P Is for Prosciutto

Saul Steinberg, 37, is the Picasso of U.S. cartoonists. He can manipulate a line the way a Texan handles a lariat, shift from a vast architectural spoof to a pompous portrait miniature in as little time as it takes to turn a page of a sketchbook. A born experimenter, he is constantly thinking up new ways to get sardonic effects.

Last week, Steinberg's latest experiments filled two usually sober-sided Manhattan galleries with pen & ink pyrotechnics. Typical Steinberg ingenuity transformed fur-swathed matrons into molting kiwis, Cadillac convertibles into rococo holy-water fonts. In a panorama of the Piazza San Marco, he turned Venice's ancient cathedral into a Fourth-of-July fireworks display. One wall of the exhibition was devoted to Steinberg ex-votos, pictures depicting miraculous escapes from falling mobiles, firing squads and wobbly airline gangways. Another wall was plastered with elaborate parodies of diplomas and other certificates of accomplishment Americans love.

Steinberg can trace a lot of his fancier ideas to his childhood in Bucharest, where his first artistic influences were his mother's "wonderful cakes with all sorts of decorations," the froufrou boxes his father manufactured for cosmetics and jewelry. His virtuoso handling of architectural monstrosities stems from the 1930s, when he spent seven years studying architecture in Milan. Architecture gradually gave way to cartooning, and by 1942, when he came to the U.S., Steinberg already had an international reputation as a pen & ink satirist.

In the U.S., Steinberg branched out. In addition to his magazine work, he has painted murals, designed textiles and wallpaper, published two books of drawings. Current Steinberg projects include a 400-ft. mural for a Boston store, the sets for three new ballets and an alphabet book for a friend's four-year-old daughter--"a sort of amorous ABC, using C for Champagne, P for Prosciutto, and so forth."

Steinberg has also made strides as an artistic longhair. In 1946, Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art included him in a show of promising American artists. Two months ago, the Metropolitan Museum paid its respects by buying 30 feet of Steinberg's 110-ft. (and still growing) Parade, a satiric commentary on all the U.S. parades he has seen to date.

"The Met couldn't possibly afford the whole thing," says Steinberg, who intends to keep Parade going indefinitely. "It would break them."

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