

Slim, striking and never at a loss for words -- delivered forcefully in a Hungarian accent -- Ms. McHale has been called called a futurist, sci-fi painter, designer and architect. All of which she dismissed with queenly bemusement to The News a few years ago. "People don't get things right," she announced, between theatrical drags on a cigarette. "They want to put artists in categories. I didn't always fit."


"I am interested in the human shape. I also know it is not only a shape: It can see, feel, talk, can be black or white. It is part of humanity. . . . These figures were always women and very large and often had no heads. Heads didn't matter -- what mattered was the bone, the skin, the viscera."
Said one critic in 1959:
"Her representation of women is not concerned with traditional notions of beauty of traditional cultural values. It is a fierce but controlled expression of the vital events and mysteries in the life of man; the mysteries to do with the role of the female, positive or negative, throughout the universe. The result may be monstrous and uncompromising, but in this age of corsets, cosmetics, automation, and celluloid sex, it might do us no harm to be shocked back into the realization that there is still latent in the human being a savage instinct, fecundity, and energy."
++new york times obit++














