It develops some cartoonists are like their work, and some are not. The “why” is always the niggling thing of anything—the endless “why” that people love to diddle with in their heads. Why is Garbo mysterious and Sophia Loren not? Why was Paris fashionable in the nineteenth century, and a dull bore in the twentieth?
To get further, what is the reader like? The cartoonist has an immense curiosity to know. Dear reader, what are you like? I mean, what are you really like?
Boris Drucker for The New Yorker
George Price is like his work, but not like the people he draws,, whom he has observed carefully, and whom he deeply loves, or perhaps hates. They have become a full-blooded, consistent cast of characters through whom he conveys ideas about life. One can always count on them to say something pertinent on such subjects as Women's Lib, or ecology, which is surprising, since the whole awful crowd seem to stay in the kitchen most of the time with a monkey wrench and a can of beer. Yet Price is apparently able to express anything through them. I'm not sure if he's saying something antiquatedly sexist here, but apologize anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment