Goodbye to William Steig

[BruceH]

I hope nobody has posted this already, but over the weekend cartoonist and author William Steig passed away. He was 95. He started as a staff cartoonist for the New Yorker in the 1930's and started writing and illustrating children's books at 60. His book Sylvester and the Magic Pebble won a Caldecott Medal and was one of my kid's favorite books when they were pre-schoolers. One of the great cartoonists, illustrators, and children's book authors of the 20th century. Rest in peace.

[brownie]

William Steig was not only a great artist, he was also flute player Jeremy Steig's father.

[Late]

Steig was one of the best in his field of work, if not the. I adore Slyvester and the Magic Pebble, as well as Abel's Island. (Don't forget too, for better or worse, that Steig was the creator of Shrek.) There is a great coffee table book out entitled The World of William Steig (Artisan Books) that is well worth purchasing if you have an interest in this writer's work. Children's literature is much more difficult to create — in any authentic sense — than it appears.

[BruceH]

Agreed.

I didn't forget his creation of Shrek, but it seems like EVERYONE had been mentioning that. I'll keep an eye out for that coffee-table book.

[Late]

Dig. Didn't mean to suggest that you, in particular, had forgotten the Shrek connection; just a comment in general. If your kids, as well as yourself, like Steig's narratives and drawings, I think you'll really like The World of.

Now if only Mr. Steig had been a guest artist for a Blue Note album cover!

[paul secor]

Farewell to a fine artist/illustrator. It sounds as if he had a long, full life.

Does anyone know if his son Jeremy is still an active musician?

[maren]

Below is a tribute from William Steig's wife -- expresses beautifully why all the kids and parents I know (I include myself in both roles!) loved his books:

What My Husband SawBy Jeanne Steig, New York Times, October 11, 2003

Bill frequently drew men thinking. They were often leaning on rocks, and their thoughts were somber thoughts. This drawing is a happy combination of rock and man, with a few leftover heads for good measure. Or are all three of them just rising up from the ground, over the horizon, already grim about what they might be letting themselves in for?

My husband, who died just over a week ago at the age of 95, was a bit like that, a champion worrier. He called himself a depressive, but he was the most cheerful man alive. I said from the start that I'd love him as long as he kept me laughing, and he never failed. Even his worries amused me: When we get there we won't be able to park. There will be no table. The food will be awful. You could not stop Bill from worrying; he took too much pleasure from it.

If Bill were asked what he meant to be saying here, he would disavow any knowledge beyond the drawing itself, the physical thing. He drew from an impulse that went straight from the heart to his moving hand — and he always watched that hand with delight, wanting to see what it was up to. The interpretations others might bring surprised him. Really? he'd say, and make haste to forget whatever metaphysical visions had been assigned to him. He didn't need them; they got in the way.

I'll hazard a guess that these rock men represent a lack of feeling, and the sorrow that comes from that unhappy state. In his books, a donkey became a rock, a rabbit became a rusty nail, and people got trapped in bottles. Because he was writing for children, they were always saved. His adult work was, well, harder, and full of grief. The wonderful, tricky thing, for me, was his wit, which embraced the cruelest of truths. Perhaps his most famous drawing is one of a man in a box. The drawing is captioned, "People are no damn good."

But there is that doll beside the rocks, smiling hopefully up at the sky. Where does she come in? I'll hazard another guess: she represents love, left, I suppose, by a passing child. Love trapped in a doll, love lost, or forgotten. Perhaps she emerged from the earth with the rocks — the possibility of love. Bill would tell you it just belonged there. You can see that he drew the doll and the rocks, then decided they needed a little something to soften them, to bring them together; so he put in the grass, and the flowers. There didn't have to be flowers, but he felt the need of them.

The rocks are male figures, the doll is a rather attractive girl. Bill loved women and found them more full of feeling than men, and women loved him. He was open and guileless, always admiring. His innocence was another odd and ambiguous thing. Once, in a taxi in New York, he asked the driver if that was the Empire State Building we were passing. The driver was delighted to tell him a great deal about New York. Bill was born in the Bronx. He just figured the driver would be pleased to have something to say. Once, in Boston, he started a conversation with a driver from Kenya that went on so enthusiastically that the driver pulled over and turned off the meter, so he could complete his remarks. And that, said Bill, was the best part of the evening.

I'd say that Bill was a tragicomic artist, surely a difficult thing to be. You have to feel both the truth and the grief of the truth, and find a way to present them with redeeming delight. Bill's books, including the ones for children, never shied away from the truth. He talked about death and cruelty and God. He never condescended. He always gave you the whole thing, and always left you something to wonder about when it was over. He wondered himself. Often, after what looked like long consideration, he would ask whoever happened to be around, "What's it all about?" He really wanted to know. But if you thought you had the answer, he'd say, "Really?" — and then go on considering.