"It's like working in a Bruce McCall illustration," thought the master of the obscure reference, waiting for a tour of the new Sun-Times space at the Old Post Office to begin last October.
For those who weren't raised on the National Lampoon in the 1970s, McCall, a Canadian-born artist who died Friday, built his oeuvre upon the inherent humor of the enormous — vast interior spaces, stupidly huge 1950s cars, Brobdingnagian ocean liners. He created "The Battling Buses of World War II," a parody of the bomber adventure worship popular at the time. McCall moved up from the Lampoon to the empyrean of The New Yorker, where his covers are masterpieces of the marriage of the monstrous and the detailed.
They reward careful examination. As does the Old Post Office. The lobby is gigantic, the hallways disappearing to the horizon. But upstairs, you look at your feet and the little square tiles are perfect. The walls are regularly graced with either historic mail photographs, or animal shots, all artful black and white. Nothing is slipshod. Someone spent a fortune. I was utterly charmed with the lux renovation of what once seemed a permanent white elephant. A corporate Xanadu, with countless grottos, niches, pool tables, bars, coffee shops, a health club, a rooftop deck. EGD glimpsed it when I visited Ferrara candy in April, but the tour was a closer look. Or maybe I just realized I get to come here whenever I like. "Will I?" I wondered. It seems a bit ass-backward for there to be this place where there's a great health club and rooftop chaise lounges and bars with pool tables and bocce ball and, oh yes, a fairly spartan room filled with computers where you can also go and work. Last time I visited, a few weeks back, I stayed for an hour, and was utterly alone. I can't imagine this arrangement lasting very long.
There were upsides. As much as I think synergy is a myth made up by real estate folks trying to sell radioactive downtown office space, the fact remains that, on my tour, I got to talking to a new WBEZ colleague I'd never met, and within five minutes we were planning newspaper events and brainstorming possible ideas.
Which came to absolutely nothing, as such bursts tend to do. But for a moment it seemed like progress was being made.
Speaking of which. After I conjured up McCall, I tried to interview him. I'd read his memoir, "Thin Ice: Coming of Age in Canada," and found it both well-done and disappointing. Well-done in that it had moments that resonated — he finds a crumple package of American cigarettes on the side of the road, and picks it up, yearning toward the boundless, appealing, frenetic country that seems just down the road. |
McCall's 83rd New Yorker cover |
And disappointing in that he never got to the National Lampoon part of his life, never mind The New Yorker part. It was like reading a book about Michelangelo as a child, before he picked up a chisel. Only after I reached out to McCall, last October, did I realize he had written a second memoir, "How Did I Get Here?" Didn't do my due diligence. So I read that while going back and forth with his people. He had people, which struck me as unusual for an elderly artist, and I sent them questions.
Reading the second memoir took the air out of my desire to talk to McCall. He'd worked on "Saturday Night Live" at its heyday. He drew more than 80 New Yorker covers. And yet ... it did not make him happy. Pretty miserable in fact. Bruce McCall reminded me that success can be overrated. Excellence and achievement can be no more sources of satisfaction than mediocrity and oblivion are. It's all in the interpretation. Or rather, to flip open "Paradise Lost" and quote John Milton: “The mind is its own place and, in itself can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven.”
These are the questions I sent to Bruce McCall last fall and he never answered. Looking at them now, and given his death, half a year away, I'm not surprised he didn't bother. Still, I think they're good questions, and I would have liked to hear his replies:
1. Throughout history, enormous buildings and interior spaces were associated with grandeur, or the divine. You discovered big also can be funny. How did that come about? Why are huge things funny? It seems to me you are mocking the unrestrained ambitions of the past, the desire to have too much of everything. Are you?
2. It's been years since I read "Thin Ice," but the image of you gazing in longing at that American cigarette pack at the side of the road has stayed with me. To what degree is your artistic perspective influenced by being Canadian?
3. I noticed that even though you said that Parkinson's has "ruined" your ability to draw and paint two years ago, you have had several covers printed — are these covers that were already in the New Yorker's pipeline, or do you manage to continue despite the disease? Is this a struggle you'd feel comfortable describing? Are there more on their way? Steig's style changed markedly as he aged. Have you considered factoring the deprecations of Parkinson's into future art, the way some artists have?
4. If you can't create artwork yourself, have you considered sharing ideas with other artists and having them render your concept?
5. How many covers have you done? Were you serious about being disappointed about not reaching William Steig's record. Many New York cartoonists can't manage a single cover — you've had about 80. That must be very satisfying. What makes a great cover? Any suggestions for those trying to sell their first?
6. We are in something of a golden age of appreciating illustration. Who were your heroes growing up? Who do you most admire now?
7. Have you made provisions for your work? Do you see it being donated to a museum, or is it all sold?
8. Are you familiar with AI image generators like DALL-E? They're garbage now, but hold out the potential to cut into the already shrinking market for illustration. Is that a cause of concern?