Footscray cartoonist Oslo Davis is the bloke trying to make you laugh with his satirical look on the absurdity of everyday life. Robert Fedele reports.IT doesn’t take much to make Oslo Davis laugh, whether at himself or the world around him.
In the kitchen of his humble weatherboard home in Footscray, Davis mulls over new ideas, some of which will become his next cartoon.
Right now it’s a scenario involving a woman sitting on a tram wearing antlers on her head, a recent trend that Davis finds ‘‘ridiculous’’ and just as equally amusing.
Beside her is a real reindeer with a wig on. Davis says he’s still ironing out the punchline, but nevertheless he produces a giggle and the first sight of his distinctive toothy smile.
Not that many people would know it, given that Davis, like most cartoonists, is mysterious by nature — his works are seen but he is not.
‘‘I’m not a TV person or even radio. You won’t see me on Spicks And Specks or anything like that,’’ he declares.
‘‘Maybe Q&A,’’ he adds jokingly before pondering the notion, eyes darting upwards, ‘‘although if they called me up I wonder what I’d say.’’
Davis has been drawing for 15 years and is entirely self-taught.
His cartoons appear on the back page of The Age three times a week, and feature in The Sunday Age as part of his exceedingly popular Overheard series, a satirical eavesdrop on ordinary life.
There’s other gigs as well, his work having appeared in publications ranging from The New York Times to Meanjin magazine and The Big Issue.
This year he’s even dreamed up cartoons to promote the Golden Plains music festival.
‘‘I always thought it would be great to be a Leunig or a Petty or one of those guys,’’ Davis explains, ‘‘basically waking up and drawing pictures all day.
‘‘But there’s no university for that sort of job, there’s no short course for it or anything. You probably talk to every cartoonist and they’ll have their own journey into it.’’
For Davis, that journey began many moons ago growing up in Tasmania.
He describes it as a simple story. He began by publishing his own work and then sent it off to editors before eventually getting commissions.
When asked about an innate ability to draw, Davis responds in his typically self-deprecating manner, baulking at the suggestion.
‘‘Lots of kids draw on their books and stuff. I always had an interest in art and drawing and things like that but it was never really something I pursued from an early age any more than any other kid.
‘‘In my early twenties I became a lot more interested in drawing and art and decided to make a fist of it.’’
Yet even now, after years of recognition including a recent Walkley nomination for a cartoon on Julian Assange, Davis finds it hard to consider himself anything other than sufficiently good.
‘‘I think I’m better at it than I used to be. I never ever thought I was good and probably still don’t think I’m that great. I just do it and hopefully people like it.’’
Fortunately for Davis, people do. And lots of them.
In Melbourne he has reached cult status, perhaps mostly due to his Overheard series, which has been going strong for the past four years and was compiled into a book last year.
Overheard evolved from the desire of a former editor to include a cartoon.
‘‘We eventually came up with this idea of overhearing stuff,’’ Davis recalls about the brainstorming session, ‘‘making it very local and very topical. And the drawings would be based on the people and the city and what the city looks like.’’
Letting us in on the process, Davis says it involves spending days actively hunting down material, from waiting in line at the movies or idling in a bookshop, anywhere where ‘‘people are pretty happy and willing to let themselves go and say stuff’’.
Of course, there is an element of discretion that’s involved.
‘‘I have to be careful about that,’’ he says, when asked if people often think of him as strange. ‘‘I don’t sort of linger around too much because people would probably think I’m a stalker or a thief. I just try to be normal in the world, hang around, and hopefully I hear enough and then I can move on.’’
Davis reckons Melbourne has changed, is more fashion conscious and less down to earth than it used to be, but that can often bring forth more humorous situations.
‘‘I’m really happy with it and still quite interested in it because I think it’s from the street. It’s from the people. It’s something very real.’’
In his own reality, Davis describes himself as an anxious fellow, quiet, and fairly easygoing.
A doting father of two young girls, he tells a story about travelling in his youth with wife Mika, spending days doodling pictures of each other in the coffee shops of Paris.
Mika, he says, has played an unsung part in his career.
‘‘Most artists’ wives or husbands are a good sounding board for jokes and things, so I’m often giving her a sketch or something and asking her if it’s funny or not.
‘‘We generally agree and unless there’s some jokes I really believe in and she hates, I might sort of push and get them through. But generally she’s kind of like the quality control.’’
At home, Davis works alone in a small studio with a window with views of the side fence.
Sketchpads and a box of pencils and pens are scattered across his desk. A handful of framed cartoons sit atop the window, presumably for inspiration.
The rest of his cartoons lie buried in a manila folder, rarely seeing the light of day once they’ve been published.
‘‘I never look at them really. Doing three a week it just ticks over too fast.’’
Davis runs through his creative process, explaining how the first idea begins in his head and then he sketches some roughs to see what it might look like.
Then he might choose a scene he can use as a backdrop, like say, an airport, before drawing it out in full using a lightbox and watercolour to finish it off.
Asked about where he sees the value of cartoons in today’s world – and historically for that matter – Davis believes they have their place and newspapers are a great medium to voice it.
‘‘You’re not going to compare it to a van Gogh or something, but on the other hand it’s information, it’s a message, it’s a joke, it’s criticism all rolled into one.
‘‘I guess it has all sorts of roles in a newspaper. It has decoration, something with a bit of colour on the page, something a bit different from all the text or photos or ads. The high-level goal of it is it hopefully makes people laugh, next step makes people think about themselves or think about their world and how stupid things are and how weird things are.’’
Davis isn’t one to look too far ahead but he does concede there might come a time when the ideas run dry and the passion fades.
It’s a prospect he faces everyday as he works towards deadlines and the pressure of being topical and, much more importantly, funny.
‘‘I go through days where I just think, Oh, that’s it. It’s all over. I’m not doing it any more. It would be good to work on bigger projects that pay more and take up more of my time, like a book or something.’’
But does he ever really forsee a time when he’ll cringe at the prospect of having to draw another cartoon?
‘‘Not really,’’ he admits. ‘‘But I sort of get bored with how limited I am sometimes. I wish I was much better. Because if I was much better I would just be able to draw it and I wouldn’t have to muck around with it so much. So I get a bit frustrated with it.
‘‘I feel I have some skills but only up to a certain point. I’m not a genius when it comes to drawing by any stretch. There are other artists who can draw a horse really well, whereas for me, it sort of takes about three hours.’’
Modesty aside, Davis isn’t doing too badly for himself as a cartoonist, even if he reckons he’s winging it to a degree.
Or maybe that’s just him being sarcastic. But most probably not. Cartoons are a serious business.
‘‘You can’t make it up. You can’t fake stuff. If you really don’t like people wearing those antlers you just have to make a joke about it. But if I liked people wearing antlers I wouldn’t do a cartoon about it. You just have to be honest in what you hate and like and are interested in.’’