Stripper's Guide

Thursday, October 29 1908 -- Election's coming down to the wire, and it looks like New York state may well cast the deciding vote between Bryan and Taft. Take a close look at this cartoon and you'll see that Heriman didn't just do his everyday noodling and crosshatching.

Labels: Herriman's LA Examiner Cartoons

Chapter Seven (Part 2) - NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR



We were, no doubt, raw and often showed a lack of taste in the choice of subjects, things getting by that today would throw the School of Journalism into convulsions. We were young and newspaper ethics had not been codified. The episode of the act of sacrilege upon the Supreme Court of the United States is an illustration of our thoughtless ignorance. I wandered into the courtroom one day while in Washington, and, perhaps in order to keep awake, sketched all of the solemn justices in a row as they sat there in preternatural dignity and ugliness, gravely chewing fine-cut and affecting to be listening to an intricate argument that was as benumbing as a shot of morphine. I sent the picture to New York and it was printed, as nobody knew or cared about the dignity of the Supreme Court on Newspaper Row. Then came the deluge! We had committed lese-majesty, treason, barratry, tort, malfeasance, subrogation, blasphemy, scurrility, impiety and contempt of court, and from all quarters came demands for summary punishment. We, who had never suspected that the Supreme Court was human, if we ever thought about the august body at all, now found that it was as sensitive to caricature as a flea is to insect-powder.

The World was compelled to publish an abject apology and I had to listen to a lecture by one of the justices on an off day that took the wave out of my hair and made a better man of me.

I have had editors demand impossibilities; one asked for a drawing showing all four sides of a building at once, and it took an hour to convince him that such a thing was impossible. It was not until the hectic days of Emory Foster, a rum-inspired lightning-change performer, that editors began to dabble earnestly in Art. He was a city editor who, in the mad struggle for novelty and variety, inaugurated the "diagram-picture," a form of illustration in which the body of the suicide who leaped from the twentieth story was shown in six postures, each more convulsive than the preceding, all connected by dotted lines, like a Butterick paper-pattern, and the principal feature being a large "white cross marking the spot" on the pavement where the descent ended. Brisbane managed somehow to obtain a measure of credit for having a hand in this startling art-novelty, as he did later in the short-lived brainstorm during which pictures were extorted from distracted artists in the shape of triangles, tetrahedrons and other geometrical shapes without any regard to their matter whatever. During that spasm the poor artists suffered all the agonies of a modern crossword-puzzle addict, and their mental tortures laid the seed of dementia and megalomania in many an overtaxed brain, although it is probable that few of them realized the cause of their permanent disablement.

Foster's invention of the diagram inspired others to imitation, and was, likely enough, responsible for the sudden acute dip toward "Cubist" Art and its subsequent paretic forms of self-expression with which some of these artists became infected. George B. Luks, now a famous painter, then an ingenuous, innocent bucolic like Roy McCardell, scarce knowing evil from an ice-cream cone, was captured in the jungles of Philadelphia during this disturbance and, dazed, blinded and auto intoxicated by the glitter, rush and uproar of a lively city, fell an easy victim to the new art, and eventually the time came when he was referring to all of us who drew straight lines and used perspective rightly, as "T-square" and "Tracing-paper artists," and claiming that a heavy deposit of dandruff gave tone to a picture.

The moment a new editor got his desk in order, he sent for the art manager and confided to him his plans for improving the pictorial output, sat up nights devising new, unheard-of horrors in the way of "layout," and helped to create the still-prevalent myth that artists, like prima donnas, are difficult to "manage." The same process was gone through in later times when the once attractive photographic section was gradually debased and commercialized down to a deadly dull level of mediocrity and banality, and "the cross that marks the spot" is succeeded by the caption-writer's reminder to "note the hungry lion in the foreground devouring the elephant," with, in addition, a large white arrow.

When Col. Charles H. Jones, the St. Louis word-wizard, vamped J. P. into putting him into the managing editor's chair, he was a pompous half-portion with the verbal output of an Atlantic City auctioneer who became inflated to the dimensions of a Zeppelin on attaining this position, rattling around in his widened orbit like a twenty-two-caliber cartridge in a fourteen-inch gun until he was pushed out into the open spaces. He was an exception to J. P.'s usual catches, which were, in the main, all tall, lean and with a tendency to flat feet like himself. Col. Jones informed me before he had been many minutes in the office that he intended to "publish four-column cartoons and compel the elevated railroad to run all night." When in my confusion I informed him that both these details had long before been attended to and were now permanent fixtures in the metropolis, he was actually astonished and was only convinced by ocular evidence.

Once Morrill Goddard, when editing the Sunday World, told me that he contemplated killing the "Yellow Kid" feature with which Dick Outcault, later the creator of "Buster Brown," had been rollicking for two or three weeks, on the ground of "lack of humor."

"Lack of humor in whom?" I demanded. "You, or Outcault?"

My protest retained the feature for another fortnight, when the popular voice proclaimed it the first of the great comic-supplement successes. Arkell, owner of Judge, voiced his doubts to me one day as to the value of "Zim" to that weekly, and when I warmly assured him that Zimmerman was his one best bet, to lose whom spelled a total loss, this astute businessman needed strong arguments before he was convinced.

William R. Hearst, in his daily contact with his fellows, effectually conceals any sense of humor, yet he has been the most successful of all newspaper proprietors in establishing a stable of funny-picture makers and in retaining them in docile contentment for a protracted period, with the exception of Rudolph Dirks and Bud Fisher, both of whom he trapped when very young but lost at the end of their adolescence.

I have fancied that Hearst is, at heart, more deeply interested in his comic-art department than in any of his numerous enterprises, either political or journalistic. He had not been successful in discovering another embryo cartoonist as potential in circulation-getting as was Davenport in his heyday; his three great headliners, Powers, Opper and McCay, were captured from the enemy in the fullness of their glory, and he had no hand in developing their talents. It must be a source of gratification in his declining years that his solicitous care of his galaxy of pictorial stars has been rewarded in far greater measure than have his political endeavors, for the "Katzenjammer Kids," "Happy Hooligan," "Krazy Kat," "Jimmy" and "Bringing up Father" were all germinated in his hothouse of hilarity and brought to fruition by him, with the assistance of Rudolph Block ("Bruno Lessing").

I have to my own credit the distinction of making for Hearst's American the two largest cartoons ever printed in newspapers, double pages in colors, in 1898, as well as another singular circumstance. This was that on the Sunday on which I departed from New York, after a short period of general free-lancing, the colored front page of the World, the Herald and the American were each my handiwork. It was a fitting farewell!

Conan Doyle on his first visit to America came with a letter of introduction to Edward S. Van Zile, then on our editorial staff, and Van Zile, after a time, brought him down to my room. Doyle was a ruddy-cheeked, brown-mustached, stoutish Briton, rather inexpressive, it seemed, but eagerly lapping up all the praise that his Sherlock Holmes stories were eliciting. Van rather cruelly left the popular but somewhat stodgy author for me to entertain awhile. Others came in, three or four, and the slight tenseness which Doyle's stiffness always produced had materially lessened when Bill Nye entered and, without preface, said:

"I hear that Conan Doyle is upstairs with Van Zile!"

"So I understand," I answered, winking at Doyle, who smiled, modestly expectant.

"Well, he must be a fast traveler!" drawled Bill. "He only landed last Saturday, and I heard of him in Connecticut yesterday! I was in Waterford, where I had dealings with a man named Riordan. This man said to me: 'Sherlock Holmes is here in town.'

"'How do you know that?' I asked.

"'It's like this,' he explained. 'You see that sign, "Riordan R. Riordan," over the door? Well, this fella reads that and says he:

"May I arsk what the middle 'R' stands for?" and when I says: "Riordan, sor," he smiles wisely and says: "Riordan Riordan Riordan. I should judge, sor, that you was Irish." And then I knew he was Sherlock Holmes!'"

We all laughed except Doyle, who did not seem to see anything to laugh at, and then I rather dramatically introduced Bill to him. Poor Nye reddened and squirmed in distress, for he was as gentle as spring lamb, and he muttered some feeble phrases, rather mystifying the placid author, and then hastened out.

Doyle lost much of his insular stuffiness in later years. At that time he was the typical slightly suspicious but rather inflated British author. Invited to a dinner at Montclair, he checked his suitcase and it was carried on to a distant station. Finding it temporarily lost and that he could not "change" for the dinner, he refused to appear in his everyday attire and remained in his bedroom. As a natural result an element of hilarity was added to the cheerful occasion of which he remained oblivious, but I suppose Doyle consoled himself with the thought that he had taught the provincials a lesson.

Edgar Wilson Nye's quaintly twisted expressions and oddly worded paragraphs had been lighting Puck for a number of weeks when J. P.'s attention was turned to them and he suggested that I go out to Laramie, Wyoming, where Nye was publishing a little sheet called the Boomerang, but something prevented the journey and Nye was induced to come East by a letter from Cockerill. He proved to be a tall, well-built man with myopic blue eyes, eight years my elder, with a lounging gait, seemingly stooped from a habit of bending down to lesser mortals, and a sweet, wry smile. We came to be very intimate, partners, in truth, in his weekly articles syndicated by the American Press Association, for nine or ten years. He came, as did his lecturing partner, James Whitcomb Riley, to my home in Newark almost weekly, and I lived with him in North Carolina for months. Yet, close as was our daily contact, Bill concealed from me his one failing.

I had seen him in company with the most expert booze-absorbers of the metropolis, such as Nat Goodwin, Barrymore, Fred. Dey, Riley, Jeremiah Curtin, then our foreign telegraph editor and afterward the prosperous translator of "Quo Vadis," Herman Oelrichs, Clay M. Greene, Ham Marshall, Bill Gilder, Cockerill and dozens of others, but I had never seen him drink anything but beer, and only after his tragic end did I learn that he was one of the rather rare class of “periodics." And this was the one defect he had always complained of in James Whitcomb Riley, but Jim's weakness was proverbial.

Nye looked, spoke and acted like a humorist, and, withal, he was lovable; often really witty, he was rarely satirical. His daily portrait made his face the best-known in town. Often in his lectures, which I attended whenever possible, he complained with mock seriousness that I drew his head without hair in order to avoid work, and as often referred to me in various ways as sleeping in my office instead of putting in time studying his features. I once drew his head on an envelope, stamped it, and he received it within a few hours.

Bill Nye and Julian Hawthorne, alike in soul, devoid of affectation or conceit, diffident, shy of strangers yet compelled alike to meet them with a pretense of geniality secretly abhorrent, made my room their daily lounging place—and that brought many others there. Nye was more loquacious than Hawthorne, far more whimsical, as deep and straight a thinker, both were merry, wholesome souls. After Bill had been lecturing for a period with Riley, who was a natural actor as well as a poet and an A-1 sign-painter, he began to apply an acquired, dry platform tone to his daily speech and we watched with secret awe the transformation of a raw country editor into a cosmopolitan "raccoonter," as Nye called it. Yet he never succeeded in looking like a city man.

Hawthorne was an extremely handsome man, a perfect athlete, walking many miles daily, and a connoisseur in gastronomy. He had Thackeray's keen delight in bills of fare and wine lists, and wrote with sincere feeling upon the delectable dishes he discovered here and there, in a way that made dyspeptics gnash their teeth. Nye's appetite was almost equal to Julian's, but untrained; he was in the "corned-beef-and" class, yet he swiftly adapted himself to the viands at Delmonico's and the Waldorf and often used French culinary terms with reckless abandon. Hawthorne would describe certain dishes so vividly and alluringly that the hungry Nye would suggest that we adjourn to Nash and Crook's, in the Times Building, and sample the dainty at his expense. Yet his canniness was such that I have suspected him to be well aware of the confidence game.

Hawthorne told us once that when a boy, after walking many miles, he found fourteen pies in his mother's pantry and ate them all. Upon which Nye sighed and said: "I hope she made you go without your supper for your greediness!"

Julian was low-voiced, yet impressive; with a partiality for the supernatural and occult. I have listened to him and John Habberton for hours as they recounted tales of weird happenings; both of them with less erudition might have been Spiritualists of the Brisbane type, but I think their interest in the Unseen was purely literary.

I fancy that Hawthorne found in the flippancy of Nye's and my conversation a sort of mental anesthetic. I have never known two such gentle, manly, undefiled souls, yet both were overwhelmed by heartbreaking disasters; Nye's career was meteoric, as it were, Julian's lasted thirty years, yet, as in New York a decade is as a generation, I find both men already dim memories, mere names.

Mark Twain was decidedly jealous of Nye, who, despite the uncouth presentment by which I made his figure known, was dignified and attractive, his gravity in delightful contrast to the absurd quaintness of his diction. Clemens always managed to avoid meeting Nye, and when compelled to by circumstances he was none too amiable.

Riley had a marvelous knack of making his audience laugh or cry at his will. Nye envied him this deft command of pathos, essaying on several occasions to attempt the feat himself with various devices, but his audiences invariably thought they had missed the joke and laughed uproariously at his conclusion, to Nye's disgust and Jim's glee, and Bill resigned himself to being merely funny.

For a short time our intimacy, and almost our business connection, was shadowed by one of those peculiar and silly accidents that so often ruin friendships. A Miss Elizabeth Tompkins, a writer on horse-society topics, had thoughtlessly asserted, in a Southern paper, that Nye's fame was due to my pictures, a statement the absurdity of which was perfectly manifest but which was copied and came under Nye's eye. He was led, somehow, to believe that I was responsible for Miss Tompkins' expression of opinion, and while a natural resentment tingled he was moved to demonstrate that his repute did not rest upon one artist. He turned over the illustrating of his "History of the World" to Fred. Opper, depriving me of a goodly sum of money. His sense of injury, however, did not interfere with our syndicate relations, and in time he managed to forgive me for knowing the lady, which was my only real offense.

In '94 or '95 or thereabout, Bill made the acquaintance of Paul Potter, once editor of Town Topics, a playwright who collaborated with him in the production of "The Cadi," a Sybarite with an unlimited capacity for alcohol, whose influence was soon visible. There was evidently no disputing over the question of drinking between the two, as had been the case when Riley was with him, each correcting and sustaining the other, but the result was far worse. Suspecting nothing, I laid poor Bill's more and more frequent absences and other derelictions to illness.

I have always drank on occasions—in fact, on all occasions—but, luckily, never felt the need or desire to get drunk, nor can I comprehend the desire in others. Even now, in old age, I fail to appreciate the strength of this craving. So it was with a shock that I read in the Sun that Nye had lectured in a Paterson church while intoxicated and had been assailed with rotten eggs by the enraged members of the congregation while on his way to the train.

He lived but a few months after the dreadful expose. All unused to criticism, sensitive as a flower, tender of any comment but the praiseful, he withered in the searing blast. With the publication of the story, all his contracts for lectures were canceled, and I verily believe that he died of a broken heart. It is a singular fact that the Sun, which alone published an account of the deplorable incident, has always been distinguished for the alacrity with which it seizes upon the mishaps and peccadillos of newspaper men and gives them publicity.

Nye left a large fortune, which his widow soon lost. Had he lived, he might have come near to shadowing Mark Twain's repute, but his flame was quenched at the age of forty-eight. Riley lived, conquering his weakness, until 1916. I have a letter from him dated only a day or two before his death. Both were sweetly, jovially companionable, devoid of malice or envy, and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. As any medieval Roman Catholic would solemnly affirm, things were dull in heaven and the Almighty took Bill for company. Jim and I were spared to repent.

Labels: McDougall's This Is The Life

For today's post, we have a guest writer! John Lund is a big fan of the obscure strip Dick and Jane by Chuck Roth, and wrote me with a lot of detailed information, and even provided the samples you see above. So, take it away John ...

I am writing to tell you that I went to The University Of Massachusetts Amherst library to see a copy of your book, “American Newspaper Comics: An Encyclopedic Reference Guide.” The night before, I did research on the title and author of the book, checked to see if it was at the university, and wrote down the code number, to save time before I arrived. Sources said that this book covers pretty much every U.S. newspaper comic strip, and what little I've read of people's reviews at Amazon.com, it sounded to me like a reference book, a type of source I enjoy.

Mainly, I was curious to see if it mentioned one of my all-time favorite obscure comic strips, “Dick And Jane.” Sure enough, I found that it was mentioned, but was surprised to see my name mentioned as well, something I didn't expect. It also mentioned a fanzine called “The Funnies Paper,” which I received in the mail back in the later 1980's.

I am writing to update information about the “Dick And Jane” comic strip. I eventually came to the conclusion that it is likely that daily episodes from February 4 to March 16, 1985 likely never existed. The reason I came to this conclusion about the end dates of “Dick And Jane” is because, eventually, I found out about some other comic strips that had their Sunday runs end on a different week than when their daily runs ended. One example is “U.S. Acres,” which ended its daily run on April 15, 1989 and its Sunday run on May 7 that same year. The run of the “Dick And Jane” comic strip series is likely this: daily strips – March 5, 1984 through February 2, 1985, and Sunday strips – March 4, 1984 through March 10, 1985.

I am positive that the last Sunday strip is March 10, 1985, because The Arizona Daily Star seemed to have published every later Sunday episode, and did not seem to publish it beyond this date. Also, another Sunday paper, The Lincoln Journal-Star, seemed to have stopped publishing the Sunday run on the same date. As for the end of the daily run, this date is likely February 2, 1985, the last daily episode that appeared in The Lincoln Journal. By 1985, it seems that “Dick And Jane” appeared in fewer newspapers, although it appeared into 1985 in the Journal. It is likely because they began to run “Dick And Jane” on October 22, 1984—later in the strip's run. If most papers began to run “Dick And Jane” earlier, I find this quite unusual that the Journal began it later.

Other newspapers that ran “Dick And Jane” were: The Boston Herald (March 4, 1984 – December 23, 1984, except for the Sunday episodes of August 5, September 9, and November 18); The Springfield Evening Daily News (April 2, 1984 – September 29, 1984, except for May 28, July 4, and September 3); The Springfield Sunday Republican (May 27 – September 23, 1984, except for June 24 and August 19); The Columbus Republic (Editor & Publisher of May 12, 1984, says that this comic and “The Neighborhood” were published in large size in this newspaper at the time); the Tampa Tribune (according to Jim Ellwanger at the rec.arts.comics.strips newsgroup); the Sacramento Union (dropped the strip in early December 1984, and carried it Sundays as well); Colorado Springs Gazette-Telegraph (ran it on Sundays around November 1984, to my knowledge); Winnipeg Free Press (ran it on Sundays from April 8 through September 2, 1984 in three-row format—including the picture of the schoolhouse next to the title); The Philadelphia Inquirer; Detroit News; and The Dallas Times-Herald (about the last two newspapers mentioned, it is unknown to me if the comic ran at all in them).

I also have some information about the cartoonist who did “Dick And Jane,” Chuck Roth. For many years, he ran a greeting card company called Roth Greeting Card Company in southern California and a design company called Roth International, probably until about the somewhat later 1980's. I also have an idea when he was born and when he died. According to records that I've found on a few websites that seem to match, he was apparently born on January 28, 1921 (though one source says February) and died on January 1, 1989. Some of these same records indicate that he was born in Canada (or specifically in Toronto), and died in Thousand Oaks, Ventura County, California. One record also mentions about a “civil” on the date of October 14, 1949, whatever a “civil” is. Perhaps when he became a U.S. citizen? Some records even mention his Social Security number, although one record that I find odd is that the state SSN issue is New Mexico, although he lived in California. These records refer to him as Charles Roth, or sometimes Charles Sollie Roth, and also say that his mother's maiden name is Zilberman. I was able to find an article about how he died, of which I have a photocopy. It said that he was suffering a heart attack, but did not want to bother the paramedics, so he attempted to drive himself to the hospital, but died before he could get there.

I first saw the “Dick And Jane” comic strip two weeks after it debuted, discovering it in The Boston Herald. I instantly took a great liking to it. I became such a big fan, in fact, that I actually remember what happened in every last episode for each date. I collected “Dick And Jane” mostly from The Boston Herald, but had to get a couple of the Sunday strips from The Sunday Republican, three daily strips (July 23-25, 1984) with dates whited out in The Boston Herald from Sacramento Union microfilms, plus one that had a printing glitch (August 1, 1984) in The Boston Herald from The Sacramento Union as well, and, whatever daily strips that did not appear in The Herald, I got from microfilm of The Lincoln Journal, and Sunday strips not from my local area at all from microfilms of The Arizona Daily Star.


The comic strip started out with four characters: Dick, Jane, little Sally, and Spot. At the end of the strip's run, it had five characters. Puff was introduced on November 25, 1984.

I am disappointed that CARTOONIST PROfiles never published any articles about “Dick And Jane” or its cartoonist Chuck Roth. I would have loved to find out more about both of them. The only promo article that I know of was in the March 24, 1984, edition of “Editor & Publisher.” They even had a picture of Chuck Roth.
 
I have been doing some work on my own website, uploading some comic strip episodes that I created myself. If you're curious, the website address is http://www.johnlundscomics.com. 

Thank you John for a  great (and very complete!) write-up about Dick and Jane!

Labels: Obscurities

Katherine L. McKinsey was born in Maryland in November 1891 according to the 1900 U.S. Federal Census. She was the fourth of five children born to Folger, a newspaper editor, and Fannie. The family resided in Baltimore at 3014 Baker Street.

In the 1910 census the family lived on a farm in Anne Arundel County, Maryland on Baltimore and Annapolis Road. McKinsey was unemployed.

Baltimore city directories for the years 1914 and 195 listed McKinsey working at the Baltimore Sun newspaper. Beginning November 11, 1917, McKinsey was editor of the Sun’s Yarns for Youngsters Sunday page.

McKinsey continued to live with her parents as recorded in the 1920 census. Their address was 3401 Holmes Avenue in Baltimore. McKinsey’s occupation was assistant Sunday editor. 

McKinsey was enrolled at the University of Maryland’s law school, and in John Hopkins University’s Russian language class.

The Sun began publishing Clarence R. Gettier’s From Sue to Lou, with Love on August 1, 1920. McKinsey’s byline appeared on the strip from October 17, 1920 to September 11, 1921.

10/17/1920

According to the Baltimore Death Index, McKinsey passed away February 23, 1923.

Labels: Ink-Slinger Profiles

Clarence Gettier, probably 1928

Clarence R. Gettier was born in Baltimore, Maryland, on June 22, 1891, according to his World War II draft card which also noted that he had no middle name, just an initial. However, on Gettier’s World War I draft card was the middle name, Roadarmour.

In the 1900 U.S. Federal Census, Gettier was the oldest of two children born to Clarence F. and Callie. His father was a “builder”. The family resided on Liberty Road in Baltimore.

Gettier and his sister were in the household of his uncle, John F. Gettier, according to the 1910 census. The status of Gettier’s parents is not known. His uncle’s family had three children, a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. Everyone lived on Hamilton Avenue in Baltimore. Gettier’s occupation was “Block Artist” in the “News Co” industry.

A 1910 city directory listed Getteir’s occupation as glazier. According to a listing in the 1912 directory, Gettier was with the Baltimore Sun newspaper. The 1913 directory showed that artist Gettier was part of a family of artists, The Gettier Studios, which named the following members:

Gettier G Willmer, Manager, The Gettier Studios, Inc. 855 n Howard, Phone Mt Vernon 3306, h 1019 s Lanvale, Phone Gilmor 2175

Gettier John F pres. The Gettier Studios, Inc.

Gettier Lloyd M vice-pres. The Gettier Studios, Inc.

Gettier Studios The, Inc.
G Willmer Gettier, Manager, Art Glass Studios, Mural and Interior Decorations Etc. 855 n Howard, Phone Mt Vernon 3306 (See advt in Class Stained Glass)

In the 1917 American Art Annual, Gettier had this listing: “Gettier, C.R., Tudor Hall, Baltimore, Md. I.—Member: Char. C.” Gettier was also in the illustrators section of the annual. 

On June 5, 1917, Gettier signed his World War I draft card which said he was a Baltimore Sun artist. Gettier and his wife resided in Tudor Hall, Baltimore. He had three years of military school and the rank of private. His description was medium height and build with gray eyes and brown hair. Gettier was in Battery E of the 110th Field Artillery. He was included in the History of the Twenty-Ninth Division, “Blue and Gray,” 1917–1919.


The Sun, February 24, 1918, wrote:

Private Gettier used to draw pretty ladies for The Sun’s fashion pages. Gowns and hats that women were sure could have come from nowhere but Heaven came out of his bottle of India ink and flowed onto sheets of bristol board in delicate lines and curves. You’d think there could be no more final farewell to art than for an artist to become a private in a battery of field artillery, as Gettier did in Pikesville last summer. But when he stopped putting pen-and-ink clothes on pen-and-ink women he began putting masquerade costumes o three-inch field guns, and lo, it was all art! Camouflage.

Many of the feathery copse and autumn-tinted hillock in the Green Spring Valley Private Gettier had striven to recreate in paint and canvas, that the world might be a little happier for a bit of nature’s beauty reproduced. Now he was trying to recreate a small forest out of the forest’s own natural properties in order that the Hun might never know what him him.

The Sun, June 22, 1919, reported Corporal Gettier’s return home.

Newspaper artist Gettier and his wife, Mayme, lived at 3304 Bateman Avenue in Baltimore as enumerated in the 1920 census.

The American Printer, March 5, 1920, said Gettier was a new member of the Baltimore Advertising Club.

Labels: Ink-Slinger Profiles

From Sue to Lou, the weekly comic strip that featured stylish pretty girls, got a sort of a daily cheesecake supplement in September 1924*, when creator Clarence Gettier added Girligags to his repertoire. Although Girligags is set up like a lot of the 1920s 1-column flapper panels that were all the rage (Flapper Fanny, Flapper Filosofy, Oh Margy, The Boy Friend, Girliettes, etc.), it's no tired knock-off. Girligags might well have been the first of the breed, with most of the others debuting in the latter half of the Roaring Twenties.

Gettier's captions are of a singular sort, with the illustrated beauty always being named as part of the gag-line. The other unusual aspect of Girligags is that the drawings and the captions rarely have anything more than a glancing relation to each other. I suspect that this is because Gettier recycled artwork, but I must confess to being too lazy to put my theory to the test with a research project to find out for sure. Not that it would be the worst task in the world, because I quite enjoy taking in Gettier's leggy babes.

The panel was syndicated by Bell Syndicate to a relatively small client list. I'm not sure why Girligags never caught in a bigger way, but it evidently did well enough for Gettier's and Bell's taste; the feature lasted until March 18 1939, a very fine long run by anyone's standards, especially when you consider that it weathered all the worst years of the Great Depression in the process.

Actually, I do have one idea why Girligags lasted so long despite a dearth of clients. As early as 1926, Bell began to resell the backstock of the panels to Western Newspaper Union, which redistributed Girligags to its huge client list of rural papers. While you might not think that cartoons of winsome flappers showing off their stocking tops would go over all that well in the sticks, evidently you're wrong, because WNU resold Girligags for years and years, and those hayseed papers ran the cartoons by the droves ---  especially, I might add, showing a preference for the examples that had the gals showing off the most skin. 

* date based on a note in Dave Strickler's Syndicated Comic Strips & Creators; earliest I've seen is in October 1924. 

Labels: Obscurities