature seems to bear that out, he seems to have still been working at the very advanced age (for those days) of either 73 or 78, depending on which offered birth date you believe, and certainly debunks one correspondent's belief that he died in 1932. Quite frankly, the quality of Morgan's work here tends to indicate a cartoonist who just doesn't really have their full chops anymore, but I'm surprised that an advertising agency of that era was working with an artist in his 70s.

Well, as a fellow who hopes to still be producing something worthwhile in my 70s, I say three cheers for Fred!



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Wednesday, January 27, 2016

 

Obscurity of the Day: Terry


In the 1930s Diana Thorne was becoming very well-regarded as an accomplished animal artist. Her favorite subjects were dogs, and she drew them for books, magazine covers, even taking commissions to make portraits of the dogs of the rich and famous. She was especially well-known for her childrens books, which she produced in great numbers.

Because of her increasing fame, it's not certain whether she approached the New York Herald-Tribune, or they approached her, to create a Sunday comic strip series. But one way or the other, she did create Terry, a Sunday-only strip about a dog (a terrier I presume).

Generally speaking, Thorne did not participate in the writing duties of her children's books, so I'm guessing there might have been an uncredited writer on Terry, but that also is unknown. What I do know is that the strip did not catch on (a common problem for the New York Herald-Tribune, which seems to have had a really ineffective marketing department), and Thorne probably decided pretty quickly that the strip was not worth her valuable time. Terry ran from March 5 1938 to February 25 1939, indicating that Thorne and the Herald-Tribune were perfectly fine with parting ways at the conclusion of a one-year contract.

For much more information on Diana Thorne, see this website.

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Tuesday, January 26, 2016

 

Ink-Slinger Profiles by Alex Jay: Arthur T. Williamson


Arthur T. Williamson was born in Kentucky in July 1869 according to the 1900 U.S. Federal Census. According to the 1870 census, Williamson was the only child of John, a grocer, and Alvinie. They resided in Paducah, Kentucky.

In 1880, Williamson, his mother, a dress maker, and her brother, John Hughes, resided in Chicago, Illinois, at 251 Western Avenue. Specific information about Williamson’s education and art training has not been found. The Lakeside Annual Directory of the City of Chicago (1887) had a listing for a “Williamson Arthur, engraver, bds. 104 Aberdeen”.


The Daily Inter Ocean (Chicago, Illinois), December 22, 1894 had an advertisement for its Sunday Christmas issue with two full-page illustrations by Williamson.

The Daily Inter Ocean, August 26, 1896, announced a new series to illustrated by Williamson.

Mr. Porter’s Letter.
The Inter Ocean prints today the first of a series of articles by Robert P. Porter. These articles will be profusely illustrated by Arthur T. Williamson, the well-known artist of Chicago. Mr. Porter, with his artist, has been commissioned to take a rapid run through the industrial regions of the West and Northwest and find out as far as possible the conditions with which trade, commerce, agriculture, and manufacturing are at present confronted, and faithfully report the same for the benefit of the readers of this journal. These articles will only deal with facts, and the illustrations, which will be of the best quality, are intended to add to their popularity….

…Mr. Porter and Mr. Williamson are now on a tour of the Northwest. They will visit the lumber and iron ore districts and make inquiry in the principal cities of Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, and on returning to Chicago will take up the same line of work in Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas….


The Cook County, Illinois, Marriage Index, at Ancestry.com, recorded Williamson’s marriage to Bessie S. Crafton on October 25, 1897.

According to the 1900 census, Williamson’s address 3341 63rd Place in Chicago. His family included his wife, son, step-daughter and mother. Williamson’s occupation was designer.

The Holt County Sentinel (Oregon, Missouri), January 4, 1907, reported the death of Williamson’s son.

De Witt Williamson, aged 8 years, died in Chicago, Wednesday, January 2, 1907, from diphtheria. He was the only son of Arthur T. Williamson and wife. Mrs. Williamson was formerly Miss Bessie Soper, of this city. They have two daughters left, both of whom are down with the same disease. Their many friends here extend sincere sympathy to them in their hour of affliction, and hope that the children now sick with this dread disease, may recover.
Chicago business directories for the years 1903 to 1905 listed Williamson’s occupation as designer and address at 325 Dearborn. The 1909 directory said he was an artist in the Athenaeum Building at 26 Van Buren.

The Beacon Falls Rubber Shoe Company advertisement featured Williamson’s three-panel strip which ran in the Boot and Shoe Recorder, February 24, 1909, and The Shoe Retailer, March 20, 1909.



Williamson’s drawings of women appeared in the Inland Printer on September 1909; February 1910; and April 1910.

In the 1910 census, freelance artist and illustrator Williamson, his wife, daughter and mother resided at 3249 63rd Place in Chicago. Williamson’s studio was located on Van Buren in the 1910 to 1912 directories. The 1914 directory listed his studio at 537 South Dearborn.

Williamson illustrated the serial, My Lady of the North, which was published in 38 chapters in many newspapers including the Willmar Tribune (Minnesota).

The Dry Goods Reporter, February 27, 1915, announced the release of Williamson’s new product. 

Here Are the Lucky Dits

“The Lucky Dit” is a statuette in art bronze, grotesque in figure but benevolent in aspect and occult in its powers. It was designed by Arthur Williamson, a Chicago artist, and its presence is

Arthur Williamson, Chicago artist, and its presence is said to bring good luck to its owner, and it is guaranteed to be an expert gloom chaser....


The Chicago Daily Tribune, June 4, 1915, published a death notice for Williamson’s mother who died the previous day.

American Newspaper Comics (2012) said Williamson produced The Truly Travelers, for the Chicago Herald, from September 19 to October 31, 1915.

Williamson’s home address remained the same in the 1920 census which said he was a magazine illustrator. The status and whereabouts of Williamson and his family after the census are unknown. Two of his paintings can be viewed here and here.

—Alex Jay

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