Cartoon County: My Father and His Friends in the Golden Age of Make-Believe

260 Pages·2017·147.4 MB·English

by  Cullen Murphy

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About the Author
Copyright Page

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For my mother,
Joan Byrne Murphy,
and my brothers and sisters:
Cullene, Siobhan, Byrne, Finn,
Brendan, Cait, and Meg
The poetry of history lies in the quasi-miraculous fact that once, on this earth, once, on this
familiar spot of ground, walked other men and women, as actual as we are today, thinking their
own thoughts, swayed by their own passions, but now all gone, one generation vanishing into
another, gone as utterly as we ourselves shall shortly be gone, like ghosts at cockcrow.

—G. M. Trevelyan
the fading squares with their deckled edges
Polaroid photographs of my father, John Cullen Murphy, posing for scenes he would draw in his first comic
strip, Big Ben Bolt, mid-1950s.
PROLOGUE
Click.
That was my after-school job—pressing down on the shutter release—from
around the age of six until sometime in my teens. My father had bought a
Polaroid camera in 1949, soon after the first one came on the market, the only
instance in his life when he had been an early adopter (if you don’t count Barry
Goldwater). Every afternoon he took pictures of himself—maybe four or five,
maybe a dozen or two. The camera, a portable Model 95, manufactured by a
once-fabled company, was encased in molded leather veneer. Open the front
panel and an accordion-like black bellows slid out on a track, the lens at the
snout embedded in a proud silvery grille that might have graced a Bentley.
Before I was old enough to hold it steady or to sight through the viewfinder,
the camera would be positioned on the shelf of a ladder. Or it would be placed
on a table, raised to an appropriate angle and height by a variable foundation of
tattered art books—an old Harper & Brothers edition of Howard Pyle’s Book of
Pirates; a scuffed, leather-bound Divine Comedy, illustrated by Gustave Doré;
Arthur Rackham’s Aesop’s Fables; and George Bridgman’s Constructive
Anatomy or his Book of a Hundred Hands. My father would take his place in
front of the camera and assemble himself into a pose.
Click.
Then he would pull out the exposed film from the end of the camera; wait
thirty seconds for the picture to develop inside its sealed chemical packet; peel
the finished photograph away from the moist, aromatic backing with a satisfying
pfffft; and preserve the image with a swipe of chemical fixative. On the first try,
something was usually not quite right with the picture. The rictus of terror was
not horrifying enough, the laughter too demure, the pang of grief far below the
level of heartrending pathos my father was seeking. He had acquired his mental
map of emotional display from watching silent movies as a boy. These movies,