viernes, 19 de abril de 2019

James Joyce

James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
(1882 - 1941)

Irish novelist, noted for his experimental use of language in such works as Ulysses (1922) and Finnegans Wake (1939). During his career Joyce suffered from rejections from publishers, suppression by censors, attacks by critics, and misunderstanding by readers. From 1902 Joyce led a nomadic life, which perhaps reflected in his interest in the character of Odysseus. Although he spent long times in Paris, Trieste, Rome, and Zürich, with only occasional brief visit to Ireland, his native country remained basic to all his writings.

"But when the restraining influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the escape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. The mimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as the routine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad." (from Dubliners)

            James Joyce was born in Dublin. His father, John Stanislaus Joyce, was an impoverished gentleman, who had failed in a distillery business and tried all kinds of professions, including politics and tax collecting. Joyce's mother, Mary Jane Murray, was ten years younger than her husband. She was an accomplished pianist, whose life was dominated by the Roman Catholic Church and her husband. In spite of the poverty, the family struggled to maintain solid middle-class facade.

          From the age of six Joyce, was educated by Jesuits at Clongowes Wood College, at Clane, and then at Belvedere College in Dublin (1893-97). Later the author thanked Jesuits for teaching him to think straight, although he rejected their religious instructions. At school he once broke his glasses and was unable to do his lessons. This episode was recounted in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916). In 1898 he entered the University College, Dublin, where he found his early inspirations from the works of Henrik Ibsen, St.Thomas Aquinas and W. B. Yeats. Joyce's first publication was an essay on Ibsen's play When We Dead Awaken. It appeared in Fortnightly Review in 1900. At this time he began writing lyric poems.

           After graduation in 1902 the twenty-year-old Joyce went to Paris, where he worked as a journalist, teacher and in other occupations in difficult financial conditions. He spent in France a year, returning when a telegram arrived saying his mother was dying. Not long after her death, Joyce was traveling again. He left Dublin in 1904 with Nora Barnacle, a chambermaid (they married in 1931), staying in Pola, Austria-Hungary, and in Trieste, which was the world’s seventh busiest port. Joyce gave English lessons and talked about setting up an agency to sell Irish tweed. Refused a post teaching Italian literature in Dublin, he continued to live abroad.

           The Trieste years were nomadic, poverty-stricken, and productive. Joyce and Nora loved this cosmopolitan port city at the head of the Adriatic Sea, where they lived in a number of different addresses. During this period Joyce wrote most of Dubliners (1914), all of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the play, Exiles (1918), and large sections of Ulysses. Several of Joyce's siblings joined them, and two children, Giorgio and Lucia, were born. The children grew up speakin the Trieste dialect of Italian. Joyce and Nora stayed together althoug Joyce fell in love with Anny Schleimer, the daughter of an Austrian banker, and Roberto Prezioso, the editor of the newspaper Il Piccolo della Sera, tried to seduce Nora. After a short stint in Rome in 1906-07 as a bank clerk ended in illness, Joyce returned to Trieste.

           In 1907 Joyce published a collection of poems, Chamber Music. The title was suggested, as the author later stated, by the sound of urine tinkling into a prostitute's chamber pot. The poems have with their open vowels and repetitions such musical quality that many of them have been made into songs. "I have left my book, / I have left my room, / For I heard you singing / Through the gloom." Joyce himself had a fine tenor voice; he liked opera and bel canto.

           In 1909 Joyce opened a cinema in Dublin, but this affair failed and he was soon back in Trieste, still broke and working as a teacher, tweed salesman, journalist and lecturer. In 1912 he was in Ireland, trying to persuade Maunsel & Co to fulfill their contract to publish Dubliners. The work contained a series of short stories, dealing with the lives of ordinary people, youth, adolescence, young adulthood, and maturity. The last story, 'The Dead', was adapted into screen by John Huston in 1987.
           It was Joyce's last journey to his home country. However, he had became friends with Ezra Pound, who began to market his works. In 1916 appeared Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, an autobiographical novel. It apparently began as a quasi-biographical memoir entitled Stephen Herobetween 1904 and 1906. Only a fragment of the original manuscript has survived. The book follows the life of the protagonist, Stephen Dedalus, from childhood towards maturity, his education at University College, Dublin, and rebellion to free himself from the claims of family and Irish nationalism. Stephen takes religion seriously, and considers entering a seminary, but then also rejects Roman Catholicism. "– Look here, Cranly, he said. You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using my defence the only arms I allow myself to use – silence, exile, and cunning." At the end Stephen resolves to leave Ireland for Paris to encounter "the reality of experience". He wants to establish himself as a writer.

There once was a lounger named Stephen
Whose youth was most odd and uneven
He throuve on the smell
Of a horrible hell
That a Hottentot wouldn't believe in
(Joyce's limerick on the book's protagonist)

           At the outset of the First World War, Joyce moved with his family to Zürich, where Lenin and the poet essayist Tristan Tzara had found their refuge. Joyce's WW I years with the legendary Russian revolutionary and Tzara, who founded the dadaist movement at the Cabaret Voltaire, provide the basis for Tom Stoppard's play Travesties (1974).

           In Zürich Joyce started to develop the early chapters of Ulysses, which was first published in France, because of censorship troubles in the Great Britain and the United States, where the book became legally available 1933. The theme of jealousy was based partly on a story a former friend of Joyce told: he claimed that he had been sexually intimate with the author's wife, Nora, even while Joyce was courting her. Ulysses takes place on one day in Dublin (June 16, 1904) and reflected the classic work of Homer (fl. 9th or 8th century BC?).
          The main characters are Leopold Bloom, a Jewish advertising canvasser, his wife Molly, and Stephen Dedalus, the hero from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. They are intended to be modern counterparts of Telemachus, Ulysses, and Penelope. Barmaids are the famous Sirens. One of the models for Bloom was Ettore Schmitz (Italo Svevo), a novelist and businessman who was Joyce's student at the Berlitz school in Trieste. The story, using stream-of-consciousness technique, parallel the major events in Odysseus' journey home. However, Bloom's adventures are less heroic and his homecoming is less violent. Bloom makes his trip to the underworld by attending a funeral at Glasnevin Cemetary. "We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory." The paths of Stephen and Bloom cross and recross through the day. Joyce's technical innovations in the art of the novel include an extensive use of interior monologue; he used a complex network of symbolic parallels drawn from the mythology, history, and literature.

           From 1917 to 1930 Joyce endured several eye operations, being totally blind for short intervals. (According to tradition, Homer was also blind.) In March 1923 Joyce began in Paris his second major work, Finnegans Wake, suffering at the same time chronic eye troubles caused by glaucoma. The first segment of the novel appeared in Ford Madox Ford's transatlantic review in April 1924, as part of what Joyce called Work in ProgressWake occupied Joyce's time for the next sixteen years – its final version was completed late in 1938. A copy of the novel was present at Joyce's birthday celebration on February 1939.

          Joyce's daughter Lucia, born in Trieste in 1907, became Carl Jung´s patient in 1934. In her teens, she studied dance, and later The Paris Times praised her skills as choreocrapher, linguist, and performer. With her father she collaborated in Pomes Penyeach (1927), for which she did some illustrations. Lucia's great love was Samuel Beckett, who was not interested in her. In the 1930s, she started to behave erratically. At the Burghölz psychiatric clinic in Zürich, where Jung worked, she was diagnosed schizophrenic. Joyce was left bitter at Jung's analysis of his daughter – Jung thought she was too close with her father's psychic system. In revenge, Joyce played in Finnegans Wake with Jung's concepts of Animus and Anima. Lucia died in a mental hospital in Northampton, England, in 1982.

           After the fall of France in WWII, Joyce returned to Zürich, where he was taken ill. He was diagnosed of having a perforated duodenal ulcer. Joyce died after an operation, on January 13, 1941, still disappointed with the reception of Finnegans Wake, published on 4 May, 1939, by Faber and Faber. His last words were: "Does nobody understand?" Joyce was buried in Zürich at Fluntern cemetery.

           Finnegans Wake was the last and most revolutionary work of the author, partly based on Freud's dream psychology, Bruno's theory of the complementary but conflicting nature of opposites, and the cyclic theory of history of Giambattista Vico (1668-1744). There is not much plot or characters to speak of – the life of all human experience is viewed as fragmentary. Some critics considered the work masterpiece, though many readers found it incomprehensible. "The only demand I make of my reader," Joyce once told an interviewer, "is that he should devote his whole life to reading my works." When the American writer Max Eastman asked Joyce why the book was written in a very difficult style, Joyce replied: "To keep the critics busy for three hundred years." The novel presents the dreams and nightmares of H.C. Earwicker (Here Comes Everywhere) and his family, the wife and mother Anna Livia Plurabelle, the twins Shem/Jerry and Shaun/Kevin, and the daughter Issy, as they lie asleep throughout the night. In the frame of the minimal central story Joyce experiments with language, combines puns and foreign words with allusions to historical, psychological and religious cosmology. The characters turn up in hundreds of different forms – animal, vegetable and mineral. Transformations are as flexible as in Ovid's Metamorphoses. The last word in the book is 'the', which leads, by Joyce's ever recurrent cycles, to the opening word in the book, the eternal 'riverrun.'

           Although the events are set in the Dublin suburb of Chapelizod, the place is an analogy for everywhere else. Wake's structure follows the three stages of history as laid out by Vico: the Divine, the Heroic, and Human, followed period of flux, after which the cycle begins all over again: the last sentence in the work runs into the first. The title of the book is a compound of Finn MaCool, the Irish folk-hero who is supposed to return to life at some future date to become the savior of Ireland, and Tim Finnegan, the hero of music-hall ballad, who sprang to life in the middle of his own wake.


James Joyce Dies; Wrote 'Ulysses'


ZURICH, Switzerland, Monday, Jan 13- James Joyce, Irish author whose "Ulysses" was the center of one of the most bitter literary controversies of modern times, died in a hospital here early today despite the efforts of doctors to save him by blood transfusions. He would have been 59 years old Feb. 2.

Joyce underwent an intestinal operation Saturday afternoon at the Schwesternhaus von Rotenkreuz Hospital. For a time he appeared to be recovering. Only yesterday his son reported him to have been cheerful and apparently out of danger.

During the afternoon, however, the writer suffered a sudden relapse and sank rapidly. He died at 2:15 A.M. (8:15 P.M., Eastern standard time).

His wife and son were at the hospital when he died.

Hailed and Belittled by Critics

The status of James Joyce as a writer never could be determined in his lifetime. In the opinion of some critics, notably Edmund Wilson, he deserved to rank with the great innovators of literature as one whose influence upon other writers of his time was incalculable. On the other hand, there were critics like Max Eastman who gave him a place with Gertrude Stein and T.S. Eliot among the "Unintelligibles" and there was Professor Irving Babbitt of Harvard who dismissed his most widely read novel, "Ulysses," as one which only could have been written "in an advanced stage of psychic disintegration."

Originally published in 1922, "Ulysses" was not legally available in the United States until eleven years later, when United States Judge John Monro Woolsey handed down his famous decision to the effect that the book was not obscene. Hitherto the book had been smuggled in and sold at high prices by "bookleggers" and a violent critical battle had raged around it.

Judge Woolsey's Decision

"'Ulysses' is not an easy book to read or understand," Judge Woolsey wrote. "But there has been much written about it, and in order properly to approach the consideration of it it is advisable to read a number of other books which have now become its satellites. The study of "Ulysses" is therefore a heavy task.

"The reputation of 'Ulysses' in the literary world, however, warranted my taking such time as was necessary to enable me to satisfy myself as to the intent with which the book was written, for, of course, in any case where a book is claimed to be obscene it must first be determined whether the intent with which it was written was what is called, according to the usual phrase, pornographic, that is, written for the purpose of exploiting obscenity.

"If the conclusion is that the book is pornographic that is the end of the inquiry... But in 'Ulysses," in spite of its unusual frankness, I do not detect anywhere the leer of the sensualist. I hold, therefore, that it is not pornographic."

On the passages dealing with sex, Judge Woolsey paused to remark that the reader must not forget that "the characters are Celtic and the time is Spring." His decision was hailed as one of the most civilized ever propounded by an American judge. After he had admitted Ulysses to the country, there was a rush to but the almost immediately available authorized and uncensored edition published by Random House. Since then the book, unlike many another once banned by the censor and then forgotten, has been read widely; less for the passages once objected to than for the book as a whole.

Although Joyce appeared in many of his writings, "notably "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" and "Ulysses," as Stephen Dedalus, many details of his life are missing. The most comprehensive study is Herbert Gorman's biography published in 1940.

Was Born in Dublin

The writer was born Feb. 2, 1882, in Dublin, Ireland, the son of John Stanislaus Joyce (The Simon Dedalus of "Ulysses" whom Bloom hears singing in the Ormond bar) and Mary Murray Joyce. His father supposedly had one of the finest tenor voices in Ireland. James Joyce had an equally fine voice.

The Joyce family was not prosperous and it was large. James stood out among his brothers and sisters and, at the age of 9, is supposed to have written an attack on Tim Healy, the anti-Parnellite, which was printed but of which no known copy exists. Since he was literary it was decided to give him an education and he was sent first to Clongowes Wood College, then to Belvedere College, also in Ireland, and later he received his Bachelor of Arts degree from the Royal University in Dublin.

He was an amazing scholar, and an independent and solitary figure. When he was 17 he read Ibsen's plays and wrote an essay for the Fortnightly Review about the author of "The Doll's House." Dissatisfied with the English translations, Joyce learned Norwegian when he was 19 years old so that he might read his literary god in the original. At the same time he was reading and studying Dante, all the Elizabethan poets, St. Thomas Aquinas and Aristotle.

In those days, according to Padraic Colum, who knew him at the Royal University (later reorganized as the National University), Joyce was a tall, slender young man with "a Dantesque face and steely blue eyes," who sauntered along the street in a peaked tennis cap, soiled tennis shoes, carrying an ashplant for a cane. Stephen Dedalus carries a similar cane in "Ulysses" and frequently talks with it! He loved to sing and recite poetry in his fine tenor voice, but he spoke harshly and used "many of the unprintable words he got printed in 'Ulysses.'"

Conceit and arrogance were his characteristics. When he first met Yeats he remarked:

"We have met too late; you are too old to be influenced by me."

AE (George Russell) recognized his "keen and cold intelligence," but told the young man, "I'm afraid you have not enough chaos in you to make a world."

Joyce was in continuous rebellion against Ireland and its life and said: "When the soul of a man is born in this country there are no nets flung at it to hold it back from flight."

The words are Stephen Dedalus's in "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," but it was Joyce speaking, and, at the age of 20, he left Ireland for Paris where he intended, and for a time pretended, to study medicine.

At this time he started the stories that were eventually published as "Dubliners" (this book was later publicly burned in a Dublin public square) and started his first novel. This, the "Portrait of the Artist," was ten years in the writing. His first published work- except for the forgotten attack on Tim Healy- was "Chamber Music," a collection of Elizabethan-like verse, which were printed in 1907.

It was at this time that he met Nora Barnacle, "a sleek blond beauty" from Galway, the daughter of Thomas and Ann Healy Barnacle. They soon went to the continent to live (their marriage was not regularized until twenty-seven years later, when they visited a London registry office to legalize the status of their two children, George and Lucia). In Trieste, where they settled after some wandering, Joyce taught English at the Berlitz School and the Commercial Academy. He knew seventeen languages, ancient and modern, including Arabic, Sanskrit and Greek.

"Dubliners" Issued in 1914

In 1914 Dubliners was published in London. In the same year he also finished his novel "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."

When war was declared Joyce and his wife, who were British citizens, were in Austria. He was forced out of his job as a teacher, and the couple moved to Zurich.

While living in Zurich Joyce began to suffer from severe ocular illness and eventually underwent at least ten operations on his eyes. For years he was almost totally blind and much of his later writing was done with red crayon on huge white sheets of paper.

"Ulysses" was begun under this difficult situation. Much of it was published by Margaret Anderson in The Little Review, the magazine which Otto Kahn, New York banker, once subsidized for his Greenwich Village friends. Chapters appeared between March, 1918, and August, 1920, when the Society for the Suppression of Vice had The Review stopped by court order.

After the war the Joyces returned to Trieste, where they lived with Stanislaus Joyce, the author's brother. Then, in 1919, they went to Paris, where they made their home until the next war sent them again to Zurich to occupy the house they had known in 1914.

In 1922 Joyce's greatest book, "Ulysses," was published in Paris. Great Britain, Ireland and the United States banned the book.

For many years after "Ulysses" was done Joyce worked on what he called "Work in Progress." Much of it appeared in Transition, the magazine published in the Nineteen Twenties in Paris by Eugene Jolas. In May, 1939, it was published as "Finnegan's Wake," a book "distinguished" by such "words" as Goragorridgeorballyedpuhkalsom, to name one of the simpler ones, and many puns. In it Mr. Joyce suggested the book was the work of "a too pained whitelwit laden with the loot of learning."

During all his years as a writer Joyce was carefully protected by his wife, who once said she cared for him despite "his necessity to write those books no one can understand." His conversation was clear, never anything like his writing, and his wit as keen.

Joyce's son, George Joyce, married the former Miss Helen Castor of Long Branch, N.J. They had one son, Stephen James Joyce. James Joyce and his wife made their home with his son for many years before the present war.

For further reading: James Joyce by Herbert Gorman (1939); Introducing James Joyce, ed. by T.S. Eliot (1942); Stephen Hero, ed. by Theodore Spencer (1944); James Joyce by W.Y. Tindall (1950); Joyce: The Man, the Reputation, the Work by M. Maglaner and R.M. Kain (1956); Dublin's Joyce by Hugh Kenner (1956); My Brtother's Keeper by S. Joyce (1958); James Joyce by Richard Ellmann (1959); A Readers' Guide to Joyce (1959); The Art of James Joyce by A.W. Litz (1961); Surface and Symbol: The Consistency of James Joyce's Ulysses by R.M. Adams (1962); J. Joyce-again's Finnegans Wake by B. Benstock (1965); James Joyce's 'Ulysses': Critical Essays, ed. by Clive Hart and David Hayman (1974); A Conceptual Guide to 'Finnegans Wake' by Michael H. Begnal and Fritz Senn (1974); James Joyce: the Citizen and the Artist by C. Peake (1977); James Joyce by Patrick Parrinder (1984); Joyce's Anatomy of Culture by Cheryl Herr (1986); Joyce's Book of the Dark: 'Finnegans Wake by John Bishop (1986); Reauthorizing Joyce by Vicki Mahaffey (1988); 'Ulysses' Annotated by Don Gifford (1988); An Annotated Critical Bibliography of James Joyce, ed. by Thomas F. Staley (1989); The Cambridge Companion to James Joyce, ed by Derek Attridge (1990); Joyce's Web by Margot Norris (1992); James Joyce's 'A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man' by David Seed (1992); Critical Essays on James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake ed. by Patrick A. McCarthy (1992); James Joyce and the Language of History: Dedalus's Nightmare by Robert E. Spoo (1994); Gender in Joyce, ed. by Jolanta W. Wawrzycka (1997); A Companion to James Joyce's Ulysses, ed. by Margot Norris (1999); Toiseen maailmaan. James Joycen novelli "Kuolleet" kirjallisuustieteen kohteena by Pekka Vartiainen (1999); The Years of Bloom: James Joyce in Trieste, 1904-1920 by John McCourt (2000); Joyce's "Ulysses" for Everyone, Or How To Skip Reading It the First Time by John Mood (2004) 

Selected works

  • DUBLINERS, 1914
    films: A Painful Case, 1984, prod. Channel 4 Television Corporation (Ireland), dir. John Lynch; The Dead, 1987 (based on the last story in the collection) dir. by John Huston, starring Anjelica Huston, Donal McCann, Dan O'Herlihy, Donal Donnelly; The Dead, 2004, prod. PIB Productions, dir. Prince Bagdasarian, screenplay Celin Cuadra
    film 1979, dir. by Joseph Strick, starring Bosco Hogan, T.P. McKenna, John Gielgud
  • EXILES, 1918
  • ULYSSES, 1922
    films: 1967, dir. by Joseph Strick, starring Barbara Jefford, Molo O'Shea, Maurive Roeves, T.P. McKenna; Uliisses, 1982, prod. Werner Nekes Filmproduktion (West Germany), dir. Werner Nekes, starring Armin Wölfl, Tabea Blumenschein, Russel Derson, Shezad Abbas; Bloom, 2003, prod. Odyssey Pictures (Ireland), dir. Sean Walsh, starring Stephen Rea, Angeline Ball, Hugh O'Conor, Neilí Conroy
    films: 1965, prod. Expanding Cinema, dir. by Mary Ellen Bute, starring Martin J. Kelley, Jane Reilly, Peter Haskell,  Page Johnson, John V. Kelleher; The Wake, 2000, prod. Wake Film (Denmark), dir. Michael Kvium, Christian Lemmerz
  • STEPHEN HERO, 1944
  • THE LETTERS OF JAMES JOYCE, 1957-66 (3 vols.)
  • THE JAMES JOYCE ARCHIVES, 1977-80 (63 vols.)
  • ULYSSES: A READER'S EDITION, 1997 (ed. by Danis Rose)

miércoles, 3 de abril de 2019

David Levine

David Levine self portrait at easel


David Levine


Widely acknowledged as one of the greatest caricaturists of the second half of the 20th century, David Levine was best known for his drawings for the New York Review of Books (which spanned more than 40 years), Esquire, Time magazine and The New Yorker. Awarded numerous prizes for his work, which was reproduced worldwide and influenced a generation of international cartoonists, he was also an accomplished painter in watercolours and oils.

David Julian Levine was born on 20 December 1926 in Brooklyn, New York, the only child of Harry Levine, who ran a small clothing factory specialising in women’s dresses from a loft on Sixth Avenue, and Lena Isaacson, a nurse. Though not an academically strong pupil (“I didn’t do anything in school – I studied volleyball”), he excelled in drawing and wanted to become a comic-book artist like Will Eisner (creator of The Spirit). At the age of nine he won a contest sponsored by Walt Disney to draw the character Goofy and was invited to audition as an animator for the Disney studio in Los Angeles.

However, his parents decided against this and after he left Erasmus Hall High School, Brooklyn, they sent him to study painting at the Tyler School of Fine Arts at Temple University in Philadelphia (1944). After spending his national service (1945-6) in the US Army, serving as a cartographer in Egypt, he returned to complete his degree and take an art teacher’s certificate (1946-9). He then studied with the Abstract Expressionist painter Hans Hoffman at the Eighth Street School of Painting in Manhattan (1949).

Intending to become a professional painter, his first works (mostly watercolours) were scenes of pressers, cutters, fitters, sewing-machine operators and others in his father’s factory and seaside panoramas of bathers at nearby Coney Island. He began to exhibit regularly at the Davis Gallery in New York from 1954 (until 1963), winning four awards for his paintings from the National Academy of Art & Design. In 1958 he and fellow artist Aaron Shikler (whose portrait of John F Kennedy hangs in the White House), formed the Painting Group, which met regularly over the next 50 years to paint life models (US Supreme Court judge Sandra Day O’Connor famously sat for them in 2006).

Failing to make a sufficient income from his paintings alone, he also began to work as an illustrator for Gasoline Retailer and other publications. In addition, he published a series of Christmas cards based on Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and illustrated books such as Elizabeth Kirtland’s children’s fantasy Buttons in the Back (1958).

His first drawings for Esquire appeared in 1958 and over the following years Levine produced more than 1000 illustrations for the magazine. However, his big break came in 1963 when he was invited to join the New York Review of Books as staff artist, shortly after it was founded. In all he drew nearly 4000 caricatures (including covers) for the Review – earning at his peak more than $12,000 a month from this publication alone – until ill health and failing eyesight (macular degeneration) forced him to retire 44 years later in April 2007 (his last original drawing for the Review was of the novelist Howard Norman).

Levine also worked for The New York Times, Washington Post, Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated, New York Magazine, Time magazine (nearly 100 drawings including some notable covers), Newsweek (including covers), The New Yorker (more than 70 drawings), Harper’s, The Nation, Playboy and others. In addition, his caricatures appeared in many international publications, including The Sunday Times, the Observer, Daily Telegraph magazine and others in the UK.

Though he drew numerous global public figures in politics, the arts, sport, current affairs and history – from Winston Churchill, De Gaulle and Gandhi to Castro, Mao Zedong and Brezhnev – he was perhaps best known for his portraits of US celebrities, especially presidents. He produced more than 60 caricatures of Richard Nixon for the New York Review of Books alone (notably as Humphrey Bogart’s Captain Queeg in the 1954 film version of The Caine Mutiny) and his many (40 plus) portraits of Lyndon B Johnson for the Review included his most famous work, criticising LBJ’s role in the Vietnam War. Based on a celebrated 1966 press photograph of Johnson proudly pointing at the scar on his stomach after a recent gall-bladder operation, in Levine’s version the scar is made to resemble the outline of Vietnam. This drawing appears on the cover of Levine’s last book, American Presidents (2008), which features caricatures of US leaders over half a century (a tie-in exhibition was held at the New York Public Library the same year).

Other books by Levine include A Summer Sketchbook (1963), The Man from M.A.L.I.C.E. [Movies, Art, Literature and International Conmen’s Establishment] (1966), Pens and Needles: Literary Caricatures (1969), Caricatures (1969), Identikit (1969), No Known Survivors (1970) and The Arts of David Levine (1978). He also illustrated a number of works by others including Washington Irving’s Rip Van Winkle (1963), Vance Nye Bourjaily’s The Unnatural Enemy (1963), William Hauff’s The Heart of Stone (1964), James Playsted Wood’s The Snark Was a Boojum: A Life of Lewis Carroll (1966), Albert E Kahn’s Smetana and the Beetles: A Fairy Tale for Adults (1967), Harold Hayes’ (ed.) Smiling Through the Apocalypse: Esquire’s History of the Sixties (1969), John Osborne’s The Fifth Year of the Nixon Watch (1974), The Fables of Aesop (1975), Joseph Moses’ The Great Rain Robbery (1975), Judy Jones and William Wilson’s An Incomplete Education (1987) and Robert B Silvers and Barbara Epstein’s (eds) A Middle East Reader (1991). Many of his drawings also appeared in calendars and as mousepads, postcards and other merchandise produced by the New York Review of Books.

Influenced by the Punch cartoonists Richard Doyle and Sir John Tenniel, as well as the Frenchmen Gustave Doré and Honoré Daumier and his fellow countryman Thomas Nast, his use of large heads on small bodies ultimately derived from the style popularised by the 19th-century Parisian André Gill (Louis-Alexandre Gosset de Guines). Levine always worked from photographs and drew his caricatures on Strathmore double weight paper (13¾ 11 in.), first in pencil and then in Gillot 102 pen and indian ink with a distinctive, graceful, fine cross-hatched style, signing them simply “D. Levine”. He never captioned his pictures and once said: “If I can’t do it the way Chaplin did it, words are not going to help.” Though frequently cutting in his perceptive and witty use of visual metaphor and other stylistic devices he was never cruel in his work and once said: “I might want to be critical, but I don’t wish to be destructive. Caricature that goes too far simply lowers the viewer’s response to a person as a human being.”

He was the recipient of many national and international honours including the George Polk Memorial Award (1965), a Guggenheim Fellowship (1967), a gold medal for graphics from the American Academy of Arts and Letters (1992), the Légion d’Honneur, the Thomas Nast Award (Germany) and a Lifetime Achievement Award (1996) from the Cartoon Art Trust in the UK. In New York he exhibited his work regularly at the Forum Gallery (from 1963) but also had major solo shows at Wesleyan University, Brooklyn Museum, Princeton University, Yale University, Hirshhorn Museum (Washington), Pierpont Morgan Library (New York), Ashmolean Museum (Oxford), Galerie Yves Lambert (Paris) and in Stuttgart, Munich and elsewhere.

Examples of his work are held in the collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art (New York), Hirshhorn Museum (Washington), Brooklyn Museum, Cleveland Museum of Art (Ohio), Fogg Art Museum (Harvard), National Academy of Design (New York), Princeton University Library, Library of Congress (Washington), Pierpont Morgan Library (New York), National Portrait Gallery (Washington), National Portrait Gallery (London), Ashmolean Museum (Oxford) and the British Cartoon Archive (University of Kent).

A quiet, gentle man who spoke with a marked Brooklyn accent (he lived and worked in Brooklyn all his life), he was about 5ft 10ins tall, with brown eyes and formerly brown hair. A keen tennis player, he was also a lifelong committed socialist (both his parents had been left-wing political activists). David Levine died of prostate cancer at New York Presbyterian Hospital, Manhattan, New York on 29 December 2009.



John Updike, whom Levine drew many times, wrote in the 1970s: "Besides offering us the delight of recognition, his drawings comfort us, in an exacerbated and potentially desperate age, with the sense of a watching presence, an eye informed by an intelligence that has not panicked, a comic art ready to encapsulate the latest apparitions of publicity as well as those historical devils who haunt our unease. Levine is one of America's assets. In a confusing time, he bears witness. In a shoddy time, he does good work."

The New York Times described Levine's illustrations as "macro-headed, somberly expressive, astringently probing and hardly ever flattering caricatures of intellectuals and athletes, politicians and potentates" that were "heavy in shadows cast by outsize noses on enormous, eccentrically shaped heads, and replete with exaggeratedly bad haircuts, 5 o’clock shadows, ill-conceived mustaches and other grooming foibles ... to make the famous seem peculiar-looking in order to take them down a peg". The paper commented: "His work was not only witty but serious, not only biting but deeply informed, and artful in a painterly sense as well as a literate one." Levine drew his most frequent subject, former president Richard M. Nixon, 66 times, depicting him as, among other things, the Godfather, Captain Queeg, and a fetus.

According to Vanity Fair, "Levine put together a facebook of human history ... the durability of those Levine depicted, plus the unique insight with which he drew them, guarantees the immortality of his works". Levine's work, taken as a whole, had a leftwing bent, and he claimed still to be a Communist, although people of all political persuasions came in for the same acid treatment in Levine's caricatures. Levine said that "by making the powerful funny-looking ... he might encourage some humility or self-awareness". Levine also described his purpose as follows: "Caricature is a form of hopeful statement: I'm drawing this critical look at what you're doing, and I hope that you will learn something from what I'm doing."

Jules Feiffer has called him "the greatest caricaturist of the last half of the 20th Century".

David LevineIn Contemplation, 1955. Oil on panel, 6.5 x 7.5 inches; 8.5 x 9.5 inches framed.


For four decades, David Levine’s acid-tipped portraits of everyone from Castro to Cheney gave The New York Review of Books its visual punch. Now that the greatest caricaturist of the late 20th century is going blind, is he owed more than a fond farewell?


Throughout the year 2006, a great drama unfolded in The New York Review of Books. It didn’t take place in one of its famously erudite articles on politics and culture, nor in the characteristically splenetic exchanges on the letters page, nor in a highbrow personal ad in the back. Instead, it occurred graphically, in the caricatures of David Levine, which had graced the publication for the past 44 years.

Levine’s drawings—the latest crop around that time included Jimmy Carter, George Soros, and Colin Powell, along with the usual assortment of novelists, scientists, poets, potentates, and academics, dead and alive—still appeared. His customary irreverence was also intact: Vladimir Putin in a king’s robe; the lips of Justice Samuel Alito, fresh from his unenlightening confirmation hearings, zippered shut. But to anyone familiar with Levine, something was seriously off. The images were scarcer, cruder, more tentative. Even his signature, the casually confident “DLevine” that always nestled cozily at the bottom, was different: suddenly, it was crabbed and erratic, even illegible. Sometimes it all but tumbled out of the frame.
Few people may have noticed the change, because Levine’s older, classic drawings for the Review—there were more than 3,800 of them—still appeared in the magazine, not just amid the articles but in various promotions and inserts: Saul Bellow or Amelia Earhart, looking reproachful or entreating, urging readers to re-up. In Manhattan and Cambridge and Ann Arbor and Santa Monica, where calendars featuring Levine drawings still hung in their usual places, it was as if he’d never left. But when the older work was juxtaposed with the newer, sometimes across the page, the contrast was stark, and sobering.
Simultaneously, two more dramas were under way. One was on Henry Street in Brooklyn Heights, where Levine, now 81 years old, had long lived and worked. Gradually, his universe had grown darker and fuzzier. He could no longer see very clearly without strong light and magnification, or rely upon his hand: the lines that had always been his friends, the spare, crisp ones that defined someone’s shape, and the elaborate cross-hatchings that gave him soul, he could no longer control. His ophthalmologist had put it bluntly. “Mr. Levine, you don’t look your age,” he said. “But your eyes do.” His diagnosis: macular degeneration. Medications and injections didn’t help. Levine worked on, but laboriously. He abandoned pen and ink for pencil, which, as he puts it, “was more forgiving if I made a mistake.” But the results were plain enough. For the first time—except for those very few instances when it had been too tart for the publication’s taste—the Review rejected his work.
Meanwhile, at the magazine, long the flagship of the American liberal intelligentsia, there was the third drama: what to do about David. First, it debated whether to run what he’d submitted. Then it stopped sending him assignments: it was in April 2007 when his last original drawing (of the novelist Howard Norman) appeared. The Review now primarily uses the work of another artist, whose style resembles Levine’s but displays none of its wit. Still, the masthead lists Levine as “staff artist”; to both the *Review’*s co-founder and editor, Robert Silvers, and Rea Hederman, its owner and publisher, any suggestion to the contrary is preposterous. “I think of him as someone who’s done marvelous things for us and might do some again,” Silvers says.
But the ophthalmology texts don’t list anything called “macular regeneration.” Theoretically, one of the electronic devices Levine has tried will help him see the contrast in the photographs from which he works—the “scrap,” in artists’ lingo—well enough to resume work, or, through practice, his pencil drawings will magically meet the *Review’*s standards. It seems unlikely, though. All parties concerned seem too timid or gentlemanly or Pollyanna-ish to acknowledge the obvious: that one of the most remarkable runs in the history of journalism and art is almost certainly over. In the course of it, more than anyone before him, Levine put together a facebook of human history, capturing everyone from Agnew and Albee to Zapata and Zola. Arguably, only Al Hirschfeld, the indomitable New York Times illustrator who worked almost to the very moment of his death, five years ago, at the age of 99, had so long a tenure or cast so lengthy a shadow, though his range was considerably narrower and his work as apolitical as Levine’s was politically charged. Some of Levine’s early subjects, such as writer Lillian Hellman, had begged to be spared his often savage strokes. But then came a total switch, and having Levine go at you certified your significance, no matter how he made you look.
In nearly three decades in New York I’d never met or seen Levine, nor did I know very much about him. But after years of savoring his work every other week in the Review, I felt he was a friend. When that work faltered, then vanished altogether, I wondered, and worried, about him. Someone told me he was ill, but I neither heard nor read anything about it. Then, this past March, I attended a program honoring another journalistic iconoclast, the late I. F. Stone, and there was Levine. He’d done Stone, of course—at least three times. One version appeared on the cover of a collection of Stone’s articles. (“The hardest job with drawing Izzy is that he already looked like a caricature,” he says.) “David Levine!” I gushed, with awe and, frankly, some relief, when we were introduced. “Where have you been? What’s going on with you? I miss you! Are you all right?”
A Lifetime’s Work
If you want to know the sheer scope of Levine’s work, just dip into any of the shallow drawers in the antique architect’s file in his study, where his caricatures are arranged alphabetically. I pulled the C’s. There was Churchill: seen from the rear, identifiable only by his shape, his palette, and his cigar. Then, in no particular order: Cheney (Dick). Carmichael (Stokely). Le Carré (John). Church (Frank). Carroll (Lewis). Castro (in several poses: as a baseball player in one, holding a sickle in another). Caesar and Caligula. Calhoun (John C.). Cunningham (Merce). Connolly (Cyril). Cuomo. Chirac. Von Clausewitz. Colette. Clifford (Clark). Chesterton. Cromwell. Chaucer. Clinton (Bill). Charles V. Califano (Joe). Cheever. Carswell (G. Harrold). Columbus. Child (Julia). Cullen (Countee). Clark (Ramsey). Chomsky. Chateaubriand. Callas. Curzon (Lord).
Because Silvers and his longtime co-editor, the late Barbara Epstein, always wanted fresh images, Levine got to draw many people repeatedly, ever refining and updating. He was at it long enough to engrave wrinkles into W. H. Auden, follow Philip Roth’s retreating hairline, trace Susan Sontag going gray. Type in any name at the “David Levine Gallery” on the *Review’*s Web site and you can assemble something sounding like an olde English Christmas carol. There are 66 Richard Nixons, 41 Lyndon Johnsons, 23 Ronald Reagans, 16 Sigmund Freuds, 14 Norman Mailers, 13 Charles de Gaulles, 12 Jimmy Carters, 11 Adolf Hitlers, 10 William Shakespeares, nine Jean-Paul Sartres, eight Bertrand Russells, seven Menachem Begins, six Ernest Hemingways, five Marcel Prousts, four Ayatollah Khomeinis, three Bernard Berensons, two Elvis Presleys, and one … well, there are hundreds and hundreds of those. And lots of what ran in the Review isn’t even there, to say nothing of what appeared elsewhere.

David Leopold, a curator who has spent the past three years cataloguing Levine’s work, estimates that only half of Levine’s caricatures were actually done for the Review. Thus far he’s found more than 1,000 done for Esquire, almost 100 for Time, 71 for The New Yorker, and lots of others for The Washington Post, Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated, New York, and a host of oddball publications, such as Family Planning Perspective (for which he once drew Margaret Sanger using a diaphragm as a trampoline). The few people he apparently never got around to drawing for the Review, like Jacqueline Kennedy, he invariably did for others (in Jackie’s case, Harper’s). But so inextricably linked are Levine and the Reviewthat, no matter where Levine appeared, it was the Review that always came to mind.
The renowned French artist Honoré Daumier drew politicians whom no one later remembered. But the durability of those Levine depicted, plus the unique insight with which he drew them, guarantees the immortality of his works. “Nobody will want to publish a biography of any of the people he’s done without including one of his pictures,” another prominent illustrator, Edward Sorel, predicts. “People will want to reproduce his stuff forever.” Sometimes, life resembled a Levine drawing. The writer Richard Elman recalled once encountering Hannah Arendt, Saul Bellow, Stephen Spender, Dwight Macdonald, and other literary luminaries at a party near Chicago. On hand was “a whole collection of animated David Levine caricature faces, drinking, standing about, sitting on overstuffed sofas, and smearing chopped liver onto crackers,” he wrote. “There was no face in that room that did not seem to recall a page out of the New York Review of Books.

Henry Kissinger (1979). The New York Times killed the Kissinger drawing after promising it would run whatever Levine turned in. Illustration courtesy of David Levine and Forum Gallery, New York.

On the wall in Levine’s kitchen, on the bulletin board by the telephone, hangs the David Levine calendar, which is sent annually to preferred Review subscribers. March featured a drawing of Abraham Lincoln, one Levine doesn’t much like: his Lincoln, he feels, is smirking. “That one just got out of hand,” he recalls. It was a rare lapse; Levine was invariably credited for getting things uncannily right, undeservedly so in his estimation. “I was given a tremendous amount of credit for having unbelievable insights, more than any known shrink could hope ever to have,” he says. “I might have stumbled on something, but that really wasn’t something you could count on and call ‘insight.’ ” These days, though, far from nailing his subjects, he has trouble summoning their names.
Over the years, Levine has done a few images of himself, and he gave himself no more breaks than anyone else. David Levine’s David Levines are heavyset, disheveled, and shambling, with a bulging gut, hair matted and slicked back, and an enormous, vent-like beak. In his bedroom hangs one of his few self-portraits in oil, from 1965. In contrast to his finely wrought caricatures, his face in it is abstracted and undefined—pretty much the way he sees everyone now. Without his work, he has lost the structure of his life—sometimes, it’s hard for him to remember the day of the week—and his chief means of self-expression.
Levine believes the Review has fired him. In fact, for the rest of the year he remains under contract with the publication, which pays him around $4,800 a month (down from the more than $12,000 he once earned), essentially for the use of his old drawings. Whether or not it is renewed, he receives neither health insurance nor a pension. His friends feel vehemently that the Review owes him something better than that. “He is the visual trademark of that magazine,” said Byron Dobell, a former editor at Esquireand, for more than four decades, a member of the weekly painting group Levine still runs with the portraitist Aaron Shikler. “They fed off his drawings for years. Let’s say he goes completely blind.… They have no further obligations to him … ? It’s as if Disney decided, ‘Let’s throw Disney overboard. He’s an old man. We don’t need him.’ ” A series of heart problems, with all the customary stents and bypasses and pacemakers, knocked Levine off stride even before his eyesight did. “I haven’t settled whether I am angry or I am just saying, ‘Well, it was time anyway,’ ” he says. He’s much more fired up about the conditions of the poor than he is about his own.
Proud to Be a Red
Born in Brooklyn in 1926, Levine grew up in a proletarian, politicized world. His father ran a small clothing factory. His mother was a left-wing rabble-rouser, the type to approach the most menacing cop at a protest and say, “Do you know you’re a Cossack?” Levine handed out the Daily Worker by the Brooklyn docks and watched May Day marches around Union Square. He had studio space adjoining that of Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy arrested in 1957 and eventually exchanged for the U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers. His friendly ties to Abel could explain why two F.B.I. agents showed up at Levine’s house sometime in the 1950s (he was about to take his first trip to Europe, to study the art) to inform him he wasn’t going. He still considers himself a Communist; it was the Soviets who strayed. So Stalin (whom he drew at least 10 times) gets the usual Levine treatment: in one version, he’s flanked by all the headless generals he murdered.
Levine began to draw as a kid, sketching the stuffed foxes and squirrels in the Brooklyn Museum. After returning from the service, in 1946, he attended a fine-arts school in Philadelphia. A fire in his studio in Brooklyn’s Park Slope around 1968 destroyed most of his early, large works in oils; seemingly crushed by the blow, he turned to smaller paintings, along with watercolors that some, like Edward Sorel, consider his finest work of all. Hanging from and stacked against the walls of the apartment he shares with his second wife, Kathy Hayes, is four decades of his output, mostly small paintings. Many are of his favorite subject: Coney Island. What better way to study humanity than observing them half nude on a beach, all posing for him? Many others are of garment workers: pressers and cutters and finishers, muscular and sweaty, beleaguered and dignified. All of the characters, even the women bent over their sewing machines, are really him, he says. Those paintings are as tender and affectionate as his caricatures are withering—Levine reserved all of his respect and pity for common folks—and of all his artwork are clearly what mattered, and matter, to him most. The caricatures, by contrast, were commissions. They paid the bills and, Levine says, gave him a chance to unload. Few of them hang at his house, though he’s fond of them too. “I love my species,” he says. “I love looking at their faces.”

View a slide show of Levine’s political caricatures. Above: Ronald Reagan (1981). Illustration courtesy of David Levine and Forum Gallery, New York.
For a time, Levine survived on work from publications like Gasoline Retailer. In the late 1950s, he drew a line of unsuccessful Christmas cards. Then, in the early 1960s, he landed at Esquire. Along with contemporaries like Sorel and Jules Feiffer, Levine helped revive a tradition of political illustration that had faded since the days of Daumier and Thomas Nast. In 1963, while the city’s newspapers were on strike, Barbara Epstein recruited Levine for the newly hatched New York Review of Books. He took to the task quickly. The mostly playful marginalia he’d done for Esquire deepened, becoming more ambitious and psychologically complex.
And a remarkable ritual quickly developed. Pretty much every other Thursday for the next 40 years, a messenger from the Review would drop off an envelope at the Heights Casino, on Montague Street, where Levine played tennis, a few blocks from his apartment. In it were photographs of the people he was to draw for the next issue, along with the articles about them. Always, Levine would read the pieces before setting pen to paper. Some, particularly those on politics, he grasped instantly and tackled with relish because of their comic possibilities. But he thinks himself uneducated—“I didn’t do anything in school,” he says; “I studied volleyball”—and found articles on musical theory or physics or poetry heavy slogging. Still, he persevered, scouring the texts for ideas. Then he studied the photographs, looking for whatever element—nose, eyes, chin, hair, glasses, head—captured a person’s essence. Sometimes, what most enthralled him emerged only as he drew.
Working in his studio overlooking Pierrepont Street, the surrounding windows covered up to block out the harsh light, he set pen (the point was Gilot 102) to paper (Strathmore double weight). Never was there a caption. “If I can’t do it the way Charlie Chaplin did it, words are not going to help,” he says. Each illustration took him a couple of hours. Tuesdays, the messenger would return to the Casino to pick up what he’d drawn.
Strokes of Genius
What sets Levine’s drawings apart is not just the technical artistry but also the wit. “He was the most brilliant visual punster that ever existed,” says Sorel. Detesting much of 20th-century art—he is as conservative stylistically as he is radical politically—he drew Andy Warhol as Alfred E. Neuman, showed Picasso dumping a truckload of Picassos, and made the top of Claes Oldenburg’s head a garbage-can lid. (After he depicted Jackson Pollock urinating squiggles onto a canvas, he says, the Review stopped assigning him modern artists. Silvers replies: “Certainly not consciously,” adding that most stories about artists were in fact illustrated by their own work.) Monica Lewinsky smokes a cigar. Hemingway stands on an animal rug with a Hemingway head. Patton is squirreled away in a giant holster. Kenneth Starr is an ayatollah. Osama bin Laden is a long, bushy beard. Dan Quayle is a puny Sword of Damocles hanging over George H. W. Bush.
A caricature of Lyndon Johnson is probably Levine’s most famous work of all: a takeoff on the famous photograph of Johnson lifting his shirt to show the incision from his recent gallbladder surgery, which Levine transformed into the even more famous image of Johnson lifting his shirt to reveal a map of Vietnam. Time once claimed that that drawing, which simultaneously captured Johnson’s crudity and how indelibly the war had scarred both him and the country, did more to undermine his presidency than any photograph. Johnson biographer Robert Caro says he is asked more about Levine’s depiction of Johnson than any other topic. “The photograph assaulted people, and the cartoon embedded it in the American consciousness,” he says.

Levine in his studio with his most recent unfinished “experiment,” another look at Coney Island. Photograph by Gasper Tringale.
If anything, Levine was even harder on Nixon, and considerably more often. There is Nixon as Captain Queeg, steel balls in his hand, and Nixon with tapes spilling out of his trouser bottoms. There is Nixon as the Godfather, Nixon with Nguyen Van Thieu biting into his leg like a terrier, Nixon with Spiro Agnew and with Mao Zedong. There is Nixon as a fetus, Nixon kissing Brezhnev, Nixon manipulating a Lieutenant William Calley hand puppet. (The tally of 66 Nixon images does not count the numerous Nixons he did for other publications; Newsweek editors once discussed whether he should file down Nixon’s fangs.) For few characters was Levine’s distinctive cross-hatching better suited: with it, he managed to add several hours to Nixon’s famed five-o’clock shadow.
Critics praised Levine for resurrecting a moribund art and capturing the Zeitgeist. “They are wickedly intelligent and shamelessly unfair,” Hilton Kramer, of The New York Times, wrote of an exhibition of his caricatures in 1968. “Future historians of the sixties will find in these images a reliable guide to the bitter feelings and angry criticism that now fill every corner of our political life.” One week the previous January, Levine had drawn covers for both Time (L.B.J. as Lear) and Newsweek (five Republican presidential contenders). A host of would-be Levines appeared. “I have never imitated Levine,” one declared. “I have burglarized him.”
Levine believed that power corrupts, and his scorn for anyone in authority was nonpartisan. So unflattering were his portraits of Ethel Kennedy’s husband (whom he drew 6 times) and brother-in-law Jack (10 times) that she barred Levine from playing in the Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Pro-Celebrity Tennis Tournament. Levine had Lyndon Johnson shedding crocodile-shaped tears, and crocodiles shedding Johnson-shaped ones. He accentuated Ronald Reagan’s every crease and crevice. He considered Bill Clinton (nine times) a liar and equivocator and wise guy and closet Republican, so he put his hand on a stack of Bibles, or had him eating waffles, or placed a hayseed between his teeth, or gave him an elephant’s trunk.
However pejorative his caricatures of politicians were, he maintains that they were always designed to be constructive: by making the powerful funny-looking, he theorized, he might encourage some humility or self-awareness. (I asked him whether that had ever actually happened. He said it had not.) But Levine also knew when to stop. As he often cautions young illustrators, caricature fails when people are distorted beyond recognition. He allowed himself an exception with J. Edgar Hoover (he did him four times), whom he depicted once as an amoeba-like, cobwebbed blob. Then again, Hoover was the man who seized Levine’s passport.
Conversely, Levine admits to going easy on anyone belonging to a group that had been historically disadvantaged, such as women and blacks. He still feels guilty about his rendition of Marilyn Monroe, whom he drew with a baseball bat on her shoulder and puffy, overly painted lips, as if she’d just been beaten or expected to be. He also rues one of his portrayals of Oscar Wilde, around one of whose fingers he almost imperceptibly wrapped a ballet slipper; at the time, he explains, everyone was insensitive to gays. Rather than depict Eleanor Roosevelt as the usual ugly duckling, he turned her into a swan. One woman he did not indulge was Margaret Mead. He bared her breasts—to make up, he explains, for all those native women she exposed in various anthropological texts over the years.
Predictably, whenever Levine strayed beyond the tolerant precincts of the Review, he could expect trouble, even though these other publications always came to him. The New York Times killed one drawing of Nixon feeding papers into a shredder, and another of a nude Kissinger, his back side tattooed with bombs, a map of Vietnam, and a skull and crossbones, even after promising a skeptical Levine it would run whatever he submitted. In 1982, Time spiked a drawing of Alabama governor George Wallace (then belatedly courting black voters) with an Afro. Years later, says Levine, The New Yorker killed a watercolor-and-pencil drawing of George W. Bush wearing his famous flight jacket and standing on rows of flag-covered coffins. (The New Yorker says Levine submitted the work unsolicited. It later ran in the Review.)
*The New Yorker’*s handling of another piece of work, in 2005, this one of Palestinian leader Mahmoud Abbas and then Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon sitting around a conference table, was more disturbing to him. At the magazine’s request, Levine says, he placed sinister, hooded figures brandishing machine guns behind Abbas. To balance things off (at least in his own mind), he added some gigantic missiles alongside Sharon. When the drawing appeared, however, he was shocked to see that the missiles had vanished: never before, he says, had his art been altered behind his back. After that, he goes on, he got no further assignments from the magazine. “David Levine is a great political artist and kept on publishing with us after this, but all I remember about this was thinking that with Sharon being so ominously huge in the drawing, the bombs were too much,” says David Remnick, *The New Yorker’*s editor. “More important, if the implication is that we made the change for ominous political reasons, he is, with respect, wrong. This article didn’t pull punches on Sharon, to say the least.” Before long, though, the magazine did stop commissioning Levine: his new work required too much retouching.
The Review was positively laissez-faire by comparison. When he did encounter problems there, they sometimes concerned sexuality. “The New York Review is a little bit straight-up Puritan,” he says. “They have a hang-up about sex.” Until the offending portion was cropped, the caricature that accompanied a piece on Gay Talese’s Thy Neighbor’s Wife originally depicted the author with his fly open. The turtleneck in which he once dressed Philip Roth was changed when, at least as Epstein saw it, it too closely resembled a foreskin. But it was his images of Kissinger that ran into the most trouble. The Reviewpublished at least 10 of them, none especially kind. But it rejected a view of Kissinger’s tattooed back side similar to the one the Times had spurned, as well as a 1982 image of a naked Kissinger as Atlas, holding the world and sporting what must have been the world’s smallest penis. (It was later exhibited at Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum and is now in private hands.)
David Levine in his Brooklyn Heights studio. Photograph by Gasper Tringale.

Two years later, the Review spiked another naked Kissinger, this one showing him beneath an American-flag bedspread, gleefully ravaging a woman. Little of her is visible save her head, which also happens to be a globe. It “just didn’t seem what we should do,” Silvers says. Levine took it to Victor Navasky, then editor of The Nation, who published it. That in turn outraged feminists on Navasky’s staff, who complained that Levine had made the world a woman and, by showing her grabbing the sheets, suggested that she might be enjoying herself. Navasky called a meeting and invited Levine, who only inflamed things more. “I said, ‘I wanted to say that he was screwing the world, and as far as I know, approximately 99 percent of the world screws that way,’ ” he recalls. Navasky was Levine’s court of last resort; he also published a caricature of George W. Bush handing out coat hangers—suitable for abortions—which, once again, The New Yorker had refused to run. (It said the work was inappropriate for a story concerning campaigning more than policy.)
At times, the Review did ask Levine to tone things down. Once, Epstein requested that he remove the froth around Zbigniew Brzezinski’s mouth—she said it was redundant—and another time that he make Gore Vidal, with whom she was friendly, less obese. Then there were all those swastikas that Levine embedded into his work, like Hirschfeld’s “Nina”s. The Review had Levine remove them from Clint Eastwood’s clothing and the cleft of George Wallace’s chin. “We sometimes thought the swastikas were inappropriate,” recalls Silvers. “It was sometimes a question of detecting them. Someone would say, ‘Hey, there’s a swastika!’ ” A prostrate black man over whom Newt Gingrich leapfrogged in 1995 was airbrushed out of the finished product. (That was kinder than Levine’s depiction of Gingrich as an elephant’s rear end, the anus doubling as his mouth, done for Playboy.)
Erica Jong, Woody Allen, Christopher Isherwood, and Sontag were all unhappy with Levine. So was Philip Roth, whom Levine encountered one day outside Bergdorf Goodman shortly after one of his nine caricatures of the author had appeared. “What did you do to my sweet little goyish shtik [Christian and small] nose?” Roth complained. Truman Capote also feigned indignation. “You’re the man who did my dewlaps like this!” he remonstrated, tugging at the excess skin around his neck. Levine says he may have saved Norman Mailer’s life, spotting and then restraining him when, engrossed in a conversation, he had been about to walk into traffic near his home in Brooklyn Heights. Afterward, though, Mailer apparently could think only about all the unflattering portraits Levine had done of him. “Oh. It’s you” was the only thanks Mailer could muster. Others, though, including Arthur Schlesinger Jr., actually appreciated what Levine had made of them. “He was a particularly homely man,” Levine recalls. “He must have expected something much worse.”
As much of a fixture as he was in the Review, Levine was a stranger around it. He seldom visited its offices, and then only to pick up errant art books. Rarely did he see, or even talk to, Epstein or Silvers. “Every time I came in, he was on the phone to Timbuktu,” he says. Levine says that he was only occasionally invited to Review events, and that that was quite all right by him, since in his mind the editors considered him, quite literally, a hired hand. Not that he disagreed. “Intellectually I always felt they were well above me,” he explains. At a party at Epstein’s once, he recalls, the poet Robert Lowell said something to him. “I sort of stood there listening and then he moved on,” Levine recalls. “The next guy came along the line and said, ‘Did you understand a word he said?,’ and I said, ‘Not one.’ ”

View a slide show of Levine’s political caricatures. Above: Lyndon Johnson (1966). Illustration courtesy of David Levine and Forum Gallery, New York.
Levine’s son, Matthew, who licenses the right to create products featuring his father’s caricatures and paintings through a company called D. Levine Ink, believes that the Review, knowing it would one day have to wean itself off its aging illustrator, had used him less frequently and prominently even before his eyesight deteriorated. By the time retired Supreme Court justice Sandra Day O’Connor sat for Levine’s painting group, in October 2006, Levine saw her only as a blur. Levine never really discussed his failing eyesight with Silvers or Epstein, but at some point in 2006 the effects could no longer be ignored. Coming from another illustrator, the new works, in pencil, would have been perfectly respectable; many of them, including one of Barack Obama, were used. But they lacked the lapidary precision and devastating eloquence of his old drawings: the struggle to pull off a decent likeness also sapped him of his wit. Most of the *Review’*s roughly 140,000 subscribers may not have noticed, but his fellow artists did. Following the decline in Levine’s work from one issue to the next was to them like watching another iron horse, Lou Gehrig, suddenly faltering on the field.
Soon the rejections came, from the Review and other publications. “These drawings are not what we have come to expect from David Levine,” Levine says Silvers told him. (Silvers says he was far more delicate—that is, if he said anything at all. “I think we just didn’t use them and said we were sorry,” he recalls.) Levine didn’t argue. “I agreed that there was something wrong and that a problem had developed,” he says. He subsequently tore up most of the rejected pieces.
Levine nonetheless insists that over time the quality of his work in pencil would have improved. Some of his colleagues, such as Jules Feiffer, agree. The *Review’*s “callous disregard” for Levine, he wrote Silvers in February 2007, was “stunningly at odds” with its long tradition of “intellectual conscience and decency,” and was tactically unwise to boot. “You are handing your enemies a gift,” he warned. “What fun The Weekly Standard, The National Review and The Wall Street Journal are going to have at your expense when this affair goes public.” Certainly, he concluded, “the greatest caricaturist of the last half of the Twentieth Century deserves better from you.”
Even friends who concede that Levine’s latest drawings are no longer worthy of the Review criticize its handling of him, which they consider insensitive from the start. Levine neither asked for nor received any stock in the publication when he went to work there, for instance, so that when Rea Hederman bought it for $4.5 million in 1984 he reaped none of the profits. Friends say Levine never realized how indispensable he was there, and was almost pathologically unable to stand up for himself. Levine agrees. It goes with his fear of authority, he says.
“If you’re going to write this as a Greek tragedy, the fatal flaw is David’s inability to confront the situation,” says Sorel. “You would think it would occur to him to get something on paper because ‘this may not be the last time I get screwed.’ No! And so, finally, he gets blind, they don’t need him anymore, and they don’t even tell him that they’re getting somebody else—he just opens up the paper and finds out that somebody else is there You can’t help being angry at David too. Because David, who keeps talking about his days in the Communist Party, should of all people have known the nature of capitalism! I mean, it’s almost laughable.”
Matthew Levine, who is the director of communications and marketing for Research to Prevent Blindness (he held the position before his father’s difficulties), goes easier on the Review, saying that what seems like insensitivity is really more confusion: the people there just aren’t built for such awkward situations. But the hurt, and the financial impact, are real. “He’s not going to wind up on the soup lines somewhere, but his income has been dramatically reduced,” he says. A divorce long ago stripped Levine of some assets, and others are tied up in real estate. True, he owns all those oils and watercolors. But Levine’s social-realist paintings are out of style; his admirers are selling—or bequeathing—them rather than buying more. It hasn’t helped that Levine, imbued as he is with the old Communist notion that people who work with their hands never make much money, is uncomfortable with commerce, and has set the prices high enough to sabotage the whole thing.
A Legacy Up for Grabs
Amazingly, the caricatures (which go for between $4,000 and $6,000, and, like the paintings, are handled by New York’s Forum Gallery) aren’t selling, either. “Nobody’s been asking,” says Levine. “Maybe I have to die first.” Fearful that the I.R.S. will soak his two children when he passes, he’s half-facetiously advised them to burn everything. In fact, many Levine caricatures are already in museums and archives; the Library of Congress alone owns 76. Tracking down the originals isn’t easy; many, having been cared for haphazardly, are lost. One that is accounted for is the priceless caricature of Lyndon Johnson’s belly, which belongs to A. Whitney Ellsworth, the *Review’*s first publisher. Ellsworth thinks he paid around $100 for it; Levine recalls giving it to him for free. So cash is short; a $3,000 contraption that would heighten the contrast of images so that he could work from them more easily seems beyond his means. “They could solve this whole thing with a pension,” he says.
Both Silvers and Hederman say they have always tried to pay Levine generously. Even people who’ve written for the Review from the outset do not get a pension, Hederman notes. Silvers stresses that the Review continues to work with Levine, noting his monthly payment, as well as Levine’s role in picking the drawings to be used for the 2009 calendar. “This notion of an absolute break should be understood as not quite right,” he says. “I can’t feel we did something wrong.” Both he and Hederman say they await the next Levine drawing. “It might be very different,” says Silvers. “Perhaps it would be a very simple outline. There are caricatures that are only five strokes. God knows what he might do. So I would never rule anything out.… We still feel the most affectionate admiration for him. If there were some way we could work things out, I’d be entirely open.”
But Levine is proud, even hypersensitive—when the Review recently sent him a wristwatch featuring one of his Shakespeare caricatures, he misconstrued it as a parting gift—and refuses to send in anything on spec. And the magazine, which continues to sell David Levine mouse pads, David Levine postcards, and David Levine reproductions—from which Levine derives only token royalties—is too timid or too pragmatic or maybe too considerate to ask. So the awkward pas de deux continues. Such is combat between habitual noncombatants.
In the meantime, Levine tries to keep busy. A book of his presidential drawings will be published this fall, with exhibits in New York and Los Angeles. There’ll also be a Levine show in Toronto. Whatever his personal circumstances, he seeks nobody’s pity. “How old am I?” he asks. “Eighty-one. Eighty-one! That’s 20 years past my parents! I feel that I’ve lived the golden life. I’ve done everything I want to do. If I can keep doing it, even a part of it, that’s fun.” And that he hopes to do. In fact, he’s planning an excursion soon. He’s going back to Coney Island, an easel and paintbrushes in hand.
David Margolick is a Vanity Fair contributing editor.

David Levine

David Levine, Biting Caricaturist, Dies at 83

DEC. 29, 2009

David Levine, whose macro-headed, somberly expressive, astringently probing and hardly ever flattering caricatures of intellectuals and athletes, politicians and potentates were the visual trademark of The New York Review of Books for nearly half a century, died Tuesday in Manhattan. He was 83 and lived in Brooklyn.
His death, at New York Presbyterian Hospital, was caused by prostate cancer and a subsequent combination of illnesses, his wife, Kathy Hayes, said.
Mr. Levine’s drawings never seemed whimsical, like those of Al Hirschfeld. They didn’t celebrate neurotic self-consciousness, like Jules Feiffer’s. He wasn’t attracted to the macabre, the way Edward Gorey was. His work didn’t possess the arch social consciousness of Edward Sorel’s. Nor was he interested, as Roz Chast is, in the humorous absurdity of quotidian modern life. But in both style and mood, Mr. Levine was as distinct an artist and commentator as any of his well-known contemporaries. His work was not only witty but serious, not only biting but deeply informed, and artful in a painterly sense as well as a literate one; he was, in fact, beyond his pen and ink drawings, an accomplished painter. Those qualities led many to suggest that he was the heir of the 19th-century masters of the illustration, Honoré Daumier and Thomas Nast.
Especially in his political work, his portraits betrayed the mind of an artist concerned, worriedly concerned, about the world in which he lived. Among his most famous images were those of President Lyndon B. Johnson pulling up his shirt to reveal that the scar from his gallbladder operation was in the precise shape of the boundaries of Vietnam, and of Henry Kissinger having sex on the couch with a female body whose head was in the shape of a globe, depicting, Mr. Levine explained later, what Mr. Kissinger had done to the world. He drew Richard M. Nixon, his favorite subject, 66 times, depicting him as the Godfather, as Captain Queeg, as a fetus.
With those images and others — Yasir Arafat and Ariel Sharon in a David-and-Goliath parable; or Alan Greenspan, with scales of justice, balancing people and dollar bills, hanging from his downturned lips; or Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr. carrying a gavel the size of a sledgehammer — Mr. Levine’s drawings sent out angry distress signals that the world was too much a puppet in the hands of too few puppeteers. “I would say that political satire saved the nation from going to hell,” he said in an interview in 2008, during an exhibit of his work called “American Presidents” at the New York Public Library.


A self-portrait of the artist and caricaturist David Levine. CreditForum Gallery

Even when he wasn’t out to make a political point, however, his portraits — often densely inked, heavy in shadows cast by outsize noses on enormous, eccentrically shaped heads, and replete with exaggeratedly bad haircuts, 5 o’clock shadows, ill-conceived mustaches and other grooming foibles — tended to make the famous seem peculiar-looking in order to take them down a peg.
“They were extraordinary drawings with extraordinary perception,” Jules Feiffer said in a recent interview about the work of Mr. Levine, who was his friend. He added: “In the second half of the 20th century he was the most important political caricaturist. When he began, there was very little political caricature, very little literary caricature. He revived the art.”
David Levine was born on Dec. 20, 1926, in Brooklyn, where his father, Harry, ran a small garment shop and his mother, Lena, a nurse, was a political activist with Communist sympathies. A so-called red diaper baby, Mr. Levine leaned politically far to the left throughout his life. His family lived a few blocks from Ebbetts Field, where young David once shook the hand of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who became a hero, as did his wife, Eleanor. Years later, Mr. Levine’s caricature of Mrs. Roosevelt depicted her as a swan.
“I thought of her as beautiful,” he said. “Yet she was very homely.”
As a boy he sketched the stuffed animals in the vitrines at the Brooklyn Museum. He served in the Army just after World War II, then graduated from Temple University in Philadelphia with a degree in education and another degree from Temple’s Tyler School of Art. He also studied painting at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, and with the Abstract Expressionist painter and renowned teacher Hans Hofmann.
Indeed, painting was Mr. Levine’s first love; he was a realist, and in 1958 he and Aaron Shikler (whose portrait of John F. Kennedy hangs in the White House) founded the Painting Group, a regular salon of amateurs and professionals who, for half a century, got together for working sessions with a model. A documentary about the group, “Portraits of a Lady,” focusing on their simultaneous portraits of Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, was made in 2007; the portraits themselves were exhibited at the National Portrait Gallery.
Mr. Levine’s paintings, mostly watercolors, take as their subjects garment workers — a tribute to his father’s employees, who he said never believed that their lives could be seen as connected to beauty — or the bathers at his beloved Coney Island. In a story he liked to tell, he was painting on the boardwalk when he was approached by a homeless man who demanded to know how much he would charge for the painting. Mr. Levine, nonplussed, said $50.


David Levine on the beach at Coney Island, around 1974. CreditForum Gallery, New York

“For that?” the man said.
The paintings are a sharply surprising contrast to his caricatures: sympathetic portraits of ordinary citizens, fond and respectful renderings of the distinctive seaside architecture, panoramas with people on the beach.
“None of Levine’s hard-edged burlesques prepare you for the sensuous satisfactions of his paintwork: the matte charm of his oil handling and the virtuoso refinement of his watercolors,” the critic Maureen Mullarkey wrote in 2004. “Caustic humor gives way to unexpected gentleness in the paintings.”
Mr. Levine’s successful career as a caricaturist and illustrator took root in the early 1960s, when he started working for Esquire. He began contributing cover portraits and interior illustrations to The New York Review of Books in 1963, its first year of publication, and within its signature blocky design his cerebral, brooding faces quickly became identifiable as, well, the cerebral, brooding face of the publication. He always worked from photographs, reading the accompanying article first to glean ideas.
“I try first to make the face believable, to give another dimension to a flat, linear drawing; then my distortions seem more acceptable,” he said.
From 1963 until 2007, after Mr. Levine received a diagnosis of macular degeneration and his vision deteriorated enough to affect his drawing, he contributed more than 3,800 drawings to The New York Review. Over the years he did 1,000 or so more for Esquire; almost 100 for Time, including a number of covers (one of which, for the 1967 Man of the Year issue, depicted President Johnson as a raging and despairing King Lear); and dozens over all for The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Washington Post, Rolling Stone and other publications.
Mr. Levine’s first marriage ended in divorce. Besides Ms. Hayes, his partner for 32 years whom he married in 1996, he is survived by two children, Matthew, of Westport, Conn., and Eve, of Manhattan; two stepchildren, Nancy Rommelmann, of Portland, Ore., and Christopher Rommelmann, of Brooklyn; a grandson, and a stepgranddaughter.
“I might want to be critical, but I don’t wish to be destructive,” Mr. Levine once said, explaining his outlook on both art and life. “Caricature that goes too far simply lowers the viewer’s response to a person as a human being.”