Leonardo had Mona Lisa. Pablo Picasso had Dora Maar. Dave Cooney’s muse, his ideal of feminine grace, was the 41st mayor of Chicago, Jane Byrne.
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In a few weeks he’d finished a portrait that was so “honest-to-God gorgeous” he decided to present it to Byrne in person. One morning, Cooney and a cop buddy stopped in at City Hall and lingered outside the mayor’s office. “We dropped by the press office, and her husband, Jay McMullen, walked in. He said, ‘Who the hell drew that picture?’ He took us right in, in front of everybody. People were sittin’, waitin’ to get in with flowers. He took us right in.”
Cooney sat down “right by that big desk of hers at that office” and spent 20 minutes making small talk with Byrne. The mayor loved the portrait, Cooney remembers. “I gave her the original. She said, ‘Would you like some press?’ Like an idiot, I said no. But still, when a woman, a mayor, they walk you into the office and ask if you want press, that fires you up.”
He’s discovered a new subject, one he’s sure will bring him more respect: dead people. Last year, laying bricks for an apartment in Arlington Heights, Cooney found himself on the job with Tony Fath, a union brother he hadn’t seen in 15 years. Remembering that Cooney was an artist, Fath commissioned a portrait of his recently deceased father. When Fath showed it to his sister, she said, “Oh my god, he looks like he’s about to say something.” Fath bought a print for every member of the family.
Cooney sounded disappointed when he learned that Byrne didn’t remember the portrait. But he was philosophical. He was one of three million constituents, and she was–a celebrity. “I’m sure she’s probably gotten a thousand gifts,” he said, and sighed. “That was a good piece. I should have hung onto it.”
