Anger is a peculiar beast in the cartoonist’s menagerie. It’s the emotion that sells newspapers, fuels political caricature, and gives a protest sign its bite. Yet for the artist, drawing rage—the furrowed brows, the clenched teeth, the veins popping like overstuffed sausages—can be a strangely serene act. The central paradox of visual satire is that to depict fury with precision, you must approach it with the calm of a bomb-disposal expert. This isn’t about suppressing feeling; it’s about understanding the mechanics of anger so you can replicate it on the page without letting it replicate inside you. For the civic-minded cartoonist, this skill is not just a craft technique. It’s…

Anger is the easiest emotion to draw and the hardest to live with. A few jagged lines, a furrowed brow, steam shooting from the ears—rage practically sketches itself. But for the cartoonist who works in visual satire, anger is a trap. It can sharpen your line and blunt your judgment in the same stroke. I’ve spent decades in this studio, ink-stained and occasionally irate, learning that the real craft isn’t just about rendering fury on the page. It’s about channeling it without letting it consume you. This isn’t a guide to anger management in the therapeutic sense. It’s a technical and philosophical manual for the civic-minded cartoonist. We’ll explore how…

I fed the same prompt to Midjourney and to a working editorial cartoonist: a politician juggling skulls while smiling for a camera. Midjourney gave me something technically impressive. Four arms, good lighting, a clean gradient sky behind a figure whose face was just specific enough to read as generic strongman but not specific enough to read as anyone you’d recognize. The skulls were rendered beautifully. The composition followed the rule of thirds. It looked like a poster for a film that would go straight to streaming. The cartoonist gave me something else. She drew a senator I’ve seen on television—recognizable from the jaw, the hairline, the way his suit collar…

Saul Steinberg’s 1976 New Yorker cover shows Manhattan from Ninth Avenue west. The city is dense, detailed, almost tactile. Then everything east of Ninth Avenue—most of the planet—collapses into a thin strip of brown, a few labeled blocks, and ocean. Japan dangles like an afterthought. The joke is structural: New Yorkers don’t see the world as partial. They see it as arranged around them. Every compositional choice—the perspective, the truncation, the labeling—serves a thesis about provincialism that the viewer assembles in the moment of recognition. Ask an AI image generator for “a New Yorker’s view of the world” and you’ll get something. It might even look competent. But it won’t…

The Problem With Memes That Flatten Complex Issues Into Jokes By Marco Bellini You know the drill. You’re half-awake, thumb scrolling through the feed, and there it is—a meme that wraps up a global crisis, a political scandal, or a deeply personal struggle with one image and a punchline. You snort. Maybe you even hit share. Then you keep going. But in that split second, a whole universe of context got squashed into a digital pancake. And we’re all eating it up like it’s breakfast. I’m not here to be the fun police. I love a good meme as much as the next person who’s ever procrastinated on a deadline.…

Pat Oliphant drew Ronald Reagan hundreds of times across the 1980s. The finished cartoons sit in syndication archives, reproduced in retrospectives, cited in textbooks. The interesting drawings are in a folder at the Library of Congress that almost nobody asks to see. Thumbnails. Two-inch-high scribbles on graph paper, sometimes six versions of the same idea on a single page. In one, Reagan’s hair is enormous, his body a stick. In another, the hair is restrained but the grin has grown teeth—actual teeth, drawn individually, which Oliphant crossed out and replaced with a smoother line. A third version has no face at all. Just the hair and a lapel pin. He…