“I had this feeling of not being clear in my head,” he told me. He feared that the fumes he inhaled from the solvents were giving him brain damage. He found occasional work painting billboards, airbrushing illustrations onto motorcycles, and varnishing cars at a local garage. He had been married and divorced, and he was struggling for money. He was almost thirty-eight, with a bushy mustache and bleached blond hair. “I never got a reply,” he said.īy 1988, he had become depressed. When he was twenty-one, he mailed his sketches to a satirical magazine along with a letter asking for advice on how to become a cartoonist. “I was born with a talent for drawing,” he told me. Because of his sense of humor, a kindergarten teacher called him “Micky Maus.” He left school at fifteen to become an apprentice sign-maker, spent time sketching, and tried his hand at caricatures of politicians and celebrities. He grew up in a working-class family in West Berlin, in the nineteen-fifties, and spent his childhood tinkering with chemistry kits and sending gunpowder rockets whizzing into the sky. Arno Funke wanted to be a cartoonist, but it wasn’t working out.
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