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I hardly knew him. He appeared in my life likea rare butterfly. Why should I have knownhim? He was a writer and an American. I am anartist and Welsh. But in spite of that, we didmeet – a mere five years ago – and still hardlystruck up what people call a friendship. But thenthere was Joe Petro III, who knew us both. Joeis another artist and a printer of fine things. Joemade sure that we did meet and whether wewanted to or not, we were going to get on –because Joe said so. Kurt thought that Joe wasGod because Joe had somehow transformed ustwo into first cousins. It was a pretty neat trick.

Joe also printed for the both of us and Joeprints what is dear to both of us – our very ownwork.

That was how Kurt and I got friendly – veryslowly – the best of possible ways. I had beenaware of the huge legacy that is Kurt through hismass of writing – and especially his love ofMark Twain and Abraham Lincoln. One ofKurt’s books is called BLUEBEARD, a storyabout Kurt and art, Kurt and his opinions ofartists and his general philosophy of life and art.I knew instinctively that I would like him if Iever met him. I knew that what he really wantedto be was an artist and when I did meet him hehad become one. He had more or less written allthe words he would ever want to write. Kurt alsoknew particular heroes of mine like SaulSteinberg, the cartoonist, and Jackson Pollockthe painter, expert dribbler and blotting master.

Kurt too became the best of artists, the kindwho makes fearless marks on paper which meanwhat he wants them to mean. They are marks ofintent and they are very much a shorthand wayof reaching out and saying HI! to a completestranger who just happens to have bought one ofthese marks as a print. Kurt’s pride was that acomplete stranger would actually hang one ofthese prints on their wall.

Meeting Kurt and getting to know him wasboth a delight and a journey of infinitepossibilities. He enjoyed his food, his

Kurt Vonnegut

A friend

Ralph Steadman

Facing page: RalphSteadman’s last drawing ofKurt Vonnegut on a tablecloth, after lunch at hisfavourite restaurant in NewYork called RistoranteLasagne. More of Ralph’swork can be found online(www.ralphsteadman.com).

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Brown Studies

‘Manhattans’ and his cigarettes. It was the cigarettes that were supposed to killhim. He tried hard with that in mind, but when they didn’t kill him Kurt was goingto sue the Tobacco Companies for making false claims on their packets thatSMOKING KILLS. Instead he died in such a dumb-assed way by falling down thesteep stone steps of his brownstone house on 48th street in New York. He lay in acoma for weeks and for those of us who knew, we wished him to wake up andreach out for his cigarettes, so that he could go on killing himself in his own way.

Kurt Vonnegut was uncomplicated, modest and so witty ... the second greatwriter I had known who fell off the landscape of my mind like a monumental cliffface. He never got to read the last letter I had sent him a week earlier and I can’tremember now what it said.

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