what never ceases to thrill me is his versatility and the way he incorporated print into his graphics. he was a master forger during the war, and it comes as no surprise that he saw himself as writer who just happened to know how to illustrate rather than a graphic artist. absolutely no one past or present can parallel his delicate lines, varied texture, restrained palettes, and free flowing continuous stream of ink. his linework seems to be off dancing in the air like some graceful phantom that improvisers a dance with the full knowledge that there is classical training in his step. steinberg’s lines are have their own pulse, yet they are fully controlled by his mastered hand. there is a free spiritedness about his work that is there to tempt, tickle, provoke, and make you think. i am afraid there will never be another like him.