In 1999 Ronald Searle was judged, by his fellow cartoonists, to be the greatest
cartoonist of the 20th Century. It’s a judgement I thoroughly endorse, though
as someone who was brought up on Searle, like most people of my generation
born in the late 50s and early 60s, I thought distant worship would be as close
as I ever got to him. After all, Searle famously scarpered when I was about
one, so I, along with other British cartoonists, could only ever venerate him as
the King Across the Water.
Still, when I was approached in 2005 to front a BBC 4 documentary about
Searle, I jumped at the chance, even though he made clear very early on he wanted nothing
whatsoever to do the making of the film or anyone involved with it. That’s his
prerogative, and my reverence for him includes a deep respect for his desire
for a bit of peace and quiet. Nonetheless, the programme went ahead without
him, and I enjoyed it for the most part (although, as I’d decided to speak to
camera unscripted, to capture a greater sense of immediacy, there were
occasions when the demands of the producer that I repeat a line 20 times
meant that by the end I kept forgetting it, as well as forgetting what it could
possibly mean.)
Part of the gig - part of the reason they’d got me to do it in the first place - was
that, when pressed, I can draw a little bit like the master, and I did several
pieces to camera sitting at a drawing board and replicating his style. One riff I
went off on was the idea that Searle had invented his version of Hogarth’s
famous "Line of Beauty", which in his case was the "Angle of Beauty", which
I claimed was an acute angle of 37 degrees (I made that bit up, but you get the
point) which can be seen repeated again and again in his depiction of feet and
noses. I argued further that feet and legs - be they spindly, black-stockinged St
Trinian’s legs, or the tree-trunk legs of the Masters at St Custard’s - were, for
Searle, the windows to the soul.
All that may or may not be true, but I discovered a deeper truth when I was
reproducing the standard Searle script for the "Entr’-Act" cards for the
programme. Apart from the fact that each letter tended to twist my nibs into
unusability, I soon realised something about that gnarled, nobbly lettering: that
without the way Searle drew and wrote, most of the best British post-war
cartooning would be unimaginable. Every line of Steadman’s or Scarfe’s had
its origins in Searle’s blots. Those blots had shown us all the true path.
Anyway, we finished the film and it was duly broadcast - though in post-
production I felt they added too many interviews about his life, and didn’t
concentrate enough on his drawing, but what do I know? The production
company sent him the film, and were greeted with silence. But unreciprocity
from your gods is what you should expect, so I didn’t mind that much.
But then, a few weeks after the programme’s first transmission, I got a letter,
sent to my home, addressed in a strangely familiar handwriting. It was a
personal letter from Searle, thanking me for placing the garlands on his brow
and apologising for the fact that he’s be dead by the time it was my turn. The
letter is now framed and hangs in its place of honour next to the only Searle
original my wife could afford to buy me. Better yet, in the few interviews he’s
given since, he’s been kind and generous enough to say he likes my work. So
happy 90th birthday, Mr Searle, from a very humble and grateful admirer...