Word: helens
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Bangs & Sensible People. Born in Illinois about 50 years ago, Helen Hokinson studied art in Chicago, moved to Manhattan in 1920 and submitted her first cartoon (at a friend's insistence) to The New Yorker in 1925. In 1931, she started collaborating with James Reid Parker, 40, a New Yorker author, who suggested most of the situations, usually by mail, and wrote most of the captions...
Handkerchiefs came out of purses and dabbed at eyes. Then one woman proposed a moment of silence; all the guests stood up. A few minutes later, weeping clubwomen clustered around an easel on which was displayed one of the last cartoons Helen Hokinson had drawn, a gift to the fund drive. The caption ("So Mary's working for the Community Chest too. How brave!") seemed an oddly suitable epitaph for Cartoonist Hokinson, who had died in the worst crash in U.S. airline history (see NATIONAL AFFAIRS...
Matinees & Poetry. Helen Hokinson was the recording secretary of the clubwoman, the gentle, penetrating chronicler of the upper-middle-class matron. In 24 years of cartooning for The New Yorker (circ. 325,000), she limned her ladies with pen and wash more than 1,700 times-at the dressmaker's, in banks and bookshops, at matinees and flower shows, bridge clubs and poetry societies...
Petite, retiring Helen Hokinson wore her greying hair in bangs, had a conservative, un-Hokinsonian taste in hats and clothes. But she disowned the title of satirist. Insisted Miss Hokinson: "I see no reason for people to regard my ladies superciliously ... I [have always] considered them bright, sensible people and agreed with almost everything they said." Her fans had not seen the last of the Hokinson girls; The New Yorker still had ten unpublished cartoons...
Animal Implications. A quarter century ago, with another cast of characters dredged out of mythology, Novelist John Erskine zoomed into bestsellerdom with The Private Life of Helen of Troy, a smooth, sophisticated novel which gave Helen & Co. the immediacy of next-door neighbors. Erskine is now 70 and a professor emeritus of Columbia University, but he appears to have lost little of the confident urbanity and slick malice that became his literary trademarks. Always gallant, his defense of his Venus is both tolerant and graceful: "Her infidelities were only apparent, they were never more than intermittent, and she always went...