British Comic Drawing
I have before me the Christmas Number of Punch. After a conscientious perusal of its illustrated pages, I was led to think seriously about comic drawings. Punch has probably the largest circulation of comic papers, its position is undeniably established, it is, in fact, an institution in much the same way as the British Museum: we are accustomed to it, it exacts its quota of mirth from hundreds of thousands of people each week. It always contains some amusing things, but it is a pity that its drawings are not funnier. As comic drawings, most of them are quite valueless; they are not comic drawings but drawings of persons correctly portrayed in more or less amusing situations, the whole greatly helped by the wording beneath. Even the faces joined to the carefully-rendered bodies, with their carefully-drawn clothes (texture is felt here) and surroundings, are presented with the correct lines and expressions which a professor of physiognomy would connect with the various human emotions. The artist's personality behind these productions is rarely felt except as a stumbling-block to any progress of the absurd or whimsical. Mr. Max Beerbohm sums the matter up in his preface to a recent book of nonsense: "That a comic drawing should itself be comic seems to be a reasonable demand. Yet it is a demand which few comic draughtsmen meet. Comic drawings for the most part are but comic ideas seriously illustrated. We are shown an angry man who has just raised his stroke at golf; near him a caddie grinning behind his hand; and a view of the golf-links. Admirable! The man's stockings and knickerbockers, his cap, his collar, and tie are so rendered that a hosier would not blush to sign them. The drawing of the caddie's fingers would satisfy any drawing-master in any municipal art school. The treatment of the golf-links is faithful, sensitive, reverent. But—where does the fun come in? Through the text beneath maybe. But only for a moment. Out it goes, arrested, in the grip of the artist's firm and laborious hand."
Quite recently a friend of mine, whose drawings were more remarkable for their absurdity than for their strict draughtsmanship, attempted to obtain some work at the offices of one of our latest and most frivolous papers. The following conversation matured between him and the art editor:
Art Editor: These drawings are too queer for us, they won't go down over here.
Artist: How do you mean won't go down?
Art Editor: People don't understand them. They might do for France, but (mind you) they'd be queer even there.
Artist: Ah!
Art Editor: Now frankly (I hope you don't mind my being frank?)—(Artist: Not at all.)—You wouldn't say you could draw, would you?
Artist: I should not dare to be so presumptuous.
Art Editor: Well, these are the sort of drawings that children do in the suburbs of an evening.
Artist: Indeed!
Art Editor: Now, see here, in this drawing—you've only put three fingers on one hand. People notice that, you know. Now, if you could do us something like this (producing a third-rate imitation of Bateman figuring some gentleman of a pronounced Semitic type) we might be able to find you a job.
Artist: Well, I think I won't swell the ranks of people who are doing drawings of this kind.
Art Editor (surprised and suspicious): Ah, I'm sorry, I fear the drawings are no use to us, but I hope you don't mind my giving my opinion?
Artist: No, no, not at all. I shall value it. And now, please, how do I get out of this building?
Among the hosts of illustrators working for the comic papers there are very few comic artists and more artists than comedians. Punch would do well to relieve the monotony of its pages more often with the drawings of Mr. Bateman. There is a strength and subtlety in Mr. Bateman's line which places him far above other illustrators of this nature, while his knowledge and portrayal of types with the utmost economy of means is very stimulating: but then he can afford to be realistic also because he is above all a humorist. He possesses the faculty for letting himself go. Mr. George Morrow pleases us frequently by his gentle humour, and Mr. Haselden, a remarkable man, sustains our daily interest in the Daily Mirror. Mr. Heath Robinson is a master of whimsical invention, but I am not certain if he is not a very skilful engineer and mechanician in disguise—but certainly ingeniously disguised. Of the too regular contributors to Punch very little need be said, and of the illustrators of the cheaper comic publications still less: the best one can say of some of them is that they reproduce drawings from Continental papers. Between the extremes of academic respectability on the one hand and feeble vulgarity on the other there would seem to be no middle course. Our humorous papers are far below the level of such papers as the German Jugend or Simplicissimus, or the French Le Rire. One feels that their draughtsmanship is more simple and effective and their humour more spontaneous. This is not a plea for mere savagery of caricature, which appears foreign to our national temperament. But what a relief it would be if one fine week Punch went quite mad and appeared with its print upside down, or, better still, no print at all, and if all the artists gave free rein to whatever absurdity possessed them that week!