Life, Death, and Family: How Maira Kalman Stays Inspired
The prolific illustrator on the “extreme tactics” she applies to work.
Many of Maira Kalman’s deepest influences can be charted on her family tree. She is indelibly linked to her late husband, Tibor Kalman, the legendary “bad boy” graphic designer who founded the equally legendary design studio M&Co. The M in the firm’s enigmatic name, she worked as a behind-the-scenes designer at the firm. She became an author and illustrator in her own right after, inspired by her children, she began writing and illustrating kids’ books in what became her signature faux-naif whimsical style. (Her drawings appear not only in a dozen children’s books but Strunk and White’s Elements of Style and numerous New Yorker covers, including the funny New Yorkistan map, a collaboration with her boyfriend, Rick Meyerowitz.)
Then there is her mother, Sara Berman, an irreverent, fiercely original force of nature who was “utterly devoted to her family,” Kalman says. “Everything that she did had an imperative reason” — including deciding what to wear. The matriarch wore only white. “There was a clarity and editing of her belongings because when she and my father divorced, she moved from a very large apartment to a studio,” Kalman says. This editing was a symbol of her control and freedom. It is a very small thing that is very epic.” Kalman is collaborating with her son, Alex, to re-create her mother’s closet at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The installation will be on view next spring. Here, she talks more about her creative inspirations, daily meditations, and morbid ruminations.
Mourning Routine
I wake up around six. The first thing I do is have a coffee and read the obituaries. The obits are always a surprise: You don’t know the people who died. And of course, it’s a relationship to time and mortality — something that’s on my mind a lot. It’s also fascinating to read, in a very condensed biography, the things that people have done that merit an article in the New York Times. I think it’s a kind of investigation of human courage and the texture of life — there’s just such an incredible range of what people do in their life. It’s kind of a daily wakeup call.
After I finish reading the obits, I take an hour-long walk in Central Park with a friend. Coincidentally, the Times just republished an article about how walking in green space quiets a part of the brain that controls morbid rumination. I’m always happy to find a way to decrease the morbid rumination.
Sources of Inspiration
A trio of New York museums — the Metropolitan, MoMA, and the Frick — supply me with more inspiration than I could possibly ask for. Along with that is the walking in New York City and looking at the people. Depending on my mood, I’m either photographing people or just watching them.
On New York City
Superficially, of course, it’s more gentrified, but it hasn’t been whitewashed into only rich people who can afford expensive things. It’s a staggering ethnic mix. In the fabric of people and madness and intricacy, it hasn’t changed at all. It just still is incredible. Also, I really don’t like generalities in terms of what the city is like.
The Notebook
I’ve carried a sketchbook with me for the last 50 years for when I want to write or have thoughts connected to a certain project, whether I’m on the bus or in a restaurant. When I’m thinking about a project, there’s a lot of time spent meditating on it rather than actually doing it — a lot of wandering — but I’m tracking my thoughts somewhere in my notebook.
Neatnik
My desk is impeccably neat. I’m very orderly. In my life, I aspire to get rid of most of my things, which is an ongoing struggle, as it is for many people.
Mentors
Several literary figures, people I don’t know personally, are very inspiring for me. Robert Walser and W.G. Sebald speak of wandering through life in a kind of dream state, where so many things happen to you during the day that are so elusive and intangible. You try to grasp for clarity, and you can’t find it. Then, of course, there’s Marcel Proust, who, along with Shakespeare, has the answer to everything. He’s also very, very frank. I also adore Jane Austen. I think her writing is pure music, and she’s funny. Vladimir Nabokov writes just beautifully and so smartly about everything. Obviously, he’s a genius writer, and he captures the essence of who we are because of the people who are around us, because of the family we have. Speak, Memory is really one of my favorite books.
In my own world, I would say that my mother, Sara Berman, whom I’ve referred to a lot, is one of my great inspirations, for what she means to me and in my family. And then my husband, Tibor, who died many years ago but was a formidable influence because we met when we were 18. My son, Alex, and daughter, Lulu, are also big sources of inspiration. They were my inspiration for doing children’s books. The fun and nuttiness of having children, the constant play and humor, really was extraordinary for me. Now, I ask them what they think of my work, and they critique with kindness. I’m collaborating with my son on an installation for the Metropolitan of my mother’s underwear closet.
Soundtrack
If I’m not listening to classical radio, which gives me whatever they give me, I am very often listening to Bach — either piano pieces or orchestral or the Saint Matthew Passion, which is one of my favorites.
On (Not) Staying Focused
A lot of the time, I don’t want to be focused. I want to digress and allow my brain to completely ignore what it is that I’m supposed to be doing, because usually that leads me to another place that makes me happy to think about. The digression is really much more interesting than the focus. Having said that, deadlines for magazines and books are grounding, and I think I’ve developed some kind of inner chart that gives me a certain amount of time to be miserable before getting to work.
The Need for Speed
When you’re on an assignment, you’re forced in a way to move and create in a rapid manner. Speed of work is one aspect of the illustration and writing that I do. To work quickly, I use extreme tactics. Sometimes I say to myself, “What if the Nazis were coming to take you away in three hours? Could you finish this?” It lights the fire: Oh my god, I have to finish it — and then run away before they arrive.
