Karl Gude

About a year ago I was leaving Newsweek at an ungodly early-morning hour to get some sleep in a nearby hotel. Walking the streets of New York when I was all alone with the bad buys creeped me out a bit. Weirdoes, as you know, prowl these streets in search of people like me to kill and eat, especially if it’s raining, as it was that day. Woody Allen once said of this town that if your eyes meet someone else’s on the subway then that person has the right to kill you.

I needed a toothbrush so I went to the all-night drugstore across from my building. As I was focusing intently on choosing the exact-right-colored model I was startled by a booming voice and a hearty grab at my shoulder. It was Ralph Ginzburg, an old friend, who should have been in bed with the rest of the city, especially at his age. (New York City can really feel like a small town, the way you run into people…Some of us steer clear of entire neighborhoods just to avoid ex-girlfriends)

With his super-round glasses, heavily lidded eyes, huge forehead and massive mustache Ralph was decked out with some impressive cameras, a photographer’s vest and a ton of enthusiasm. He instantly woke up my tired brain with his signature humongous hello that began with a hand held high above his head that swwwwwung down to find yours in a hearty handshake followed by a heavily New York-accented “Karl, my boy! HowyaDOIN!?” He wanted to know everything about what I had been up to. Ralph was staking out some place for the New York Post, waiting for someone to show up, or get arrested or something. After Ralph was let out of jail several years ago he gave up publishing, which he was famous for, and had decided to work as a news photographer. He shot amazing pictures. (Look for his book, “I Shot New York”)

Ralph’s personality was as big as this city that spawned him where he became a recognized icon with his full-page New York Times ads featuring himself (once you saw Ralph, you didn’t forget him) promoting his publications. One had a huge photo of him with a scrunchy expression holding a pair of scissors scarily across his nose with the words, “I’ll cut off my nose to spite my face!…”

But mostly, Ralph had the taste to work with some of the best design people in the business (Herb Lubalin designed one of his magazines, Avante Garde, and it spawned a typeface. Tom Bodkin worked for Ralph, and went on to become the Design Director for the NY Times, where he still is). He published the work of some of the best writers, photographers and artists of the day. He was the first to publish some of Bert Stern’s nude pictures of Marilyn Monroe and he ran a series of erotic drawings by John Lennon. In a case that went all of the way to the Supreme Court (he lost) Ralph got into big trouble for publishing nude pictures of a black man and a white woman together. I saw these pictures. They were tasteful, gorgeous and artistic images. But, back then you didn’t do that.

A lot of this work appeared in Ralph’s very short-lived, but memorable, magazine called Eros (not the smutty magazine you may see on today’s newsstands. Ralph sued them to stop using the name), and I believe if you have all the copies of the magazine they’re worth a small fortune. I did a couple of illustrations for his financial publication, Moneysworth, which enjoyed a 2 million+ circulation.

For many years I was a close friend of the family through Ralph’s wonderful and creative daughter, Lark. I was invited every Thanksgiving to breakfast at their 16th floor Central Park West apartment. Breakfast? The Macy’s Day parade passed right under their window and I could practically reach down and touch the balloons as I munched on shrimp, pancakes and ice cream. They were a great family. His other daughter, Bonnie Erbe, is an accomplished broadcast and print journalist and all around wonderful person. (www.usnews.com/usnews/opinion/erbeblog/archive/060517/all_this_fuss_over_one_little.htm). His son Shepard was a dynamo, too. I still picture him driving off to California to seek his fortune in his hand-painted (with a brush) pink convertible with black record albums all over it and a surfboard sticking out the back. He opened a successful recording studio.

Ralph’s wife, Shoshana, was also a writer and I loved her. The first time I met her Lark brought me by their lofty apartment and Shoshana invited me to wait out on the terrace to admire the view of the park while the two of them went off somewhere. I struggled with the door handle so much that it broke off in my hand just before Shoshana came back into the room. I quickly hid it behind my back, but finally confessed. She laughed and said, “You can break anything I have, just not my little girl’s heart.”

Ralph Ginzburg said he would only be remembered as a “footnote” in publishing. He accredited this to his imprisonment. I disagree.

If you don’t know him please read Steve Heller’s (www.allworth.com/Authors/Bio_SH.htm) engrossing New York Times obit of him: www.nytimes.com/2006/07/07/us/07ginzburg.html. You won’t believe Ralph.