Remembering Danny
In music, “blood harmonies” refer to the innate ability of family members to harmonize their singing voices to create an almost surreal quality of alignment (the BeeGees are a famous example). Extend this concept to humor, and it would describe how my uncle Danny could make me laugh. No doubt many in his extended family would say the same. He had a way of saying just about anything and making it powerfully funny.
Of course, Danny’s appeal wasn’t just limited to his family. After all, he was a nationally celebrated cartoonist whose work appeared in The New Yorker for 30 years, and pretty much anywhere else you’d look. It was common for me to walk through a souvenir shop or flip an in-flight magazine and see Danny’s work.
Danny Shanahan was the son of two, the brother of ten, the father of two, and the uncle to more than a dozen. He passed away on July 5.
There were two lessons I picked up from Danny that have had a tremendous impact on the course of my life:
Humor is a form of capital
Creativity can be the basis for a career
Humor
The Shanahans are a gaggle of Irish-Catholic Brooklynites. My mom is the second-oldest of the eleven children; Danny was fourth in line. Humor has always been a prevailing quality of the Shanahan family. Over the course of a dinner party or family gathering, sporadic bursts of raucous laughter would erupt like geysers. Intervals without laughter were shorter than those with. From a young age, I felt compelled to develop a knack for making witty contributions. It was a way to get welcomed into the fold. As a kid, getting a genuine laugh out of a Shanahan (as opposed to an “ain’t you precocious!” chuckle) yielded a feeling of accomplishment.
Because of this, quick wit and the ability to be insightfully funny are qualities on which I place significant value. It’s something my wife and I bonded over. It’s a quality that I think has served me well in my personal life and my career. And I have my family to thank for this—perhaps no one more than Danny.
But Danny’s brand of humor did not hinge on theatrics or over-the-top charisma. He was far more Steven Wright than Stephen Colbert. In a social setting, he mastered the art of the perfectly timed esoteric quip, spoken softly enough that you felt lucky to catch it. In fact, I get the sense that he only really said these things to amuse himself. He wasn’t one to bask in reactions. His M.O. was simple: if he thought of a funny thing, he said it.
Or, in the case of his cartoons, he drew it. But his work was never hokey, and he wasn’t interested in the obvious gag. He once said of his cartoons, “I try to show the moment before or after the punchline.” I regularly employ this philosophy when designing book covers.
But his work was never hokey, and he wasn’t interested in the obvious gag. He once said of his cartoons, “I try to show the moment before or after the punchline.”
When I was eleven years old, my family was visiting Danny at his home in Rhinebeck, New York. We were out to lunch and I ordered iced tea with a lemon slice. There were lemon seeds floating in my drink, but I couldn’t make out what they were. I said to my dad, “What are these things in my drink?” Perfectly timed and utterly deadpan, Danny said, “Sea monkeys.”
It was sophomoric and nonsensical, but I still remember how perfectly funny it was in that moment. Chances are you don’t find that as funny as I did and still do. But that’s okay. It reminds me of how lucky I was to have a professional humorist in my life who could create these “had to be there” moments that, twenty-five years later, still have me fighting back a grin.
Creative
Earlier that day, we were at Danny’s house. He showed us his cartooning studio which, as best as I can remember, was a room adjacent to his kitchen. To me, this was a revolutionary concept. I had envisioned him plying his trade at an office like anyone else. The concept of building a successful creative career and carrying it out from the comforts of home was instantly compelling to me. At that moment, I knew someday I’d work for myself.
On September 30, 2019, after nearly twelve years of office life, I formally opened G Sharp Design. I woke up that morning, made coffee, trudged upstairs, and settled into my home office. This was the moment a dream was realized, and I thought back to that day in Danny’s studio when it first formed. I regret that I’m not sure I ever told Danny about the impact that visit to his house had on me.
About a year after I opened G Sharp, Danny was living here in South Carolina. He needed to convalesce after a health scare, and my selfless parents offered to take him in. The warmth and pace of suburban SC seemed like a good fit for him. He played golf regularly with my dad, he would cook dinners with and for my mom. And all the while, he still worked, mailing cartoons to publications and private buyers.
It brings me a lot of joy to know Danny spent his last year in the embrace of family. My wife and I visit my parents once a week or so for dinner, and it was such a treat having him there. He was with us for a year of birthdays and holidays. He held my baby daughter shortly after she was born, and he gifted us an original cartoon, which is hanging in her nursery.
My birthday dinner in May was among our last full family gatherings with Danny. He was healthy and happy when my wife, daughter, sister-in-law, and I were over at my parents’ house. We all ate and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. After dinner, my mom brought out my birthday cake, and on it were round, plastic cake toppers painted to look like little clown heads. We’ve had these since I was a kid, and it’s become a family gag to include them on birthday cakes.
As my mom set the cake down, I barely heard Danny say, “Those actually have full bodies, down in the cake. They’re holding hands.” I laughed so hard that I needed a moment to gather myself and wipe away tears before I blew out the candles. He got me one last time.
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Almost two months later, we find ourselves grieving and mourning the loss of Danny, who meant so much to us all and textured the life of anyone who knew him. But he left us so many joyful things by which to remember him. His legacy includes two sons who he loved dearly, and of course an expansive body of work. He taught me that creating work that is personally compelling is the first priority. Odds are that if it compels you, others will embrace it too. He taught me that humor is a powerful tool that can brighten the most difficult times such as these.
And of course, I’ll never be able to look at those clown head cake toppers without thinking of them holding hands under the icing. Thanks a lot, Danny.