Dear James

Letters to a Young Illustrator

R. O. Blechman

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Year: 2009
• Print ISBN: 9781439136881
• eBook ISBN: 9781439148747
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Art Techniques
• Index: Literature

RENOWNED ARTIST R. O. BLECHMAN'S illustrations are instantly recognizable. For more than fifty years, his work has appeared on the covers of The New Yorker, run alongside op-eds in The New York Times, graced the pages of Harper's Bazaar, and, more recently, been featured on The Huffington Post, providing unspoken commentary on the world at large. In Dear James, Blechman has compiled all the wisdom he has accumulated over the course of his esteemed career into a series of poignant yet instructive letters written to an imagined young illustrator, "James." The result is a wise and mesmerizing meditation on creativity. Flush with wit and candor, Blechman's correspondence delves into his own trash can of false starts and failed beginnings, in addition to his artistic triumphs, to offer James both encouragement and criticism. He urges him to reach his potential as an artist, advising him on practical aspects -- proper technique, choice of work environments, dealing with editors -- and along the way provides invaluable insights on art, and life, that lay bare the challenges James will face as he aims to be successful in this demanding field. In the tradition of Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, Dear James is an indispensable tool for any up-and-coming creative person looking for advice and inspiration, as well as a memorable read for those daring enough to chase their dreams.

To Max

Dear James

January 20, 1984

Dear James,

Before commenting on the drawings you were kind enough to send me (or foolish enough—my tremulous line can sometimes cut and draw blood), I feel compelled to comment on your name. James. That speaks well for you. You’ve resisted the dreadful trend of reducing a perfectly good name to a sound bite. In going against the contemporary grain, in avoiding the crowd of Bobs and Bills, Tims and Toms, you have taken a different path than most people, and that is a good sign. All art worthy of its name has a counter look, has taken an errant path, one that others have not as yet taken—a path that a James might tread.

You write that you would like to become a professional illustrator. Beware. Your work will ultimately not be judged by your peers. It’s an editor, not an art director, who wields the almighty thumb in the savage arena of journalism. And editors are not noted for their visual taste. In the relationship of editors to art directors, the latter are invariably the junior partners. The very title, illustrator, implies the rank of the image. An image serves the text, it merely “illustrates” it. (A curious reversal of these roles occurred in the late 19th, early 20th centuries with the Parisian art dealer and publisher Ambroise Vollard. He often commissioned artists to provide visuals, then hired writers for the texts.)

A while back I wrote of the unequal relationship between writer and illustrator, and I can do no better than to repeat myself. If a text read, “‘Bill kissed Sally in the hammock as it swayed gently between the hemlocks,’ the illustrator’s job was to strictly render Bill kissing Sally in the hammock as it swayed gently (not vigorously!) between the hemlocks (not pines!). It was not for illustration to aspire to the status of literature, as Anton Chekhov described it: ‘The moon reflected in a piece of glass at the bottom of a stream.’ Illustration was the moon, period. Or the glass, period. Nothing less, and nothing more—no reflections, no distortions.”

That has changed. In the mid-fifties, a revolution occurred and a new word entered the vocabulary of commercial art. Concept. Illustrators asked themselves, “What’s the idea behind the text? How can we express an idea, and express it in a novel, and maybe even a startling way, that will expand, or comment upon the text?” In jazz parlance, a theme had become the occasion for a riff. Pranksters with our pens, we had become so many Charlie Parkers.

But the change was not entirely good. Our gain was also a loss.

The literal approach to text implied a literalness of technique and a high level of draftsmanship. There was great value in something well observed and carefully delineated. If the head and heart were often absent, there was something to be said for the presence of a hand.

Now, James, I have to pause and take a deep breath. It occurs to me that I’ve done everything except what you wanted me to do. Talk about your work. So I will answer your question. Finally. Let me say, as an overall comment, without going into details and very simply, that I like your work. I like its modesty. I like what’s not said that doesn’t need to be said. You get your ideas across with just enough to feed the eye as well as the mind. You draw a jacket and there are no buttons, no cuffs, no collar—but there it is: a jacket that reads as a jacket, and satisfies as a drawing. Its simplicity shows respect for the viewer. You don’t give more than what the mind needs, nor less than what the eye deserves. So bravo! Let’s see more.

A final word. If you send your work to the magazines, you may be in for a shock. You may get a rejection note. The worst kind. A printed form. And probably you will be shattered. Shattered. We artists are hypersensitive, or we wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—artists. But don’t, for God’s sake, do what I once did—try to find out if the signatures are real. They won’t be. I used to get rejection slips from The New Yorker, but stubborn, or silly, me, I kept sending them stuff. Although once—hallelujah!—I did receive a letter, a real one with a genuine signature. At least it looked genuine. I wasn’t sure. So I gave it what I call the spittle test. I licked my finger and ever-so-gently touched the edge of the signature. And it smudged! The y in Geraghty smudged! It was the real thing! The art director of The New Yorker, William Geraghty (or Geraght), had written twenty-three-year-old me to say that I should send him more work. Of course I didn’t. Why tempt fate when I had taken such a notable step up the career ladder?

But you may not get letters signed by art directors. You probably will get printed rejection slips. And as I’ve said, you will be shattered. It may have been the

OXFORD S-I414

We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it.

THE EDITORS

I

Look what escaped my trash basket!

third or fourth or thirteenth or fourteenth rejection slip that you’ve received, and you will think, No, I’m not going to waste any more twenty-cent stamps (twenty times two! There are all those self-addressed and stamped return envelopes), so I will not send out any more drawings.

So don’t. You can send them to me. But not right away. I have a crazy deadline that will keep me busy for another few weeks. And then you can send me more of your drawings. It’s not only your name I like. I like your work.

Best wishes,

R. O. Blechman

February 8, 1984

Dear James,

I’m sorry to learn that you’re thinking of leaving your job. If I were you, I would not do it. At least not right away. I realize that it’s boring, and often silly, and sometimes demeaning, and many times frustrating (the levels you have to go through to get something accepted . . . !). And who does finally present your work to the client? An account executive. His main function is to keep the client happy—not you, the copywriter, and not your creative twin the art director, but the client, whose feet would never get wet unless somebody else hadn’t first tested the water.

I know these things because I got to know them firsthand. Did you know that I was an art director for one silly year of my life? My boss was a guy who kept imploring me, “Bob, make it gross! Please! Gross!” (I swear it happened.)

But think of the advantages you now have, not just of the drawbacks. Every week or two, you get a salary that will pay for your rent, your dinners, your films, your concerts, and, most important of all, for the pens and pads and paints you’ll need for your real work.

You will also be freed of the grinding anxiety of worrying about when you’ll see your next check. But there’s a better reason to keep your job (and parenthetically, while I think of it, I want to say that the sillier you find the work, the freer you’ll be, and the freer you are, the more original you’ll be; not a bad thing). Now, the better reason to keep your job is that when you’re not working on your art—when you’re not thinking about it—your unconscious will be working on it. A great deal of A. E. Houseman’s poetry was composed when he was away from his desk. He habitually took a stroll for two or three hours a day. It was then, he remarked, that “sometimes a line or two of verse, sometimes a whole stanza at once,” would spring into his mind. Montaigne also found that many of his ideas occurred when he was away from his worktable. However, he complained, his best ideas came when he was on horseback, far from quill and parchment. You’ll find, James, that when you’re most relaxed, which is to say the least self-conscious, you’ll be your most creative.

Think of dance. If you worry too much about the steps, you’ll end up like the centipede when he was asked, “How in the world do you move all those legs?” The centipede was stumped. It was only when he forgot the question that he was able to move.

I speak some French. I speak it best when I forget that I’m speaking the language but rather, speaking to somebody who happens to be French. Otherwise I’m in danger of becoming like the centipede. All tied up.

Consider Georges Simenon, perhaps the most prolific writer who ever lived. He managed to write 84 detective novels and 130 other kinds of books, and used nearly 24 pen names. If you think that’s the only record he achieved, just think of this. By his own account—at least this is what he recorded in his memoir, Quand J’étais vieux— he bedded 20,000 women (he later revised it to 10,000). And he still had time to write? However, his ex-wife claims that it was more like 1,200 women. “[We] worked it out ourselves,” she said. “I suppose if you chase after it like a rabbit, anything is possible . . . !”

Don’t imagine that Simenon worked on a strict daily schedule. Far from it. In an entire year, no more than two months were devoted to writing. But his unconscious was at work. After several months away from his desk, he would get an idea, go to his study, lock the door, take out his typewriter, and two or three weeks later he would emerge—with a loud Oooph and a long manuscript.

Guilt also contributed to his extraordinary productivity. The guilt of not doing, for such long periods, what he so desperately wanted to do. In fairness to Simenon’s phenomenal output, it must be mentioned that he had other incentives to account for his hyperproductivity. Married three times, he had hefty alimonies to pay. He also had hefty expenses. He built a 26-room château on the banks of Lake Geneva, owned 5 cars, and amassed a vast collection of paintings including several Picassos, Légers, and Vlamincks. As if those were not sufficient motives to write, Simenon also signed contracts committing himself to several books a year. But above all, I believe, he wrote much, and he wrote well, because he wrote fitfully.

Finally—because I’ll run out of paper if I don’t stop—let me quote Hemingway, writing as a young man in Paris. “I knew . . . that I must write a novel. I would put it off until I could not help doing it. I was damned if I would write one because it was what I should do if we were to eat regularly. When I had to write it, then it would be the only thing to do and there would be no choice. Let the pressure build.”

Let the pressure build. And at 28. . . 38 . . . or whatever-8—everybody has his own time clock and some of them keep crazy time—the story, the poem, the painting, the drawing will burst out.

So don’t quit your job. Not yet. Write copy, and write it well. And then go home, pour yourself a drink, take off your shoes, and if you feel like it (and only if you feel like it), draw. Let your unconscious—your freer, better mind—do its work. Your drawing will be the richer for it.

I look forward to your next letter—and I want it written on Young & Rubicam letterhead.

All best wishes,

R. O. Blechman

P.S. I just came across a dandy letter from the English poet Philip Larkin about his double career as a full-time librarian and part-time poet (and what a fine poet he is!). I can’t resist quoting him.

“. . . any ‘artist’ with a profession is bound to have an ambivalent attitude towards it: One loves it sometimes for the same reason. I don’t think that, if one needs money, being an artist is sufficient excuse for shirking the job that feeds one, and I try to do mine conscientiously for that reason alone. . . . The best thing to do is to try to be utterly schizoid about it all—using each personality as a refuge from the other.”

I love that part about each being “a refuge from the other.” What a wonderful rationale for not being a full-time artist.

February 18, 1984

Dear James,

It may be a small matter, but I want to comment on something you may never have thought of as part of your drawing. Your signature. It should be as carefully considered as anything else you put your pen to. How it looks, and where it’s placed, are important to the drawing’s overall design.

Look at the work of Saul Steinberg—and I could refer you to any number of other artists. You’ll see how he uses his signature as an integral element of the drawing. At times he won’t even sign his last name. He’ll use only the first letters, ST. And he’ll place it horizontally, diagonally, midway in the drawing, underlined, undated, and if dated, abbreviated or unabbreviated. His eye, and his eye alone, dictated how his signature had to look and where it was to sit.

In the beginning of his career, he probably signed his drawings the way he signed his letters and checks. I should know. I once had occasion to hear from him. It was 1947. I was a seventeen-year-old college freshman, with all the naïveté and presumption of a teenager. Having long admired his cartoons in the New York newspaper, PM, I wrote to ask him for a drawing, “inscribed to me, please.” As it happened, it was several months before I received an answer. Intervening were Mrs. Dalloway, the foreign policy of John Quincy Adams, and slide lectures in Fine Arts 101, where a flustered Professor Clapp once hastily withdrew his pointer from Nike’s left breast. Then, quite unexpectedly, a package ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• How to tell a What from a Why
• Credits
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author