ben.!
03-26-2008, 07:53 AM
Cartooning Essence
In his spare time, Peter drew cartoons. Not that he had that much spare time, his work at the cinema (a cleaner) did not lend itself well to time flexibility. His shifts were Monday to Saturday, ten o’ clock in the morning until nine-thirty at night; two hours break in between for lunch. However Sunday, the only day off Peter had, he dedicated to cartoons. The times he spent cleaning out debris in cinema he would now spend scribbling away cartoon strips, lampooning famous stars such as Bono, Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, the lot of them, Peter Hanley would chuckle to himself as he sketched caricatures and fancy speech bubbles.
He also aimed to poke fun at and satire the political scene, Peter recently drew a witty cartoon portraying the Australian election of 2007, depicting John Howard as a short little plump boy, splayed out on a living room floor, his eyebrows off to the left, the fat, meaty hands groping around for them as if they were glasses. Behind this was Kevin Rudd, illustrated to be a sneaky, meticulous, calculating villain, holding a carpet up against his chest, his brow drawn in and his features turned to a sneer, Peter made a point of putting a glint in the man’s eye. As a caption to this Peter Hanley wrote below: Kevin Rudd has pulled the carpet out from under John Howard. He then drew a speech bubble emanating from Howard, as if he were muttering into the carpet as an after thought. This read: ‘Gosh darn it. I should have known’.
Peter drew these just for fun, occasionally sending one or two off to a newspaper, receiving a rejection slip as a reply a month later. When asked why he was a cartoonist by friends or family, Peter Hanley would give them this simple explanation: ‘I draw cartoons because I love to draw cartoons. And I tend to find; the essence of great cartooning is simplicity and distilling the character down to a few simple lines; to extract the essence of what’s going on around us and to present the news of the day in such a way that readers can get a laugh and be entertained.’ He had this memorised to the letter, however when he said it he made it seem off-the-cuff, on impulse.
One party he said this, and the girl, clad with champagne, looked startled and rocked back and forth on her feet.
‘How profound,’ she said, ‘Mr. Hanley.’ The girl took a sip of her glass, and curled a hair back behind her ear, a muted giggle sounded in the glass.
Peter liked her; there was no doubt about it, for the ten minutes they had known each other he had found her scintillating. ‘I’ve forgotten your name, I’m sorry.’ Hanley said, smiling.
‘Rebecca. Pleasure.’ Rebecca switched her champagne to the other hand and held out her right hand.
Peter laughed, setting his wine down on the table next to them. ‘I’ve shook this once, but I’m happy to do it again.’ He shook her hand.
Another sip. ‘So then, Mr. Hanley, or Peter, I should say.’ Rebecca grinned lop-sidedly; the champagne seemed to have contorted her smile to curl more at the sides. ‘Tell me more about this cartooning of yours, I’m awful interested.’
Peter cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I started it six years ago and never stopped since. I try to draw everything, from Cate Blanchett to Mao Tse-Tung.’
‘Amazing.’ Rebecca replied, ‘Simply sublime.’
‘How old were you again?’ Peter asked.
‘Twenty. Twenty-one soon.’ Rebecca said, sipping at her champagne once again.
‘Twenty.’ Hanley echoed, ‘That’s interesting. I’m twenty-eight.’
‘Where do you work?’ Rebecca queried suddenly.
Peter faltered. What could he say? A cleaner in a movie theatre is not seen to be much of a turn-on these days. Best to tie off that avenue of conversation. ‘I’d rather not say.’ He quickly took wine to his lips.
‘Really? Naughty-naughty. I bet you work some place really naughty.’ She began to giggle, a rising giggle from the bottom of her belly that was fast turning into a laugh.
‘It’s not all that naughty, no.’
There was a silence. How could he reach this girl after the party? It was one of his best friend’s parties, Tom’s party. There had been a great turnout. He had invited sixty, and sixty had come to the foot of his mansion, black ties, red dresses, the works. Waiters and waitresses mingled amongst the babbling crowds. Music filtered through the huge expanse, light late-night jazz. Saxophone, piano, hi-hat, and a bit of trumpet. Peter had got talking to Rebecca in the corner of the ball-room five minutes into the party after Tom had introduced them, Rebecca being a colleague of his, and Peter the best friend, Tom then moving on, looking like he had something to do.
Peter broke the silence, startling Rebecca. ‘So then, where do you work?’
Rebecca returned a smile before downing her champagne. ‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Tom said you were a colleague.’
‘I’d rather not say. So, tell me about this ‘essence’ you speak of in cartooning.’
‘The essence is simplicity,’ Peter said, gulping wine in between the breaks, ‘do a cartoon well and you got to keep it simple. Do it simple, do it fast and you’re bound to do a good cartoon.’ He changed course, changed tone. ‘You read much of the Courier-Mail?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m not in it. Nowhere to be found.’
‘Rebecca laughed heartily. ‘I like you Peter, I really do. You and your cartooning, your essence, your style. It’s funky.’ Before Peter knew what was happening, she had reached over and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Can I have your number?’ She whispered in his ear.
‘Sure.’ Peter said, and relayed his number to her.
‘I’ll call sometime.’ Rebecca said.
‘Sure.’ She moved off, and that was the last time he ever heard of Rebecca. She never called. How inconsiderate, Peter had thought weeks later, sipping a coffee and flicking through the Courier-Mail. How inconsiderate.
In his spare time, Peter drew cartoons. Not that he had that much spare time, his work at the cinema (a cleaner) did not lend itself well to time flexibility. His shifts were Monday to Saturday, ten o’ clock in the morning until nine-thirty at night; two hours break in between for lunch. However Sunday, the only day off Peter had, he dedicated to cartoons. The times he spent cleaning out debris in cinema he would now spend scribbling away cartoon strips, lampooning famous stars such as Bono, Britney Spears, Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, the lot of them, Peter Hanley would chuckle to himself as he sketched caricatures and fancy speech bubbles.
He also aimed to poke fun at and satire the political scene, Peter recently drew a witty cartoon portraying the Australian election of 2007, depicting John Howard as a short little plump boy, splayed out on a living room floor, his eyebrows off to the left, the fat, meaty hands groping around for them as if they were glasses. Behind this was Kevin Rudd, illustrated to be a sneaky, meticulous, calculating villain, holding a carpet up against his chest, his brow drawn in and his features turned to a sneer, Peter made a point of putting a glint in the man’s eye. As a caption to this Peter Hanley wrote below: Kevin Rudd has pulled the carpet out from under John Howard. He then drew a speech bubble emanating from Howard, as if he were muttering into the carpet as an after thought. This read: ‘Gosh darn it. I should have known’.
Peter drew these just for fun, occasionally sending one or two off to a newspaper, receiving a rejection slip as a reply a month later. When asked why he was a cartoonist by friends or family, Peter Hanley would give them this simple explanation: ‘I draw cartoons because I love to draw cartoons. And I tend to find; the essence of great cartooning is simplicity and distilling the character down to a few simple lines; to extract the essence of what’s going on around us and to present the news of the day in such a way that readers can get a laugh and be entertained.’ He had this memorised to the letter, however when he said it he made it seem off-the-cuff, on impulse.
One party he said this, and the girl, clad with champagne, looked startled and rocked back and forth on her feet.
‘How profound,’ she said, ‘Mr. Hanley.’ The girl took a sip of her glass, and curled a hair back behind her ear, a muted giggle sounded in the glass.
Peter liked her; there was no doubt about it, for the ten minutes they had known each other he had found her scintillating. ‘I’ve forgotten your name, I’m sorry.’ Hanley said, smiling.
‘Rebecca. Pleasure.’ Rebecca switched her champagne to the other hand and held out her right hand.
Peter laughed, setting his wine down on the table next to them. ‘I’ve shook this once, but I’m happy to do it again.’ He shook her hand.
Another sip. ‘So then, Mr. Hanley, or Peter, I should say.’ Rebecca grinned lop-sidedly; the champagne seemed to have contorted her smile to curl more at the sides. ‘Tell me more about this cartooning of yours, I’m awful interested.’
Peter cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I started it six years ago and never stopped since. I try to draw everything, from Cate Blanchett to Mao Tse-Tung.’
‘Amazing.’ Rebecca replied, ‘Simply sublime.’
‘How old were you again?’ Peter asked.
‘Twenty. Twenty-one soon.’ Rebecca said, sipping at her champagne once again.
‘Twenty.’ Hanley echoed, ‘That’s interesting. I’m twenty-eight.’
‘Where do you work?’ Rebecca queried suddenly.
Peter faltered. What could he say? A cleaner in a movie theatre is not seen to be much of a turn-on these days. Best to tie off that avenue of conversation. ‘I’d rather not say.’ He quickly took wine to his lips.
‘Really? Naughty-naughty. I bet you work some place really naughty.’ She began to giggle, a rising giggle from the bottom of her belly that was fast turning into a laugh.
‘It’s not all that naughty, no.’
There was a silence. How could he reach this girl after the party? It was one of his best friend’s parties, Tom’s party. There had been a great turnout. He had invited sixty, and sixty had come to the foot of his mansion, black ties, red dresses, the works. Waiters and waitresses mingled amongst the babbling crowds. Music filtered through the huge expanse, light late-night jazz. Saxophone, piano, hi-hat, and a bit of trumpet. Peter had got talking to Rebecca in the corner of the ball-room five minutes into the party after Tom had introduced them, Rebecca being a colleague of his, and Peter the best friend, Tom then moving on, looking like he had something to do.
Peter broke the silence, startling Rebecca. ‘So then, where do you work?’
Rebecca returned a smile before downing her champagne. ‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Tom said you were a colleague.’
‘I’d rather not say. So, tell me about this ‘essence’ you speak of in cartooning.’
‘The essence is simplicity,’ Peter said, gulping wine in between the breaks, ‘do a cartoon well and you got to keep it simple. Do it simple, do it fast and you’re bound to do a good cartoon.’ He changed course, changed tone. ‘You read much of the Courier-Mail?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m not in it. Nowhere to be found.’
‘Rebecca laughed heartily. ‘I like you Peter, I really do. You and your cartooning, your essence, your style. It’s funky.’ Before Peter knew what was happening, she had reached over and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Can I have your number?’ She whispered in his ear.
‘Sure.’ Peter said, and relayed his number to her.
‘I’ll call sometime.’ Rebecca said.
‘Sure.’ She moved off, and that was the last time he ever heard of Rebecca. She never called. How inconsiderate, Peter had thought weeks later, sipping a coffee and flicking through the Courier-Mail. How inconsiderate.