Post Road Magazine #15

 

The Kin-der-Kids, Little Orphan Annie, and Masters of American Comics - by Shannon Connelly

In fall 2005 curators at the Hammer Museum and the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles teamed up to organize Masters of American Comics, a dazzling survey of twentieth-century comics innovation, from the early Sunday pages of Winsor McCay to the contemporary graphic novels of Chris Ware. I caught Masters at the tail end of its East Coast run, in January 2007, where it was split chronologically between the Newark Museum in New Jersey and the Jewish Museum on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I’d grown up coveting my uncle’s impressive collection of mint-condition, plastic-wrapped Marvel titles. But Masters of American Comics was no staid procession of superheroes. Instead, it was a compact comics education, exploring the colorful, the grotesque, the lyrical, and the strange through the eyes of fifteen pioneering artists.

In Newark, Masters set the scene with the genteel stylists Winsor McCay and Lyonel Feininger, both famous for their innovative Sunday newspaper pages, and tracked the development of weekly and daily strips from George Herriman’s Krazy Kat to Charles Schulz’s Peanuts, with stops along the way for Frank King’s languid, lovely Gasoline Alley, Chester Gould’s darkly violent Dick Tracy, and Milton Caniff’s exquisite noir set piece Terry and the Pirates. Across the Hudson River, at the Jewish Museum, the focus turned to comic books and their offspring, starting with Will Eisner (The Spirit) and Jack Kirby (creator of well-known characters like Captain America, the Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk, and others, and the only “superhero artist” in the Masters exhibition). The show wound down by winding up, tracing the explosion of underground comix from Harvey Kurtzman and MAD magazine to currently active innovators like Robert Crumb, Gary Panter, and Chris Ware.

Conspicuously absent at the Jewish Museum was Art Spiegelman (of Breakdowns and Maus, as well as 2004’s provocative In the Shadow of No Towers). One of the fifteen selected masters and an early exhibition instigator—Spiegelman first proposed the show ten-odd years ago—he pulled his work at the last minute to protest the geographically inconvenient Newark/New York installation and the censorship of certain works that had been on display in Los Angeles and the exhibition’s second stop, Milwaukee.1 The Jewish Museum scrambled to fill the void, tacking on a tepid installation of superhero drawings at gallery’s end.

Despite these curatorial snafus, Masters of American Comics presented a wide-ranging introduction to American comics and familiarized a museum crowd with a medium usually preserved in dog-eared paperbacks or crumbly newsprint. Yet as the curators readily acknowledged in the accompanying exhibition catalog, narrowing the selection from the wide range of possible “masters” was a challenging process, merely the first step in what they hoped would “open the doors for future museum presentations that reflect the diversity of the medium as it further evolves in the twenty-first century.”2 Surely this gambit is too good to pass up. After taking in the Newark/New York exhibition (and after taking part in Spiegelman’s Columbia University seminar “Comics—Marching into the Canon”), I have a few preliminary ideas. 

I.

Let’s start with some basics. How does one define a “master” of American comics? A master of comics voraciously gobbles up information—from the purely aesthetic to the intensely personal, from the high and lofty to the utterly base. A master then unites these narrative and visual elements to create a personalized diagrammatic vernacular. But this artist is not some empty vessel, oozing inspiration like a slug on pavement. He or she works in response to historical predecessors and in relation to a contemporary audience.

Regardless of genre, however, a master both reinterprets the visual medium and carves out new terrain for those who follow. McCay, the earliest master in Masters of American Comics, infused his dreamworlds with art nouveau flourishes and figures that might have been snipped from a book of Victorian paper dolls. The result was a fantastic style of young adventure stories that would be reworked by comics artists throughout the twentieth century. In the 1950s Kurtzman borrowed the spare, expressive line quality of German woodcuts for war stories like “Corpse on the Imjin!” and “Air Burst!” These tales were the testing ground for the broader cultural critique and crowded visuals of MAD magazine, which would in turn inspire a generation of comic satirists. And Crumb excavated even older forms (from Brueghel to Goltzius to Goya) for his drawings of fat-haunched, strong-ankled women covered in yeti hair or shrink-wrapped in Catholic-schoolgirl uniforms. Although these stories were the specific blueprint of Crumb’s imagination and desires, they nevertheless emboldened a wide audience of underground artists in the 1960s and ’70s.

McCay, Kurtzman, and Crumb are, of course, just three examples of the assimilative and biographically compelling comics auteur, which Masters of American Comics compiled in its series of mini retrospectives to form its twentieth-century canon. Catalog essays and wall texts encouraged viewers to consider the influence of high culture on comics, including Japanese ukiyo-e prints (Feininger), Mark Twain stories (E. C. Segar), old-master drawings (Crumb), and ’60s minimalism (Schulz). While helpful to the non-expert, these allusions also defined the canonical in the mustiest sense of the term: patriarchal, predominantly Caucasian, and legitimized by salty old favorites from art history and classic literature.

The Mastersexhibition was successful, however, at establishing a cogent visual narrative and suggesting links between masters at various points on the historical time line. In Newark, in particular, one could see certain installations bleed from one gallery into the next, suggesting formal or narrative affinities between artists—simplicity of line and idiosyncratic characters passed down from Herriman to Segar, for example, or noirish suspense and crime drama from Gould to Caniff. With a good memory, one could even pick up the thread at the Jewish Museum to draw connections across the century, between Schulz and Ware, Eisner and Kurtzman, and so on down the line. Yet this chronology, by its very nature, was riddled with holes. The New York Times chief art critic, Michael Kimmelman, puzzled at several artists who had been “grievously excluded” from the exhibition, asking: “Where’s Charles Burns? Daniel Clowes? Lynda Barry? Milt Gross? Jules Feiffer? Alex Raymond?”3 Indeed, the Masters show left plenty of room for expansion—if only from one’s curatorial armchair.

A thematic installation might have allowed for more masters (and avoided the limiting, artist-in-a-vacuum scenario), but it would also have led to overcrowding and oversimplification. The focused, mini-retrospective approach was necessary to introduce American audiences to these comics masters within a museum setting. Yet with space for only fifteen artists, adding or subtracting just one master changes the entire scope of the exhibition—the loss of Spiegelman on the East Coast, for example, left a gaping hole in the narrative of the postmodern, self-referential comic strip and the early graphic novel. Changing the cast of characters modifies the story one sets out to tell. With this in mind, I’m going to suggest the removal of one artist and the addition of another for the fifteen-master lineup of Masters of American Comics. 

II.

Each selected master contributed something vital to the development of American comics, to be sure. Yet I would argue that the German-American Feininger (1871–1956), creator of the newspaper comic strips The Kin-der-Kids and Wee Willie Winkie’s World, was the anomaly in the arc of the Mastersexhibition. Feininger was in many ways a quintessential modernist, with a complicated and often contradictory pedigree: a native of New York who spent much of his adult life in Germany, a caricaturist and illustrator who would become one of the original teachers at the Bauhaus, and, later, a celebrated cubist painter. He was also an inventive cartoonist whose brief comics output could not do full justice to his talent and imagination. Certainly, his grasp of color theory and printing technology was masterful, as is evident in his early Sunday pages, soaked in olive green, pale mauve, and lavender. Feininger also devised creative solutions to depicting depth and movement in Kin-der-Kids stories like “Narrow Escape from Aunty JimJam” and “Piemouth Is Rescued by Kind-Hearted Pat” (see fig. 1). The latter introduced Feininger’s clever use of colored brackets between the panels, a device he would further develop in the lyrical Wee Willie Winkie’s World.

What’s more, Feininger led the pack of German cartoonists brought on by Chicago Tribune editor James Keeley to class up the newspaper’s Sunday comics supplement in the early 1900s. Feininger—along with Lothar Meggendorfer, Karl Pommerhanz, and Victor Schramm—was therefore positioned as an old-world master set to hoist the American public up by its bootstraps. The Tribune acknowledged that “the artistic sense of the [American] people has not been developed as highly as in some other countries” and that this was “partly due to the lack of high grade examples for study.”4 To this end, Feininger was called upon to design comics with a sophisticated combination of comic humor and fine-art sensibilities. His efforts echoed the modernist vogue for japonisme, characterized by flat areas of intense color, off-center composition, and low diagonal axes slicing through the picture plane.  

Two Kin-der-Kids Sunday pages epitomize this orientalist style: in “Piemouth Comes to the Rescue of the Kin-der-Kids” (see fig. 2) a series of steeply peaked waves recall the foamy whitecaps in prints by Ando Hiroshige and Katsushika Hokusai. The roiling, pistachio green sea is set against a sky that shifts from blush to carmine to indigo, all the while punctuated by fat yellow lightning bolts. The page is a graphic tour de force, with Feininger as master colorist and compulsive detailer. (Note the grease bubbles in the water in the final panel, after Piemouth has leaked some of his previous night’s dinner.)

A page like “The Kin-der-Kid’s Relief-Expedition Slams into a Steeple, with Results” also packs a similar visual punch, with its careful panel arrangements and muted color palette like a tin of pastel butter mints. Yet from a strict curatorial standpoint, Feininger’s graphic mastery is redundant in the Masters exhibition, where McCay’s Little Nemo in Slumberland and Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend serve together as a fine introduction to both the Sunday color supplement and the early twentieth-century popularity of fantastic adventure comics. 

Furthermore, Feininger had a short life span as an “American” comics artist—just fifty-one pages of comic strips for the Chicago Tribune—and one could also argue that he merely refined a story line that had been well established by 1906. (Here I refer to Wilhelm Busch’s German Max und Moritz, later reinterpreted by Rudolph Dirks in America as The Katzenjammer Kids.5) True, Feininger drew it better, but does this qualify him for inclusion in a masters exhibition of limited curatorial scope?

Indeed, the Masterscurators might have shown a more diverse sampling of early twentieth-century artists by including a contemporary newspaper cartoonist like Tad Dorgan or Bud Fisher, whose work captured the vitality of urban life in boxing matches, horse races, and domestic squabbles. Or the exhibition might instead have included a master like Harold Gray (1894–1968), whose Little Orphan Annie reflected the earnest striving and workaday melodrama of America between the wars.  

III.

Like Feininger, Gray got his start at the Chicago Tribune, where he was a lettering assistant to Sidney Smith (The Gumps). Unlike Feininger, Gray was a committed social realist, with red-state values and a deep sense of moral obligation. He was a cartoonist from the wrong side of the political tracks, but his contributions to the medium would have an enormous effect on later artists, whether they embraced or rejected his ostensibly conservative ideology.

In 1924 Gray pitched a comic strip called Little Orphan Otto to the Chicago Tribune, then run by the influential publisher Joseph Patterson. Captain Patterson encouraged Gray to change his character from Little Orphan Otto (reportedly telling Gray that “he looks like a pansy”6) to Little Orphan Annie; she debuted in the special pink edition of Patterson’s New York Daily News on August 5, 1924. The early strip was spare of ornament and anchored by Annie’s unusual physical characteristics: her trademark dress, unblinking eyes, and wild, meringue-like dollop of hair. Although it shared in the formal tradition of spare, spidery black-and-white dailies like Fisher’s Mutt and Jeff, Herriman’s Stumble Inn, and George McManus’s Bringing Up Father, Little Orphan Annie did not focus on the travails of henpecked husbands or the pranks of mischievous children. The strip instead created a tiny universe of purposeful, plodding melodrama, driven forward by Gray’s mastery of comics structure—a 2-D world populated by darkened doorframes, shadowy staircases, and cold stone walls. When they appeared (as they did in almost every panel), Gray’s bloated speech bubbles lent additional form to this composed world of objects.

Gray liked the idea of having Annie as an orphan, he said, because “she’d have no extraneous relatives, no tangling alliances, and the freedom to go where she pleased.”7 Annie was a spunky do-it-yourselfer, Daddy Warbucks her loving but often absent millionaire father figure. Supported by occasional visits from laconic “Oriental” types like Punjab and the Asp, or like the ageless, nationless Mr. Am, Annie traversed the globe on her adventures, rotating through a cast of stand-in parents who often appeared as less mature and less pragmatic than the eleven-year-old redhead. Annie insisted on paying rent and holding down a job—usually based on her “circus ’sperience”—and even on setting up the hapless, lovelorn adults in her orbit. (The washed-up actress Janey Spangles and loser producer, George Gamble, are just one example.) In this way Annie echoed Gray’s personal convictions of Emersonian self-reliance, industry, and gumption, and mistrust of fancy, spoiled types from Hollywood to big business.8 Gray said of Annie: “She is tougher than hell with a heart of gold and a fast left, who can take care of herself because she has to. She’s controversial, there’s no question about that. But I keep her on the side of motherhood, honesty, and decency.”9

These basic values would steer Gray through more than forty years of Little Orphan Annie, from the Depression to World War II; from the baby boom to the hippie era. As the strip matured, it became more mythic,10 and Annie and Daddy took on qualities of iconic omniscience. Like Superman or Captain America, Annie never grew old; she remained in spunky tween-age limbo until Gray’s death in 1968. And in Little Orphan Annie, like in the superhero comics, what has happened before and what happens after appear hazy and indistinct.11 Causal chains are not open in Annie’s universe; to borrow Umberto Eco’s language, this “temporal scrambling” allows Annie to act without consuming herself—in other words, it allows her to live forever. Gray perpetuated this myth through a geographically vague but rhythmically repetitious story line that was grounded in historical events. He reportedly traveled 40,000 miles a year around the country to “keep his ear to the ground,” yet he ventured abroad only once.12 Perhaps this obsessive focus is what lent Little Orphan Annie its essentially “American” character—work hard, mind your own business, and don’t become hardened or cynical when things don’t go your way.

As the years passed, Gray’s main character did not age, but Little Orphan Annie underwent a steady formal refinement. The dailies of the 1920s and ’30s were open and airy, almost as if the figures had been strung together with bits of black thread. In this way they resembled popular newspaper comics like The Gumps, Thimble Theatre, and The Bungle Family. (Annie had one important difference, however, in that it was anchored by a female leading character.) By the 1940s Gray had adopted a harder line, in the style of Gould’s popular Dick Tracy. The comics historian Donald Phelps has written that the vivid blackness in Dick Tracy is not just negative space but “the supplanting of light by a vigorous, surface-rending presence.”13 Indeed, Gould’s inky diagramming conveys dread in those black-and-white dailies—a bold swatch of sidewalk, the pants of the double-crossing Summer Sisters, a villain’s suit jacket, and so on. Gray, too, used darkness to uncanny effect, particularly as Little Orphan Annie evolved during the war years, when he cut the daily strip from four panels to three.

Whatever its relative size or style, however, Gray’s Annie was quintessential “termite art,” as defined by the film critic Manny Farber in his famous 1962 essay “White Elephant Art vs. Termite Art.” In it Farber describes the persistent, burrowing tendencies of art without artifice (he celebrates B-movie directors like John Ford, for example, along with the “slothful-buzzing acting” of Myron McCormack and Jason Robards) as the antidote to bloated and listless “white elephant art.” Farber writes: “Good work usually arises where the creators . . . seem to have no ambitions towards gilt culture but are involved in a kind of squandering-beaverish endeavor that isn’t anywhere or anything. A peculiar fact about termite-tapeworm-fungus-moss art is that it goes forward eating its own boundaries, and, likely as not, leaves nothing in its path other than the signs of eager, industrious, unkempt activity.”14

And so it is in Little Orphan Annie, where Gray does not hesitate to slow the pace to termite speed, gnawing patiently through situations that other comics dramatists might mark with a brief gesture or one-panel conversation. Gray is also a persistent, no-frills narrator with an industrious sense of forward movement. Beginning on March 9, 1936, Gray introduced the story of Jack Boot, yet another enigmatic father figure in Annie’s progression of stand-in parents (see figs. 3–8). Here we see Gray’s spartan use of gesture and diagramming to guide the reader through the panels, focusing on Annie’s oversize coat and hat as she and Sandy descend the staircase to Jack Boot’s repair shop. Inside, Jack’s massive back and delicately crosshatched vest stand out against a smattering of objects—a chair, a workbench, the scraps of retooled shoes. Like so many panels in Little Orphan Annie, these quiet frames buzz with anticipation. So when Jack tosses a freshly soled shoe back to Annie, the action lines really zip, and Annie reacts with a subtle gesture of appreciation: “Gee—they sure look swell . . .”

The Jack Boot sequence also highlights Gray’s termite-like use of highly slowed-down time. He damps the pacing to a trickle, bidding the reader to follow patiently as Jack and Annie strike up their first conversation. This get-to-know-you session lasts an entire week and is studded with cue cards: “Next Scene Follows Immediately,” “Ten Minutes Elapses . . . ,” “A Few Moments Elapse . . . ,” and the like. (Eisner would later use this control release timing in his September 11, 1949 installment of The Spirit.) But in Gray’s delicate handling of time and in his use of narrative repetition, he was a pioneer of the continuity strip. A story like Jack Boot’s might unfold with little action from Monday through Saturday, but Gray changed pace in his Sunday strips, where villains and ne’er-do-wells could be cut loose or sent to the clink with a few strokes of the pen. By Monday morning, however, these violent scenes were nothing more than a four-line recap, and the meticulous rhythms of Little Orphan Annie would resume.

Gray has been described by some critics as an “expressionist” artist, yet this label refers not to expressive marks on the page, but to a mood of unseen violence hovering just between the panels. Often Gray presented his readers with new characters of questionable moral fiber, and these shady individuals could usually dupe at least one other character with their phoniness. In this way Gray built empathy with his audience and let them in on the trick. Certainly, any armchair Freudian could have a field day with Annie’s daddy issues, and our Jack Boot story carries more than a whiff of the illicit to the cynical, postmodern reader. It is difficult to accept Jack as a benign protector—his physical girth swallows up whole corners of the panel, and his lurking presence is ambiguous: “Will I ever forget that picture? That curly head on the pillow . . . if only . . . but pshaw! They’ll be gone long before this . . .” (see fig. 8). Is Jack Boot just a lonely old man, or is he a creepy child predator? Sensing these contradictions, perhaps, Phelps recently described Annie as “a classic-paced epic whose tone is doom-laden almost beyond articulation.”15

Gray invited his readers to empathize with Annie and to project their emotions onto those unblinking, cipher-like eyes. As we have seen, he created (and sustained) a buzz of menace even in the plod of daily conversation. But where style met social commentary, Gray could be less than subtle. This would put him out of favor with fellow cartoonists like Al Capp, who reacted violently to what he perceived as Gray’s anti-union, pro-capitalist tendencies. (Capp would later pull a 180 on these views, buy a gated home in the country, and write an adoring introduction to a collection of Gray’s daily strips.16) Terry and the Pirates creator Milton Caniff, himself no stranger to conservative sentiment or patriotic fervor, observed that Little Orphan Annie was seen by some as reactionary but in fact captured the mood of the country (and in turn, its loyal readership): 

Gray was a better artist than he knew. His politics were a great part of his armor. I’m sure he felt beaten and bruised from the [liberal] reactions, but he stayed with his guns. And he had the newspaper editors behind him. Most of them felt pretty much the way he did. Editors in those days were in no sense a liberal lot. They were conservative as hell. Sometimes they had to be closet conservatives in big cities. But in smaller towns, the Columbus Dispatch, for instance, there isn’t any question that Orphan Annie spoke for them. I think Gray sensed that. Long balloons or no balloons, they were reading it. You were perfectly willing to stay there and hear him out day after day.17 

Yet despite his occasionally harsh portrayals of union rabble-rousers or lazy, spoiled actresses, Gray dished out his criticism in equal measure, to “conservative” and “liberal” alike. Gray’s social commentary took aim at moochers, hustlers, puffed-up dandies, and cruel tyrants throughout society (and even within big business, despite the protests of critics who would not forgive Gray for creating a hero like Daddy Warbucks).18 And in the tradition of Dick Tracy, or Gray’s literary hero Charles Dickens, the names in Little Orphan Annie often betrayed the essentially good or evil nature of a character. Dickens delighted in the carefully chosen name—Wilkins Micawber, Charley “Master” Bates, Mealy Potatoes, Brittles, Duff, Mr. Grimwig, Bumble, and Mr. Pumblechook all come to mind—and in the detailed social commentary of “types.” Likewise, Gray rolled out a motley cast of supporting characters: the orphanage director Miss Asthma (later Miss Hannigan, in Carol Burnett’s infamous cinematic turn); Mr. Am, a godlike character who brings both Daddy and the Asp back to life; the spoiled child star Tootsie Snoots; or villains like Pig-Eye Mack, Phineas Pinchpenny, and Uriah Gudge.

More important than this delicious procession of names, however, was Gray’s meticulous procession of objects and the mood they could create. Here I refer again to the Jack Boot story, particularly the daily strips on March 12 and 13 (see figs. 6 and 7). In “Sleepy Time Gal” (March 12, 1936) each panel is a quiet beat toward slumber, anchored by a comforting assortment of simple props: a table, a lunch pail, Annie’s fedora, and the gently crosshatched ceiling hanging low overhead. Gray shifts perspective just slightly from panel to panel, and his line quietly echoes the text of Annie’s speech bubble as she drifts off to sleep: “I’ll thank him again—then we’d better go . . . he seems awful busy . . . I’ll wait till he looks up . . . gee—I feel sorta drow-s-s-y . . .” By the third panel both Annie and her dog, Sandy, have receded to the background, fast asleep. “Linger a Little Longer” (March 13, 1936) finds Annie awake and eager to move on (“We don’t want to be a bother”), and Gray stamps each background with the unresolved darkness of a black-paneled door. This shadowy gateway suggests, if only subtly, that Annie might not be quite as safe with Jack as she wants to believe.

While not cinematic in the sense of a Terry and the Pirates or a frenzied Marvel action comic, such objective detachment linked Little Orphan Annie to its contemporaries in avant-garde film, particularly to Weimar directors like Fritz Lang, Walter Ruttmann, or G. W. Pabst, whose 1925 Die freudlose Gasse (The Joyless Street) plopped the young Greta Garbo into a spare, forbidding world of objects—the butcher’s block littered with meat that none but the butcher’s family can afford; a wheelbarrow overflowing with useless currency; or the cold, wet stones of an empty street. These objects punctuate the narrative and mark the slow, burdensome passage of time in inflation-era Berlin. Likewise, Gray’s chronicle of American hard times could feel both mundane and terribly ominous, as Phelps describes in his fine study of Little Orphan Annie, titled Reading the Funnies: Essays on Comic Strips:  

The hypnotic rhythms of Harold Gray, which have often been haphazardly identified as “suspense,” consist of just this, I think: the way he attenuates and scales action, grading it against a lowering, excruciatingly heavy sense of time. Gray’s puritanical delight lies in those longeurs, those prospects of waiting and routine, which are as sweat-boxes to other comic-strip artists, panicky-solicitous of their fans.19 

When such actions or gestures disrupt the frame, as in the whizzing shoe of the Jack Boot story or the darkened doorway described above, they disturb Gray’s quiet arrangement of objects and puncture the narrative sequence. (For another kinetic example, see Annie’s 1935 head butt in figure 9.) But each story soon returns to its languorous rhythms and workaday commentary. In this way Little Orphan Annie is a pioneering example of the intimately scaled melodrama, reflective of its time and of its readership, and driven forward each day by Gray’s mastery of comics structure, from the heavy speech bubbles above to the mundane objects below, these objects elegant and spare—threadlike, even—with a web of gently crosshatched shadows darkening the frame.

 

Works Cited 

    Chicago Tribune, “Tribune’s New Comic Supplement (Begins Next Sunday—Watch for It),” April 29, 1906.

    Eco, Umberto. “The Myth of Superman.” In Arguing Comics, edited by Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester, 146-164. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2004.

    Farber, Manny. Negative Space: Manny Farber on the Movies. New York: Praeger, 1971.

    Gray, Harold. Arf! The Life and Hard Times of Little Orphan Annie: 1935–1945. New Rochelle, NY: Arlington House, 1970.

    Harvey, Robert C., ed. Milton Caniff: Conversations. Conversations with Comic Artists. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2002.

    Kimmelman, Michael. “See You in the Funny Papers!” New York Times, October 13, 2006.

    Marschall, Richard. America’s Great Comic-Strip Artists. New York: Abbeville Press, 1989.

    Phelps, Donald. Reading the Funnies: Essays on Comic Strips. Seattle: Fantagraphics Books, 2001.

    Philbin, Ann, and Jeremy Strick. “Directors’ Foreword.” In Masters of American Comics, edited by John Carlin, Paul Karasik, and Brian Walker, 10. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press in association with the Hammer Museum and the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, 2005.

    Scheyer, Ernst. Lyonel Feininger: Caricature and Fantasy. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1964. 

 

Figure 1

Lyonel Feininger, The Kin-der-Kids, “Piemouth Is Rescued by Kind-Hearted Pat,” published in the Chicago Tribune, September 9, 1906

Figure 2

Lyonel Feininger, The Kin-der-Kids, “Piemouth Comes to the Rescue of the Kin-der-Kids,” published in the Chicago Tribune, June 3, 1906

Figures 3-8



Harold Gray, Little Orphan Annie, Jack Boot introduction, March 9–14, 1936

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Harold Gray, Little Orphan Annie, “Friday, the Thirteenth,” September 13, 1935

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