1

1500–1900
Early Developments: The Reformation and Social Comment

If searching for early examples of visual defiance against authority, it is tempting to use the beginning of the 20th century as a starting point. After all, that century defines an era, more or less, of living memory (ours or our relatives), and the centuries before that seem too vast and too distant. The vastness is true: disputes and protests and their visual expression, stretch far back in time, and are of such quantity as to offer a whole study in itself. But the distance, conceptually speaking, is false. Even a superficial glance at those earlier centuries is startling, for many of the issues at the centre of the protests, as well as the way that artists communicated them, are surprisingly similar to those of the present.

This chapter therefore deals with the vastness of the pre-1900s by presenting particular highlights of graphic work, and their creators, over those earlier centuries. The Protestant Reformation provides a good starting point. The advent of the ‘political print’, as a tool of protest, relied heavily on the multiplication of an image as a means of spreading its anger. Both paper and print had become available to the West in the 1400s. By the early 1500s, printing allowed an image to be multiplied, important in spreading ideas to the illiterate masses. It was possible to show anger towards life’s injustices or those in power, by producing crude or awful depictions of key people or actions, then reproducing them in multiples and distributing them by means of strolling printsellers. Thus such messages were carried mainly through pictures (as few could actually read).¹

The first great movement of resistance was aimed at the power of the Catholic Church and the authority of its Pope. It came in the form of Martin Luther’s Reformation, ignited in 1517 by his posting of his Ninety-Five Theological Theses on the door of the church in Wittenberg. Illustrations became one of the Reformation’s most productive forces of propaganda and communication. Many of the German artists at that time were against Rome, particularly those close to Luther such as his friend Lucas Cranach the Elder, as well as Mathias Grünewald, Albrecht Dürer and others. The artwork, artistically, tended to be extremely aggressive and crude. Messages tended to be simple, direct and devoid of broader arguments or ethical discussion. Unlike books, which were largely appreciated by a small, intellectual set of the population, prints were for the masses – and often oppositional, showing anger, demanding justice or applying cruel humour to the controllers above them.²

‘The Miseries and Misfortunes of War’ (1632–33), by Jacques Callot (1593–1635), is often experienced through the display of only one of its most distressing images, entitled ‘The Hanging Tree’. It is in fact a morality tale, told in a sequence of 18 small etchings, each measuring roughly 8.1 cm high by 18.6 cm wide (3.5 × 7.5 in). It is considered to be one of the first attempts to show how the horrors of war impact on the very fabric of society, particularly the common people. But it is also a tale about the notion of ‘going to war’: what happens to those who are recruited, transformed by the insanity of battle, and then run berserk, killing and maiming innocents and committing atrocities. The recruits then suffer gruesome punishment by their commanding officers (who catch up with them), and even worse, by peasants seeking to avenge the innocents.³

The Pope Descending to Hell 1521
Lucas Cranach the Elder

Callot was born in the Duchy of Lorraine, apparently of noble birth. Throughout much of his life, he was known to enjoy and keep company with the poorer sectors of society as well as with the rich and powerful. The latter would have been necessary as etching was an expensive process and he would have been in need of a patron or two along the way. The French army invaded Lorraine in 1633, wreaking havoc and carnage on a grand scale, and therefore providing the backdrop against which ‘The Miseries’ were created, and must be read.⁴

Our modern spirit of revolution, embedded in the smallest protest or uprising, has often mythologized or claimed its historical roots in the French Revolution of 1789. The French Revolution desired and manifested earth-shattering changes. It produced the ‘Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen’, presenting the new and crucially democratic idea that ‘the state’ was not the property of a king or royal dynasty, but was composed of its people, thereby giving birth to the idea of ‘nationhood’. (For men only; unfortunately the revolution had no interest in giving political rights to women.) In January 1793 King Louis was guillotined, and later in the year so was his wife Marie Antoinette. Hence the revolution also produced bloodshed: harsh divisions formed between the revolutionaries (Jacobins) and the moderates (Girondins). The Jacobins seized power and the Committee of Public Safety, headed by the overly fastidious Robespierre, began exterminating the opposition. In the Reign of Terror (Sept 1793–July 1794), over ten months it is estimated around 40,000 people were guillotined throughout France, until Robespierre himself was finally guillotined, followed by a period of calm until Napoleon Bonaparte’s takeover in 1799.⁵

The initial five-year period produced a genuine attempt at making radical changes to society, at many different levels. For example, in 1793 the Jacobins introduced a new calendar of ten-day weeks, and renamed the months. The revolution produced new pictorial symbols, such as the Phrygian cap of liberty (bonnet rouge) and tricolor cockades (in the revolutionary colours of red, white and blue), often worn together. Such symbols, when worn, identified ‘patriots’, or the ‘sans-culottes’ (meaning literally ‘without-breeches’), a term used to describe people of the street.⁶

The 18th-century British artist and engraver, William Hogarth (1697–1764), was a pioneer of social satire and criticism. His career saw the rise of political satire, although Hogarth’s main interest lay in exposing social hypocrisy through narrative series, such as ‘The Rake’s Progress’, or through contemporary London interiors or street scenes. In 1751 he produced his arguably most famous print, ‘Gin Lane’, an image of poverty and moral decay (but not without humour): a baby falls out of its drunken mother’s arms, a dog and a beggar chew on the same bone. Funny or not, it is a call for social reform.⁷

The golden age of British satire flourished from 1780 to 1830. Artists included James Gillray, Thomas Rowlandson, Isaac Cruikshank and his sons Robert and George, and many others. Two particularly stand out, and both were professionally trained. James Gillray elevated the practice of caricature and satire to a professional discipline. He produced brilliantly offensive ‘political satire’ (i.e. having a poke at politicians), introducing complex compositions full of distorted yet recognizable likenesses, and venomous attacks. Importantly, he cut free from the classic academic models of the time, preferring ‘Romantic’ dream imagery and weird imaginings (he apparently influenced Goya). His prints became nightmare creations; those relating to the French Revolution are bloody, dripping with sensationalism. Thomas Rowlandson’s subjects, by contrast, arose from observation; he dealt with the follies of everyday behaviour. He also excelled at developing humour from the depiction of contrasts: young and old, fat and thin, the grotesque and the beautiful, and so on. It is through his watercolours and drawings that the dramas and catastrophes of contemporary life in London were revealed, presenting a true ‘mirror of an age’.⁸

In December 1807, France and Britain were at war. Napoleon marched French troops into northern Spain on the false pretext of protecting his Spanish allies from the British. In spring 1808, French troops took over Madrid, and Napoleon declared his brother, Joseph, King of Spain. A guerrilla war broke out between Spanish civilians and the occupiers. The artist Francisco Goya responded to the savagery of the conflict, producing 80 etchings and aquatints over 10 years. The series was titled ‘The Disasters of War’ (1810–20), and divided into three groups: the war, the year of famine (1811–12) and the caprichos enfaticos (striking caprices) which were against the Catholic Church.⁹

Atrocities were committed on both sides. French soldiers committed rape and left naked, mutilated corpses hanging or impaled on trees to demoralise the Spanish people. The Spanish peasants were depicted fighting back and butchering the enemy with their farm tools, with anguish and insanity in their eyes. Goya’s message was clear: the war turned both sides into animals or monsters. The war (and French occupation) ended in June 1813. Due to the depicted horrors and anti-establishment tone of the images, the copperplates of Goya’s ‘The Disasters of War’ were locked away after his death in 1828, and remained unpublished for 26 years.¹⁰

Long after the French Revolution of 1789, when memories of Napoleon’s victories were fading and the shadows of republican ideals were about to be reinstated, a new, liberal revolution took place in France. The July Revolution of 1830 brought the ‘King of the French people’ Louis-Philippe to power, who then proclaimed freedom of the press. Three months later Charles Philipon, who had gathered a team of brilliant artists, founded the satirical weekly La Caricature in 1831 and almost immediately took ‘a step too far’, publishing a drawing (in four stages) of the king’s head metamorphosing into an over-ripe, rotting ‘poire’ or pear-head. (‘Poire’ is also French slang for fool or simpleton.) Philipon was hauled into court and, story has it, avoided prison by making sketches for the jury, demonstrating that the resemblance was true and therefore not his fault – so he was acquitted of the charge of defamation. He launched another (more savage) satirical paper Le Charivari in 1832. Meanwhile ‘Les Poires’ became an emblem of resistance against authority, and continued to have a needling effect, appearing in Philipon’s papers in as many annoying variations as possible. When Louis-Philippe decreed the ‘image’ must no longer exist, Philipon published articles in which the pear-head image was not drawn, but was formed out of the arrangement of the type, thereby skirting around the decree. Not surprisingly, by September 1835 the entire French free press was censored on political subjects.¹¹

Considered by many as the father of American political cartoons, in 1870 Thomas Nast created his famous visual campaign against big city corruption. William Marcy Tweed (aka ‘Boss’ Tweed) was a New York politician who gained power over Tammany Hall, the Democratic Party’s political machine in New York City. He was therefore able to influence the appointment of city officials, control the city government and through his ‘Tammany Hall Ring’ of allies, access public money. At Harper’s Weekly magazine, political cartoonist Nast was committed to ending Tweed’s reign of corruption. Nast created a caricature of Boss Tweed as a power-mad, over-fed thug, as well as the frightening ‘Tammany Tiger’ prowling the streets of New York City.¹²

From 1867–76 (and particularly 1870–71) Nast stalked his prey, creating cartoons intended to undermine Tweed’s power and turn the electorate against him, as 1871 was an election year. The New York Times joined the fray, with ongoing articles mentioning rumours of corruption, and finally, documented evidence from leaked financial records (which it ran on its front page). Although never actually working together, both Nast and The New York Times were instrumental in exposing the criminal actions of Tweed and his friends, and inciting public outrage. Tweed’s fury at the pictures, and obviously their effect, resulted in the famous quote ‘Let’s stop those damned pictures. I don’t care much what the papers write about me – my constituents can’t read; but damn it, they can see pictures!’¹³

He was right. In the 1871 election, the public – literate or not – voted many Tammany candidates out of office. A large number, including Tweed himself, ended up in prison. In 1875 Tweed escaped and headed for Spain, but was caught and extradited back to a New York jail. A Spanish officer had recognised him from a Nast cartoon!¹⁴

French Revolution playing card: the ‘King of Clubs’ transforms into ‘genius of cultivation’ 1794
Henri Mouton

The Tammany Tiger Loose 1871
Thomas Nast

Martin Luther and the Reformation

The Donkey-Pope of Rome 1523
Lucas Cranach
Woodcut

In 1517 Martin Luther posted his Ninety-Five Theological Theses on the door of a church in Wittenberg. This launched the Reformation, an outright act of resistance to the power and authority of the Catholic Church and its pope. Illustrations were powerful propaganda for an illiterate audience, and Luther relied on his dedicated artist friends (such as Lucas Cranach) to create such messages, often produced as prints or broadsides for the masses. ‘The Donkey-Pope of Rome’ is actually a re-drawn copy of an earlier engraving that recorded the alleged appearance of a monster standing on the banks of the River Tiber in Rome. It was then given new meaning and satirical purpose by Cranach. Modern interpretation therefore lies with the viewer: it is possible to ponder some complex meaning in the grotesque combination of a donkey’s head, a woman’s body, a dragon’s tail and so on. But it is also possible (and perhaps more likely) to see it simply as coarse 16th-century mischief and a sniggering view of the ‘monster’ pope with a demon emerging from his arse.

The Devil Playing the Bagpipes c. 1530
Erhard Schön
Woodcut

Many broadsheets such as this were produced during the Reformation by its ‘reformers’ in their tirade against the Catholic Church. The devil is shown here, playing the head of a monk like a bagpipe. Such images were very popular; it was a common belief that monks were the instrument of the devil, or that the devil searched through monastic orders hoping to find a suitable monk through which to ‘play his tune’. The bottom right-hand corner of such images was often left clear of detail, as a letterpress message of anti-Catholic sentiment was printed or pasted there, before posting the broadsheets around the town. It is sometimes thought that this image was produced by the Counter-reformation, and that the monk shown here is Martin Luther, but there is no evidence to prove this. However, it is not far-fetched to think that such broadsheets may have been altered for use as propaganda by both sides.

Jacques Callot: ‘The Miseries of War’

(Image A) 1 of 18: Title page

The Miseries and Misfortunes of War 1632–33
Jacques Callot
Etchings: 6 of a total of 18

(Image B) 2 of 18: The Recruitment of Troops

(Image C) 5 of 18: Plundering a Large Farmhouse

(Image D) 11 of 18: The Hanging

(Image E) 13 of 18: The Stake

(Image F) 17 of 18: The Peasants Avenge Themselves

Jacques Callot’s ‘The Miseries and Misfortunes of War’ is a morality tale, told in a sequence of 18 small but highly detailed etchings, each measuring roughly 8.1 cm high x 18.6 cm wide (3.5 x 7.5 in). Produced against the backdrop of the French invasion of his home province of Lorraine, it is considered to be one of the first attempts at showing how war impacts on the very fabric of society. But it is also a tale about ‘going to war’: what happens to those who are recruited, transformed by the insanity of battle, then run berserk, killing and maiming innocents and committing atrocities. In the end, they suffer gruesome punishment by their commanding officers (who catch up with them), and worse by peasants avenging the innocents. Callot is an expert storyteller. Despite showing complex scenes and working at a miniaturist’s scale, he avoids confusion of events and people by providing an identifier: the tiny buttons that form a line down the side of the breeches worn by the French army. Following those buttons from one etching to another allows identification of the French army as well as its punishment of its own recruits. The title page and five etchings are shown here; a link to the entire sequence can be found in the Bibliography at the end of this book.

The French Revolution

The Indivisible Unity of the Republic: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity or Death c. 1793
Artist unknown
Poster

The French Revolution of 1789 will forever be remembered (and admired) for its production of ‘The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen’, which gave birth to the idea of ‘nationhood’ (the ‘state’ was formed of its people; it was not the property of a royal dynasty). It then attempted to completely redesign society at all levels, according to its Republican vision. Fortunately these changes were pictorialized. The poster shown here carries a statement of commitment: ‘The Indivisible Unity of the Republic: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity or Death’. The colours of the Republic are flying at the top, and the Phrygian cap of liberty (bonnet rouge) with its tricolor cockade, one of the great symbols of the revolution, towers over all. The man on the left is from the Army of the Republic (a builder or engineer), the man on the right is a patriot or ‘sans-culotte’; both are coming together in a message of shared respect. The sans-culotte (meaning literally ‘without breeches’) were people of the street. The men rejected notions of aristocratic dress with its buttoned breeches, and instead wore simple trousers with braces, a Phrygian cap and cockade, tended to carry a pike (a cheap but effective weapon, as shown here) and answered to the name of ‘Citizen’ rather than formal modes of address. They were people who had existed at the bottom, poorer end of society, but who knew their time had come – and were ready for revenge and a good fight.

The Wife of a Sans-Culotte c. 1793
Designer unknown
Print

The revolution did not declare political rights for women, but that did not stop them from participating. Hence the patriot ‘look’ belonged to both men and women. Women rejected the extreme fashions of the time, and wore a simple skirt and apron plus a tricolor cockade. In addition, they were usually depicted carrying weapons.

The Execution of Louis XVI 1793
Georg Heinrich Sieveking
German copperplate engraving

Political change went hand-in-hand with social transformation. In the autumn of 1792 France declared itself a republic. In January 1793 King Louis XVI was executed by guillotine, followed later in the year by his extravagant wife, Marie Antoinette (otherwise known as ‘Madame Déficit’). The new National Assembly, divided by two factions, shed the weaker one and established a revolutionary government which ruled by ‘the nation’s razor’, the guillotine. Mass executions took place until 1794: a period labelled the ‘Reign of Terror’. Thus the menacing image of the guillotine became the enduring symbol of the revolution over the centuries.

Vendémiaire 1793
Illustrator unknown
Lithograph

The revolution even restructured time, or the calendar. Year I of the French Republic was decreed to be 1792 (not 1789). Time was decimalized: a week was changed to 10 days. The year was split into 12 months, but further divisions made matters even more confusing. Months were given names that linked to nature. ‘Vendémiaire’ related to the new month of the ‘vendanges’ or vine harvest; it replaced September and marked the beginning of the year. Irregardless of the confusion, however, it was best to follow along; the penalty for living in what was called the ‘old style’ was death.

The Golden Age of British Satire

Gin Lane 1750–51
William Hogarth
Etching and engraving

The 18th century artist William Hogarth is widely acknowledged as the father of British satirical art. His main interest lay in exposing social hypocrisy through the creation of narrative series, or through contemporary London interiors or street scenes. He witnessed the rise in popularity of ‘caricature’ (the comic exaggeration of a person’s physical features), but insisted that he drew ‘characters’ from observation or reportage, and considered caricature to be ‘flippant’. His most famous social satire, and surely a demand for social reform, is ‘Gin Lane’: a tale of modern – and morbid – urban life. Its complexity would have provided much enjoyment for London’s semi-literate audience.

The French Invasion; – or – John Bull Bombarding the Bum-Boats 1793
James Gillray
Engraving

James Gillray elevated the practice of caricature and satire to a professional discipline. His complex compositions were full of distorted (yet recognizable) likenesses, political ridicule, and venomous attacks. Gillray also fused political satire or social commentary with the bawdy, and scatological, tastes of the time. This image shows John Bull – a personification of England, with the face of King George III – heavily defecating on France and its ‘bum-boats’ (a sneering name for the small supply boats that accompanied large fleets) as a way of warding off the French threat of invasion.

Maniac Ravings or Little Boney in a Strong Fit 1805
James Gillray
Hand-coloured engraving on paper

Gillray’s personification of Napoleon Bonaparte as Little Boney was one of the most vicious in a stream of anti-French prints produced from 1798 onward. Boney was depicted as a ranting, raving, kicking, fretting, lunatic, evil dwarf, subjected to various indignities. It became powerful propaganda, and soon grew to be the international image or ‘idea’ of Napoleon. By the early 1800s, Gillray’s fame was as international as Boney’s.

Connoisseurs 1799
Thomas Rowlandson
Hand-coloured etching

Thomas Rowlandson’s humour was derived from his observations of London life and particularly the foolishness of human behaviour, irrespective of age, rank or social class. He excelled at depicting – at times rather savagely – the silliness to be found in contrasts: old and young, fat and thin, and so on. A number of these contrasts are at work in ‘Connoisseurs’: the grotesque and the beautiful, the old and young, the dark threatening colours of the men’s clothing and the pale nudity of the woman (Venus) in the painting. All work to produce a funny but uncomfortable image of lecherous desire for what cannot be had.

Distillers Looking Into Their Own Business 1811
Thomas Rowlandson
Etching with publisher’s watercolour on paper

At this point in time, cheap gin was viewed as the source of, or at least a contributor to, a variety of social problems and was therefore heavily regulated. As a result, it was also produced in a variety of illegal forms (i.e. bootleg). This image, sickening but laughable, makes a protest by imagining the worst that could happen.

Fashionable Contrasts; – or – The Duchess’s Little Shoe Yielding to the Magnitude of the Duke’s Foot 1792
James Gillray
Engraving

In an alarmingly contemporary gesture relating to intercourse (and a view which has appeared in advertising and poster work up to the present day), James Gillray has a poke at aristocracy. This satirical statement summarizes the union of the newly married Duke and Duchess of York. The Duke – huge, self-centred, over-indulgent and soon to be King – is more or less burying the Duchess. It is doubtful she will survive the experience happily.

Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense (Shame be to him who thinks evil of it) 1821
Theodore Lane Etching and engraving, with publisher’s watercolour on paper

By the late 1700s, satirical artists such as James Gillray and Thomas Rowlandson had become the newsreaders, social commentators and critics of their time. They targeted all aspects of society: the government, military, politicians, fashionistas, as well as the poor and homeless. They gained international renown, as their work travelled abroad. At home, their work was revered by rich collectors (even those who had been satirized) and displayed publicly in the windows of print-shops, allowing broad public access to and enjoyment of the imagery: an 18th-century version of newspaper headlines or online news. There was an enormous demand for satirical prints in London, causing the proliferation of print-shops throughout the city – at least ten were located in The Strand alone.

Francisco Goya: ‘The Disasters of War’

I Can’t Bear to Look

The Disasters of War 1810–20
Francisco Goya Etchings and aquatints

Not in This Case

This is Worse

They Don’t Want To

The Same

Napoleon Bonaparte established himself as Emperor of France in 1804. Still looking for areas in which to expand his empire, in 1807 he marched French troops into northern Spain. In 1808 he occupied Madrid and declared his brother, Joseph, King of Spain. But Spanish civilians fought back, in a savage guerrilla war against the occupiers. Atrocities were committed on both sides: French soldiers impaled their conquests on trees to demoralize the peasants; the peasants hacked the French to pieces with their farm tools. The guerrilla war, and the French occupation, lasted for five years, ending in 1813. Spanish artist Francisco Goya responded to the savagery, producing a series of 80 etchings over ten years (1810–20) entitled ‘The Disasters of War’. Goya’s blatant depictions of the carnage sent out a clear message: war turned both sides into monsters. But his prints remain some of the most chilling images of war to this day. The blatant carnage is horrific enough, but what disturbs even more is the pleasure shown in mutilating: the (French) soldier smirking and taking pleasure at viewing the figure hanging from the tree with his trousers around his knees, signifying that he has been castrated. It is little wonder that Goya’s etchings were locked away after his death in 1828, and remained unpublished until 1863.

French Satire and Comic Papers

Les Poires (The Pears) 1831
Charles Philipon
Engraving

When memories of Napoleon Bonaparte’s victories were fading, the July Revolution of 1830 brought the liberal ‘King of the French People’, Louis-Philippe, to power, who then proclaimed freedom of the press. Soon after, Charles Philipon gathered a team of brilliant artists and founded the satirical weekly, La Caricature (1831). Immediately taking ‘a step too far’, he published a drawing of the King’s head, metamorphosing in four stages to a rotting ‘poire’ (pear-head), also French slang for ‘fool’. Philipon was hauled into court and, as legend has it, avoided prison by demonstrating the resemblance – of King to pear – to the jury, by means of sketching and (very likely) verbal panache. He was acquitted of the charge of defamation: a victory for the cause of satire that would trigger the continuation of further ridicule.

Masthead for Le Charivari c. 1832
Honoré Daumier
Engraving

Honoré Daumier’s lively masthead for Philipon’s Le Charivari, launched in 1832, presents portraits of a few of the artists associated with Philipon’s early satirical papers. Banging a drum at the centre is Charles Philipon himself; the young Honoré Daumier is on tambourine (fourth from the right); ‘Traviès’ or Charles-Joseph Traviès des Villers, one of the first regular caricaturists on Le Charivari, is second from the right; and ‘Grandville’ or Jean-Ignace-Isidore Gérard Grandville, who often parodied people as animals, is far right. (In the same year as Philipon’s Les Poires incident, young Daumier’s drawing of Louis-Philippe as Gargantua sitting on a commode also appeared in La Caricature. He was not only arrested, but also received a short prison sentence.)

Le Charivari 1834
Charles Philipon
Front page, print

Having survived his trip to court over Les Poires, Philipon launched a more savage satirical paper in 1832 entitled Le Charivari. He also ensured that Les Poires became an emblem of resistance against authority, appearing in his papers in annoying variations. When Louis-Philippe banned the drawn image from sight, it appeared instead in further variations, formed out of an arrangement of type (quite a feat as they would have been hand-set in metal type), thereby skirting around the ban or decree. The needling would, once again, go too far. In September 1835, the entire French free press was censored with regard to political subjects.

Le Rire (The Laugh), 2 December 1899
Artist: Charles Léandre
Satirical paper

Although censorship struck in 1835 with regard to political subjects, French comic papers and their caricaturists continued to thrive. Prevented from critique or ridicule of the government or those in office, they instead critiqued French (especially Parisian) society. Le Charivari was still in operation in 1862; other papers launched included Le Rire (The Laugh) in 1895 and Le Sourire (The Smile) in 1899. This front page of Le Rire shows the German monarch Kaiser Wilhelm II (standing, with a bouquet) who in 1896 had congratulated the Boer leader, Kruger, on a British defeat, but in 1899 has turned pro-British. He is passing off his shifting loyalty in the guise of familial affection for Queen Victoria (who is, in fact, his grandmother).

L’Assiette au Beurre (The Butter Dish), 18 November 1905
Illustration: Gabriele Galantara
Satirical paper

Samuel Schwarz founded the satirical weekly L’Assiette au Beurre (The Butter Dish) in 1901, appropriately named for the despised members of the governmental bureaucratic machine who connived at handing out favours to ordinary citizens for a price. (The name itself is a slur about wealth, as butter was a highly valued commodity.) The satirical paper’s mission was to attack ‘The Butter Dish’ and the ruling classes, as well as the hierarchy and influence of the Catholic Church. It did so with energy. The socio-political content was mainly visual; text was minimal, and its issues often included current events or international personalities, Britain being a favourite target. This vicious front page illustration shows another favourite target: notice the building’s shifty eyes, pig’s nose and huge, gaping mouth.

L’Assiette au Beurre (The Butter Dish), 28 September 1901
Illustration: Jean Veber
Satirical paper

One of L’Assiette au Beurre’s most famous caricatures was produced in September 1901 by Jean Veber, who became a regular contributor. Entitled ‘L’Impudique Albion’ (Shameless Albion, or Shameless Britain), it features a portrait of King Edward VII imprinted on the posterior of a jesting Britannia. After years of the decorum and seriousness of Queen Victoria, who died in 1901, her heir Edward VII had a reputation for being a bit of a playboy, prone to gambling and mistresses (often located in France), and so representing a very different side of British behaviour and monarchy. This French satirical tradition, particularly in its earlier, scabrous years, can be seen as having spiritual descendants in modern French satirical comics such as Charlie Hebdo (founded in 1969).

Thomas Nast Targets ‘Boss’ Tweed

A Group of Vultures Waiting for the Storm to ‘Blow Over’ – ‘Let Us Prey’ 1871
Artist: Thomas Nast
Political cartoon – Harper’s Weekly, 23 September 1871

New York politician William Marcy Tweed (also known as ‘Boss’ Tweed) notoriously gained power over Tammany Hall, the Democratic Party’s political machine. He was therefore able to influence the appointment of city officials, control the city government and, through his ‘Tammany Ring’ of allies, access public money. Thomas Nast, political cartoonist at Harper’s Weekly magazine, committed himself to ending Tweed’s reign of corruption by turning the electorate against him. Nast depicted Tweed as a power-mad, over-fed thug, and created the frightening ‘Tammany Tiger’ and other caricatures in a visual campaign that lasted from 1867 to 1876, particularly aiming for 1871, an election year. In the final stretch of Nast’s visual campaign, The New York Times joined the fight with on-going articles against Tweed and, finally, ran documented evidence of corruption – from leaked financial records – on its front page. Both Nast and The New York Times fanned public outrage, but Nast’s constant needling through his imagery had caused Tweed to break out in fury along the way, spitting out his famous quote: ‘Let’s stop these damned pictures. I don’t care much what the papers write about me – my constituents can’t read; but damn it, they can see pictures!’ In the end, his much maligned constituents voted him and many Tammany candidates out of office. Many of them (including Tweed) also ended up in prison. This image shows Tweed and his cronies as vultures, waiting to ride out the storm of public disapproval. Boss Tweed is the big white vulture (wearing his trademark diamond shirt-stud). He and his friends are squatting upon the flattened figure of New York City. The scattered bones of the law, suffrage, justice and other aspects of democracy are lying at their feet.

The ‘Brains’ That Achieved the Tammany Victory at the Rochester Democratic Convention 1871
Artist: Thomas Nast
Political cartoon – Harper’s Weekly, 21 October 1871

‘Boss’ Tweed smugly celebrates a Tammany victory at the Rochester Democratic Convention, a state nominating convention. His head is a money bag; his face a dollar sign. The inference is that Tammany won the nominations through bribes and coercion. His over-sized diamond shirt-stud shines.

Under the Thumb. The Boss. ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ 1871
Artist: Thomas Nast
Political cartoon – Harper’s Weekly, 10 June 1871

A cartoon showing Tweed’s power over the city he has ‘under his thumb’, with the added taunt, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Again, Tweed is sporting a huge diamond cufflink as a sign of ill-gotten wealth.

The New Board of Education. Sowing the Seed, with an Eye to the Harvest 1871
Artist: Thomas Nast
Political cartoon – Harper’s Weekly, 13 May 1871

As a reaction to one of Nast’s cartoons, Tweed told his mates in the Board of Education to reject the bid Harper’s Brothers had put in to publish textbooks for the New York City public schools. The Ring decided to have ‘books of instruction’ be prepared by its ‘favourites’ and printed by an association composed of members of the Ring. The threat of removal of Harper’s textbooks from city schools prompted this cartoon, where Tweed seizes a book from a schoolboy; one of his friends pitches Harper’s books out the window, and the other teaches the boys so-called ‘truths’.

‘Too Thin!’ 1871
Artist: Thomas Nast
Political cartoon – Harper’s Weekly, 30 September 1871

This cartoon refers to the suspicious theft and destruction of incriminating payment-vouchers from the offices of Boss Tweed and his Ring. The event took place soon after official requests had been made to examine city and county accounts. Boss Tweed made himself and his Ring colleagues into the victims. They received no sympathy from The New York Times, Nast or even City Hall officials. Instead people laughed out loud, saying the story was (in slang) ‘too thin’.

‘What are you Laughing at? To the Victor Belong the Spoils’ 1871
Artist: Thomas Nast
Political cartoon – Harper’s Weekly, 25 November 1871

Boss Tweed is collapsed in shock, in front of a sign (on the left) saying ‘The Tammany Boys Whipped Out of Their Boots’ and (on the right) ‘The Tammany Ring Smashed: That’s What the People Did About It’, a clear riposte to the notion Tweed had the city ‘under his thumb’. Tweed sits amid the rubble, dazed at Tammany’s election defeat, and gazing blankly at his own questionable future. He still wears the diamond shirt-stud, but under it is a medallion of a sad-faced Tammany Tiger, looking more like a pussycat.