INTRODUCTION

describe. In the relatively recent past,
Barry Blitt sent a sketch of the papal
skirts being lifted à la Marilyn, the one on
the cover of this book; Remnick, who was
out of town on a trip, laughed but asked
me to gather some other opinions. For
once, I found myself in the position of
the many art directors who have to lobby
for an image while the word people talk
themselves out of it. I showed the sketch
and everyone laughed, but was soon told
that the image didn’t work—neither
the Pope nor the scandals plaguing the
Catholic Church had anything to do with
Marilyn Monroe. “Oy vey!” said Blitt,
before moving on. The raw strength of
any image has a hard time surviving the
compromises that a committee review
inevitably brings about, and then the
moment passes. It makes me even more
appreciative of the directness of the
decision-making process that Remnick
preserves at The New Yorker.

AND SO I TACKED THE EXPOSED pontiff
back in the far corner. I love them all,
those images on my wall, publishable
or not, and they’re too good to keep
to myself. Hence, this book: It’s a
celebration of the images that throw
open the closed bathroom door and let
you see for yourself what’s inside. It’s a
celebration of the unique platform that
The New Yorker offers to visual artists and
of the clever readers who respond so passionately, but mainly, it’s a celebration of my
partners in crime, all the artists who spend hours at their drawing tables coming up with
the Pope’s underwear, Monica Lewinsky’s lollipop, or the gay soldiers’ kiss in Kabul. So
thank you, David, and thank you, Barry, Ana, Art, Anita, and all the others. May these
sketches inspire jealous frissons in all of you (I’ll be watching your back!) and may those
in turn give rise to many more new published—or unpublished—witty, funny, touching,
or outrageous New Yorker covers.

“I wasn’t trying to make history,’’ said the sixty-three-
year-old mother, “I just wanted a baby.” Meanwhile, Ian
Falconer had found his Mother’s Day image for 1997.