Vermont Voices: Harry Bliss
- Dr. Joshua Sherman
- 13 hours ago
- 15 min read
STORY BY DR. JOSHUA SHERMAN IMAGES COURTESY HARRY BLISS
Harry Bliss is an internationally acclaimed cartoonist and illustrator, best known for his memorable covers and cartoons featured in The New Yorker. His distinctive artistic style, marked by its sharp wit and nuanced commentary on human nature, has made Bliss a household name. He has also garnered a dedicated global following through his syndicated comic strip, Bliss, which appears in publications worldwide. Throughout his prolific career, Bliss has illustrated over twenty beloved children’s books, including bestsellers like Diary of a Worm and Louise, the Adventures of a Chicken.
Deeply connected to Vermont and its creative institutions, Bliss has spent significant time cultivating artistic communities within the region, most notably with the Center for Cartoon Studies (CCS) in White River Junction, Vermont. In fact, he founded a residency program for emerging graphic novelists, entitled “The Cornish CCS Fellowship for Graphic Novelists” in nearby Cornish, New Hampshire. This fellowship underscores Bliss’s commitment to nurturing new talent and preserving the vibrant storytelling traditions within the graphic arts community.
Bliss’s newest work, You Can Never Die, published by Celadon Books, is a poignant and humorous graphic memoir exploring themes of loss, love, creativity, and personal evolution. The memoir centers around his profound relationship with his dog, Penny, whose companionship over 17 years deeply influenced his life and art. Blending sharply crafted essays with beautifully rendered cartoons and sketches, Bliss offers readers an intimate glimpse into his personal and artistic journey, underscored by reflections on family, mentorship, and the complexities of life’s transitions.
Recently, Bliss toured Vermont to promote You Can Never Die, engaging audiences with intimate discussions and signings. He appeared at the Booktopia Literary Festival at Northshire Bookstore in Manchester, Phoenix Books in Burlington, Bear Pond Books in Montpelier, and Norwich Bookstore in Norwich. Through this memoir and his ongoing outreach, Bliss continues to resonate deeply with readers and fans, bridging laughter and reflection, and demonstrating how humor and art can illuminate the profound beauty and challenges of everyday life.
The following conversation explores Bliss’s rich artistic journey, his insights into creativity, his deep-rooted connections to Vermont, and the enduring legacy of his work and mentorship.
Sherman: Most of my interviews usually start with lighthearted questions and get more serious as they progress. But, your new book is entitled, You Can Never Die, so I think it makes sense to work in reverse.
The book’s introduction begins with a quote from Pearl S. Buck, “There in that land of mine is buried the first good half of my life. And more, it is as though half of me were buried there, and now it is a different life in my house.” That quote reminded me of one of my favorite song lyrics. In the musical Nine by Maury Yeston, a married woman is reflecting on her younger self, and she comments, “Long ago, someone else ago.”
Your book certainly acknowledges mortality, but also the different phases of life. How do you personally break down the phases of your life?
Bliss: I think the difference between me “now” and me “then” is that I wasn’t aware that I was sad. I didn’t understand sadness. I didn’t understand what was happening to me for a long time - and I’m talking well into my thirties. There came a point when I embraced that part of me. I embraced depression, sadness, and fear, and it became a curiosity for me. But up to a certain age, it was just anxiety and nervousness.
It’s so much better to know what you’re feeling and to be able to be vulnerable and emote to people; to be able to tell my wife how I’m feeling, as opposed to just being passive-aggressive about something. So, the difference between me then, in the past, and now, is that I’m just more honest with people. I’m just more frank and sincere. That’s why I started keeping journals, so I can keep track of what’s going on—because up until a certain age, I didn’t understand what was happening. I just had my head down and made art. I was just thinking, “I love to draw.” It was a way of getting attention. It was a way of paying the bills. At a certain point, I was good at it, but I didn’t pay attention to really much else. And now I seem to be tuned into everything.
Sherman: One of my all-time favorite cartoons is your take-off of Norman Rockwell’s “Breaking Home Ties.” The original painting by Rockwell was painted here in Arlington and shows a worn farmer sitting next to his enthusiastic young son, who is going off into the wider world. Your cartoon shows a father rabbit speaking with his son and handing him a gift. The caption reads, “Your mother wanted you to have this for good luck. It’s her foot.” It’s a fantastic satire of Rockwell’s original work, because the caption is so unexpected. I was hoping you could talk about your general approach and use of humor in addressing darker thoughts. How do you find that happy balance?
Bliss: I’m glad you like that cartoon. It’s one of my personal favorites, too, actually. I don’t really think about the balance. It doesn’t enter into my consciousness. I think it’s built into who I am. I just did a cartoon recently about a guy dumping his dog’s ashes on a squirrel, and the guy’s little girl is there with him, the father’s daughter. The squirrel’s kind of angry, and all the ashes are falling onto the squirrel, and the father says, “It’s what Bailey would have wanted.” I thought that was funny, but some readers didn’t think it was funny. It brings up sadness, obviously, about losing a pet. For some people, myself included, there’s a deep, inexplicable sadness about losing a pet that just a handful of people understand. There’s that piece of it, and there’s also a sweet sadness. It’s irreverent, a little sardonic. The other part is that I really do these cartoons for me. I’ll check in with people. I’ll check in with my stepdaughter, my wife, and my son. I’ll ask them, “Do you like this?” but really, they’re for me.
I really don’t like to bring up sadness in people, though it does happen. I do get letters.
There was another cartoon I did recently with a cat journaling, saying something like, “Oh, such a lovely day, the sweeping clouds are moving across the sky in such a beautiful way. I can smell the wind outside my window. There are chickadees, sparrows, and finches all about...I killed the chickadees.” That’s what cats do—they kill birds. It’s just a fact of life. But I got letters from people angry at me, saying, “You don’t understand, cats really kill so many birds.” I’m like, “I know, but it’s a cartoon! Don’t be mad at me!”
I try not to become too macabre. I’ve learned over the years through cartooning not to do that, because people will write in, and I will make them sad. That’s not what I want to do.
Sherman: You mentioned your daughter, your son, and your wife—but are there other people you trust to help gauge your cartoons? Also, are there cartoons you’ve created that you find genuinely wonderful but, for lack of better terms, are unprintable?
Bliss: Well, I will say this—quite a few of them are in my book! Many of these journal pages are pretty hilarious. I mean, I think they’re really funny. I’ve read this book five times, because this is the first book I’ve written with a lot of prose. So, I had to go back and carefully read every one of these entries. And two things happened: for the most part, I cried. I would re-read things and cry, and I would re-read things and really laugh. The laughter didn’t diminish. On the fifth reading, I still laughed. There’s also a lot of stuff in my journals I don’t think anyone should see. It’s just personal stuff.
I really wanted the book to be honest. I like irreverence in other comedians, and I do have a trusted group of family and friends, probably five people—my daughter; my stepdaughter, Delia; my son, Alex; and a dear friend in Sausalito, John Butler. Sometimes my wife, sometimes my sister-in-law Katie, but really, Alex, Delia, and John Butler. If Delia responds with “LOL,” that’s huge. When Steve [Martin] and I work on a cartoon together, we’ll both think it’s funny, but we’ll test it with Delia because she’s younger—she’s 24. In the process of writing this book, I went out of my way to share with Delia, my son (who’s 31), and his partner Sarah Wilson, an Ivy League literature major. They live in Brooklyn and are great, smart, funny young people who helped me curate the book. My son and Sarah came up here and spent three days going through the pages and cartoons, helping me select cartoons for each essay to ensure they related to the prose. That was hard—I couldn’t have done it without them.
Sherman: Cartoonists often wonder, “Why didn’t this picture get chosen?” As a publisher, I am very aware of the process, and sometimes images aren’t selected simply because another graphic is better suited to the issue. Can you recall a specific cartoon or cover you really believed in that didn’t get chosen?
Bliss: With every single cover I’ve done for The New Yorker that didn’t get accepted, I feel it was THEIR mistake. I know it sounds arrogant, but that’s how I feel. A lot of those covers got turned into cartoons, and about a third of them found other publications. It used to be frustrating, but I just don’t care anymore. Maybe I’m just old—but, frankly, I’d rather walk my dog. I just like drawing cartoons. If one feels like a cover, I submit it. Recently, I submitted a dog cartoon that would have made a great cover. But I don’t really have resentment anymore. There came a point when I decided not to get mad. There might be political reasons or timing issues, but in the back of my mind, I still wonder.
Sherman: Let’s talk about process. I interviewed John Williams when he turned 90, and he was still working six and a half days a week, regardless of his mood. On days when you’re feeling uninspired, do you take the day off, or do you have a process?
Bliss: There certainly are days when I’m uninspired. It depends on how many cartoons I already have. Right now, I have six cartoons due Monday, and they’re mostly done. But I force myself to meet deadlines.
The process is journaling. I wake up, take the dog out, make coffee, sit down, and journal. I’ll randomly draw something, usually something simple like a tree or me walking with my dog, because I love watching the ink flow onto paper. These drawings eventually become cartoons. Sometimes I’ll draw something, and it just turns into a cartoon without consciously planning it. This daily journaling is not about work; it’s just for me. It’s about the sensual joy of drawing, and the surprise of what emerges from it. But that eventually becomes a drawing of the woods, or me walking in the woods, usually with my dog. I just did one the other day—a guy and two dogs holding martinis, and the caption is, “They seem to really be getting along.” Today, I drew a dog shaking hands with a squirrel, saying, “Thanks for meeting. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”
The other thing about it is, when I’m writing and drawing in my journal, it’s pure—it’s me. I’m not thinking about leaving that space and going somewhere else to think differently. I’m taking that feeling with me right from my recliner. But it wasn’t always like that, by the way. A lot of this stuff I’m telling you is from the past decade, this phase. This chapter in my life.
Sherman: You mentioned loving the sensual joy of putting pen and ink to paper. What paper, what ink, what pen?
Bliss: I use a few pens, actually. But my go-to is this Montblanc Meisterstück, an old gift from a girlfriend who hates my guts since I broke up with her. It’s amazing. Once, when it cracked, I sent it to Montblanc, and they completely fixed it, possibly gave me a new one. There’s another pen I picked up in Moscow around 2009 or 2010 at a massive outdoor flea market. I just used it this morning. It’s a fountain pen. I also have an OMAS and a Visconti. They’re high-end pens. They’ll last me the rest of my life. I love them, because as writing implements, they’re incredible—like playing a Stradivarius as a musician. When you have a good tool, that’s nice. For paper, I’ve gotten far less choosy. I write in a Moleskine, but someone recently gifted me some Japanese MD paper, and I love it.
Sherman: In your book, you talk about visiting Maurice Sendak’s home, especially his vast collection of Mickey Mouse memorabilia. What do you collect?
Bliss: I don’t have any of my own art in my house. It’s all other people’s art, mostly by dead artists, with very few living artists represented. There’s a photograph of me and Steve Martin, which I like. But I collect mostly what I think is truly good—really good oil paintings, comic strip art, comic book art. I’ve slowed down a little, but I still follow auctions regularly. Recently, I bought an Everett Shinn. I adore 19th-century landscapes; my house is filled with them. I have a Robert Crumb, a Sendak, an Arthur Rackham, and a Garth Williams illustration from Charlotte’s Web. I have too much art—flat files filled with original Krazy Kats, four Peanuts strips—I have a problem. There’s no more room in the house to hang anything—it’s really difficult. I think I’m a little addicted to collecting art. I have a full-blown N.C. Wyeth, acquired for a ridiculously low amount. It’s the centerpiece of my collection.
Sherman: Stand-up comedians often discuss changes in audience and culture and how tricky it can be to navigate. Do you feel you’ve adjusted your humor to today’s society, or if you think something’s funny, do you still put it out there?
Bliss: I don’t think I’ve adjusted my humor. I’m just more reluctant to put something out that might offend on a broader scale. It still happens, but rarely. My cartoons, back in the day of the rabbit’s foot cartoon, used to be far more offensive. One of my earliest cartoons sold to The New Yorker featured a little boy in class at “show-and-tell.” He’s gutted a deer and the guts are on the floor, and the caption reads, “And that’s how you clean a deer.” The New Yorker ran that in 1999.
Sherman: I remember that cartoon very well. There were a lot of cartoonists in that era at The New Yorker, in which dark humor was more accepted—like Gahan Wilson. That sensibility thrived in the ‘90s. Today, less so.
Bliss: Yeah, the culture has shifted. I’ve gotten softer and cuter as I’ve gotten older. I don’t like to be mean or negative. I don’t like cartoons that emphasize how terrible things are. It depresses me. I draw for myself, and if the audience likes it, that’s a nice bonus. It’s tough these days. People take offense more easily. I had one controversial cartoon I thought was hilarious. Christopher Guest thought it was funny, but I didn’t publish it, because I don’t think anyone would.
Sherman: When did you start
drawing?
Bliss: Both of my parents met in art school, so I joke that I started drawing “in utero.” But seriously, from ages four, five, six—we were always drawing. I doodled constantly in school. One of the earliest moments where my art was recognized was in fifth or sixth grade. A teacher asked me to do lettering for a school bulletin board, which was the first acknowledgment of my artistic skill. I always doodled; if not doodling, I was drumming on desks. If I weren’t a cartoonist, I’d have been a drummer—I drum constantly.
Sherman: Are you a musician?
Bliss: I wouldn’t say I’m a musician. When I think of a musician, I think of someone who studies and plays beautifully. I could be in a cover band. I can handle a two-four beat, triplets, and work the bass a little.
Sherman: Let’s switch gears and talk about Vermont. I understand that you split your time between New Hampshire and Vermont, usually Burlington. How did you first discover Vermont?
Bliss: I first came to Vermont in ‘99, because my son’s mother relocated here. We were both living in Nyack, New York, and we separated. I didn’t want to be separated from my son. I was working for The New Yorker at the time. She met someone who lived in Vermont and told me she was relocating here. It was a tough time, but we worked it out, and that’s what brought me to Burlington. Eventually, I left Burlington because I developed a kind of strange disorder: seeing too many stores, leaf blowers, cars, and city life in general would make me anxious. I became hypersensitive and needed quiet and a rural setting. That’s why I moved out here.
Sherman: I’m sorry you went through that. I’m glad you found your current home. Let’s talk about the Cornish CCS Fellowship Residency. What inspired you to create this fellowship, and how do you see it impacting the broader cartooning and illustration community?
Bliss: In the book, I mention being selected with Nora Krug as a Maurice Sendak Fellowship winner around 2008. We stayed on Sendak’s farm in Cambridge, New York for six weeks. That inspired me to create my own little fellowship here, starting around 2017. There’s a separate garage apartment on this property, fully furnished and cozy.
Initially, my idea was to buy J.D. Salinger’s estate in Cornish, New Hampshire, this 12-acre land parcel —and another 17 acres nearby—and have all the cartoonists from The New Yorker chip in. I thought it could be a cartoonist getaway. But nobody had any money. Everyone lived in New York and couldn’t afford it. One day, I visited this property, and it fit me like a glove. It’s super quiet. I can’t express how much I love it here. It’s beyond words—I’ve found my place. People who live here feel similarly. The fellowship was my way of nurturing talent. I love encouraging talented cartoonists, especially those who can tell stories and write well. Writing is crucial for graphic novels. It’s great, because it opens my world to what’s happening out there. Otherwise, I live somewhat under a rock. I’d rather read Patricia Highsmith or Raymond Chandler than scroll Instagram and keep up with trends. In terms of the fellowship itself, the people selected for the fellowship have been fantastic. Nick Drnaso’s second graphic novel was shortlisted for the Booker Prize—the first graphic novelist ever shortlisted. Ali Fitzgerald, who lives in Berlin, Cara Bean in Massachusetts, Jeremy Nguyen from Brooklyn, and Arwen Donahue from Kentucky, who’s also a MacDowell Fellow. It’s selfishly rewarding for me to meet these talented artists. They’re lifelong connections now. Originally, the fellowship was meant to reward their work, not necessarily to promote it. They can come here and relax—I would almost prefer if they just come to hang out. Graphic novels require immense work—eight hours a day hunched over a desk. I wanted to give these young, talented people a break and some cash. “Come to Cornish, New Hampshire, hug a tree, see a porcupine—you won’t see that in Brooklyn.” Look, my dog just came in—he hears me doing these silly voices.
Sherman: Let me ask you more about J.D. Salinger’s property, where you live now. Does the property’s history add to the lore for you personally and for the fellowship, or is it just an interesting piece of information without deeper personal significance?
Bliss: There’s no personal connection. I’m more of a caretaker. I wouldn’t exactly call it sacred ground, but I do believe in the energy of certain places, and I feel Salinger’s energy is present here.
Sherman: New Hampshire and Vermont have a specific New England humor, distinct from a New York sensibility. Do you feel your cartoons have been influenced by the regional sensibility here?
Bliss: I think so, yes. But it also depends on where you are in Vermont or New Hampshire. Burlington isn’t that different from New York City, in terms of people rushing around. There’s a contemplative quality about rural living that’s missing in urban environments. I lived in cities—Philadelphia for 12 years, then Nyack, New York, frequently going in and out of New York City. There’s something nice about slowing down. I’ve had some recent experiences that have shifted something in me. I eat slowly, savoring every bite. Walking in the woods, I’ll stop and stare at a tree, much to my wife’s amusement. She’s very patient—she’s a yogi and a teacher—but she’ll ask if we can keep walking while I’m mesmerized by bark. If I go to the city now, I’m the one standing in Times Square marveling at the chaos, wondering about the electricity it takes to power everything. There’s no anxiety unless someone’s hostile toward me, which disrupts my calm.
Sherman: Vermont has been home to many artists over the centuries, including your fellow New Yorker cartoonist Ed Koren. Were the two of you close, or were you just colleagues during the same era?
Bliss: Oh, no, we knew each other very well. There are two essays about Ed in my book. We were close—very good friends.
Sherman: Do you have any stories you’d like to share?
Bliss: Well, they’re in the book, but one is about when we first met at The New Yorker, and another is about the time just before he passed away. Ed was one of a kind. He loved Vermont, especially Brookfield. It’s sad that he’s gone.
Sherman: You spoke earlier about stewardship and creating opportunities for the next generation. Who were some of your mentors, and what’s some of the best advice they gave you?
Bliss: There have been so many mentors. In some ways, my dad was a mentor—he was an artist. Charlie Santore was another. Brad Holland was kind of a mentor, too, for a while. Mentorship is a pretty significant relationship. Currently, Steve Martin is a mentor. Still, I wouldn’t say I had many formal mentors beyond teachers, but I’ve learned cumulatively from each. Recently, I wrote about Martha Mayer Erlebacher, who was one of my anatomy teachers at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. She was a significant mentor. Martha taught me something crucial: Anybody can make a pretty picture. Technicians are common. But you must be smart, insightful, and deeply understand your subject, whether it’s a tree, the human form, or an animal. Drawing becomes a way of understanding the world. Eventually, you reach a point where you can draw from memory without needing references—just from your mind to your hand to the paper.
Sherman: Returning to your new book, You Can Never Die … in the essay, “Futility,” you say that you’d like to be drawing when you take your last breath. Do you have an idea of what your final cartoon should be?
Bliss: I don’t think it would be a cartoon. I think it would simply be me holding my favorite pen, watching the ink come out of it. That’s like going back to the essence of the process. If I drew anything, it would probably be a dog.
For more about Harry Bliss’ new book, You Can Never Die:
