Let’s list some stereotypical qualities of cartoonists whose work is indelibly artistic: they’re bookish, shy, quirky, bespectacled–perhaps even a tad anti-social. Winsor McCay, the O.G. of high-low cartooning, was none of these things. Despite his demure day job blowing the mind of kids everywhere with his elegantly surreal comic strip Little Nemo, McCay moonlit as a vaudeville performer. Taking to the stage in the early 20th century, McCay acted out a “speed drawing” routine for dazzled audiences and “interacted” on stage with his groundbreaking animated film about a sassy Diplodocus entitled Gertie The Dinosaur (which, incidentally, singlehandedly established many of the techniques for animating that are still in use today). McCay was so charismatic, he became something of a celebrity–much to the chagrin of his micromanaging dick of a boss, William Randolph Hearst. In character at least, McCay was the kind of cartoonist Savage Steve Holland could only dream of.
Even divorced of his unusual personality and his contributions to the art of animation, McCay was a remarkable man. Have you ever seen a full-sized page of Little Nemo? That shit is bananas. McCay built an elaborate fantasy world around the cruel premise of sending a pre-adolescent boy on a sisyphean quest to meet (literally) the girl of his dreams. The volume of rococo flair and indulgent detail worked into each panel is staggering. The narrative structure of each panel is so beautifully delirious, you question your own sanity. While Little Nemo strips have been widely available in condensed collections for years, the recent releases by Sunday Press Books are the only way to really experience McCay’s comic: printed in its gloriously gigantic 21″ x 16″ original newspaper format, and bound in a book that no Ikea shelf can restrain.
Check out Spike’s post about the influence of Winsor McCay on Maurice’s Little Nemo-esque In The Night Kitchen for more on the subject!
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