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Published Monday, June 21, 2010 in Opinion

Cartoonist Davis mister nice guy

ST. SIMONS ISLAND -- Jack Davis, the conspicuous and celebrated cartoonist with 36 Time magazine credits on his resume, hasn't had it so good lately -- both knees have been replaced, his hearing is impaired, a recent fall left him with a fractured vertebra, and the shingles, which first visited him three years ago, won't let go.

"I'm a mess," he said over breakfast at the Sandcastle, "but I'm still here, and I keep busy," his cheerful bearing trumping aches and pains.

What all this means is that on most days, he walks across the breezeway from his kitchen to his studio. After "knocking around" his workplace for a few minutes, he will sit down with his coffee in his Bulldog mug, look out to the Hampton River, and conjure up an idea for something or somebody.

He still has a representative who brings him business, but mostly Jack creates drawings for charities and for his friends, especially those with an affinity for the Bulldogs. Drawing images for Dawg aficionados is balm for his soul. It is therapeutic for a seasoned artist who maintains overt passion for the things he likes.

"Hey man, these are the best sausages," he said with sophomoric enthusiasm. "I just love to come here and order sausage."

The quintessential Jack Davis is a modest man who pays tribute to a good breakfast, one who finds good in every scene or scenario and in everybody. He doesn't find fault. After living in New York for more than 30 years, he is, believe it or not, absolutely devoid of cynicism, which is why ill health cannot keep the sunshine out of his life.

Jack Davis is my hero.

His friends are dear to him. He relishes his work, always aiming to please. He gives the same treatment to his friends that he gives to his beloved dog Toutou. When he pulls the covers up at night, Toutou is right beside him.

Jack entered Georgia after World War II, a beneficiary of the G. I. bill, but sought to make his way as a cartoonist. He always had this urge "to draw." It was, he said, as he savored a bite of sausage, the only thing that motivated him. He admired his classmates, who wanted to be doctors and lawyers, when they "hit the books."

He had the same zeal for his pen and drawing paper, but Georgia had done about all it could do for him. He bought an old Chevrolet convertible and lit out for New York. He enrolled in the Arts Student League to find out if he could cut it. We know the rest of the story.

The first night in New York he rented a room at the YMCA where the "weirdos" dominated. One night was enough of that so he searched rental possibilities in the New York Times and found a room with an elderly lady on 104th Street.

He went to work, doing what he could do best. Draw. Draw and draw. He would make a connection with Mad magazine in its infancy, produce all those Time magazine covers, and, early on, learn about life from the streets the hard way. His car, which he bought after fulfilling a commission from the Coca-Cola Company, was stolen when he left it parked with the key in the ignition on the street to run inside a building. He bought a diamond ring from a street hustler that was worth nothing.

"Just part of the learning experience," he says ruefully.

All the time he was building a life and an enviable professional reputation in New York, he yearned for barbecue, Varsity hotdogs and Georgia football. When technology allowed him to work and transmit proofs from anywhere he lived, he found his spot on the Hampton River on St. Simons and has lived happily ever after, those aches and pains notwithstanding.

Jack Davis, whose work has appeared in countless Georgia athletic publications -- for which he holds affection equal to those Time magazine covers -- has never not been a gentleman no matter the occasion.

If I were starting a nice-guy club tomorrow, Jack Davis would be the first invitee.

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