Gorey Thoughts

This is my niece hovering over a jigsaw puzzle (proudly completed) that I gave her (and my nephew) for Christmas. It was sort-of a spontaneous lark of a gift since jigsaws are not really “in” in this era of on-line ephemera. But it caught my eye because of its subject matter; which is a large and detailed drawing by the late Edward Gorey who, in my particular formative years of comic-lit., was somewhat of a hero; along with Walt Kelly, R. Crumb, and later, Gary Larsen.

Way back in the mist of my own personal past I happened to be at the famous Gotham Book Mart (now defunct) on West 47th St. in Manhattan and wandered upstairs because there was a small sign in the window touting a show of Edward Gorey’s work. The stairs were rickety and the gallery was small, badly lit and a bit musty and I was the only viewer/customer. The art was arranged haphazardly around the walls and there were a couple of long tables with various prints laid flat. Seated in the middle of one of the tables was a slim-beaked person bundled up in one helluva raccoon coat (probably floor length--and this was in the summer), a spade shaped white beard/moustache, lots of rings on many fingers, granny glasses and, I think, hoop earrings (although I might be wrong about the earrings) and he was quietly, intently and almost mechanically signing his name in the lower right hand corner of each of a stack of prints; barely rustling the paper as the pile on his left diminished and the one on his right grew. It was, of course, the man himself. I was thrilled to see him and to be the subject of his rather famous eccentricity with his lack of response to my hello or even acknowledgement of my presence. Sort of a reverse thrill I guess that would be. I gave in to his privacy and what looked like an intense methodic dream state and I faithfully peered at every piece of artwork on the walls and tried not to stare at this exotic creature plugging away at, well, plugging his artwork. He inspected each sheet before he signed it and I looked longingly at the few discards under the table at his feet, unsigned and probably destined for shredding.

I went downstairs and bought two photo prints, fresh off the right-hand pile upstairs: one of “The Hapless Child” which I gave to my sister (okay, where is it now?) and the other a reprint of one-half of a two-page spread for the New York Times, illustrating the 12 Days of Christmas. At the time I couldn’t afford both halves. I doubt if there is any great value to these works except maybe to an autograph collector. I think I can vouch for the authenticity of the signature if not the actual man himself. He could have been just a finely detailed drawing of a ghost.