Kewpie: Cuteness, Activism, Consumerism

*Originally written December 15, 2023

With its own saturated market, Kewpie has persevered throughout the last hundred years of popular culture. The distinct image of a little, nude, chubby cupid-like being with their wry topknots of hair and vaguely jolly expression has found itself on the bottles of mayonnaise, Brandy Melville t-shirts, and even as the mascot for a Missouri high school football team.

Despite its widespread commercial use, the Kewpie’s origins are not widely known. This essay will examine how its creator, Rose O’Neill, leveraged her character to support the suffrage movement, while also exploring how the Kewpie's visual appeal made it a versatile and enduring figure. By tracing the evolution of the Kewpie, the paper considers how its "cuteness" contributed to its cultural longevity and shifting symbolic value.

Rose O’Neill was an illustrator, sculptor, designer, artist, novelist, and poet—an entirely original individualist. Influenced by both classical antiquity and the Romantic movement, her illustrations often conveyed themes of innocence and love. Born in 1874 to a family that valued the arts, O’Neill discovered her talent at the age of fourteen when she won a local newspaper illustration competition, surprising the judges with her self-taught skill.

At nineteen, she moved to New York City to pursue a professional career in illustration, aspiring to publish her own novel and contribute drawings to major magazines. Because the industry was overwhelmingly dominated by men, O’Neill signed her work with the initials "C.R.O." to conceal her gender. Her breakthrough came in 1896 when her comic strip appeared in the September 19 issue of Truth, making her the first woman to publish a comic strip. Her growing popularity led to a position at Puck magazine, where she was the only female illustrator between 1897 and 1903.

Following her 1907 divorce from Harry Leon Wilson, a former Puck editor, O’Neill returned to her family’s home in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri. It was there that she first envisioned the Kewpies. In a 1910 interview with Woman’s Home Companion, she described the moment: “They were all over my room, on my bed, and one perched on my hand. I awoke seeing them everywhere. Because they felt cold, I knew that they were elves.”

Kewpies help dress two little girls. [The Kewpie Primer, Vernon Quinn, illustrations by Rose O'Neill, 1916, p. 96]

Kewpies help in the garden. [The Kewpies, Their book, Rose Cecil O'Neill, 1913, p. 5]

Children, Kewpies, and the Mer-Kewps. [The Kewpies, Their Book, Rose Cecil O'Neill, 1913, p. 71]

The Kewpie was conceived as a baby form of Cupid, though O’Neill clarified the distinction: “Cupid gets himself into trouble. The Kewpies get themselves out, always searching out ways to make the world better and funnier.” She imagined the Kewpie as an androgynous blend of ancient Greek mythology (Cupid), Christian iconography (angels), and Irish folk culture (elves and pixies).

The Kewpies made their debut in the December 1909 issue of Ladies' Home Journal, a newly launched magazine that reassured homemakers about the traditional roles assigned to women. Soon after, O’Neill’s Kewpie cartoon series appeared in publications like Good Housekeeping, Woman’s Home Companion, and St. Nicholas. In these illustrations, the Kewpies, sometimes referred to as “Kewps,” often banded together to rescue children and adults in distress. Historian Miriam Formanek-Brunell described them as figures who “mothered the neglected and adopted the unwanted,” highlighting their comforting and nurturing qualities.

O’Neill was considered part of the New Woman movement, which challenged the gendered traditions and cultural conventions of early 20th-century America. Many New Woman artists were deeply concerned with the well-being of the nation’s children, often expressing this through their work. O’Neill’s depiction of children drew from her personal experiences, ambitions, and beliefs. The look of the Kewpie was based on her baby brother, who tragically died at the age of two.

Unlike other “New Kid” dolls, such as the Campbell Kids, which promoted the nuclear family and middle-class domestic values, Kewpies celebrated collective care and community. Free from the constraints of clothing and gravity, they moved beyond the ideals of the Victorian era. They lived together without dependence on adult figures, embodying an alternative model of kinship that resisted traditional structures.

In form, Kewpies shared features with other childlike figures of the era: round cheeks, wide-set eyes, and small noses. However, while the Campbell Kids, created in 1904, were designed as a marketing tool for Campbell’s Soup and dressed as the quintessential “All-American” children, the Kewpies operated outside of conventional boundaries. Campbell’s branding promoted its soup as a wholesome, dependable choice for mothers in a modernizing America. By associating their product with happy, healthy children, the Campbell Kids reinforced conservative ideals of home and family.

By contrast, Kewpies reflected a more progressive vision of childhood. Though not children themselves, they embodied the ideal traits of the early 20th-century American child. As one historian noted, “as thoughtful social critics, they analyzed and evaluated the impact of modern American civilization on the young and old, rich and poor, male and female.”

At the same time, O’Neill’s position as a New Woman was shaped by her commitment to financial independence. She often collaborated with consumer brands, using the Kewpies to promote products. One of the most notable examples was Jell-O, which frequently featured Kewpies in its advertising campaigns. Slogans such as "The wise Kewpies are always doing the right thing to make little and big folks comfortable, contented, and happy" positioned the Kewpies as role models. Their good judgment applied not only to how they treated others but also to how they navigated consumer choices, blurring the line between social morality and brand loyalty.

Evening Star. 21 March 1915. Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers. Library Of Congress.

Sullivan’s Purity Ice Cream Tray

Sold at Wm Morford Antiques in 2014

Rose O’Neill canvassing for women’s suffrage in New York, 1915. Albumen print. Photograph by F. De Maria & Co., New York.

A Pre-Parade Gathering of New York's Woman Suffrage Workers (Rose O'Neill, seen on the far right). New York Tribune, October 24, 1915, Norman Rockwell Museum

Rose O’Neill moved to Greenwich Village in the 1910s, living among Village Bohemians and political activists. In 1915, she began devoting her time and skills to illustrating Kewpie postcards sold by the National American Woman Suffrage Association’s Publishing Company. These Kewpies were depicted carrying suffrage placards, marching arm in arm, and debating the opposition, continuing their duty as “social housekeepers.” O’Neill’s characters were overtly feminist: they confronted anti-suffragists, raised civil rights questions, and demanded the vote through mass print media.

As the suffrage movement centred on women’s rights, the image of womanhood was at the heart of the debate. Opponents claimed that suffragists were abrasive, unfeminine, lacked domestic skills, and threatened traditional family structures. Anti-suffrage groups equated voting rights with a loss of maternal instinct and the abandonment of home life. In response, suffragists used art and commodities to assert that femininity and political engagement were not mutually exclusive. The 1915 “Exhibition of Painting and Sculpture by Women Artists for the Benefit of the Woman Suffrage Campaign” at the Macbeth Gallery reinforced this idea—most works focused on motherhood and feminine virtue. Jane Freeman’s painting The Coming Voter, for instance, depicted a young mother caring for her child, accompanied by the question: “If women are entrusted with the moral education and upbringing of future voters, why can't mothers vote?”

A 1915 postcard of Kewpie dolls titled “Votes for Women: The Spirit of ’76.” Missouri History Museum.

Give Mother the Vote, We Need It, by Rose O'Neill, c.1910, National Woman Suffrage Publishing Company.

Postcards featuring happy, well-fed children implied that voting would not undermine motherhood. Within this context, Kewpies—originally an amalgamation of cupid, angel, elf, and fairy—were cast into this childlike persona. O'Neill, though she never had children of her own, was often introduced at suffrage events as the “mother of the Kewpies.” Kewpie postcards bore slogans such as “Give Mother the Vote” and “Votes for Our Mothers,” reinforcing the link between domestic identity and political participation.

Rose O’Neill, “The Kewpie Korner,” c. 1917-18, Bonniebrook Historical Society

1913? Rose O'Neill Kewpie Dolls sold at LiveAuctioneers

Suffrage Kewpie Doll Soap And Matching Cloth "Votes For Women" Tag sold at Heritage Auctions in 2004.

Suffragists also embraced consumer culture, transforming goods into emblems of belief and promotional tools. NAWSA organized bazaars selling suffrage paraphernalia, pencils, playing cards, soap, and more. Businesses and magazines capitalized on the movement's popularity: Macy’s sold official suffragist blouses, and The Woman’s Journal urged readers to support their commercial sponsors in the name of the cause. These products neutralized suffrage by aligning it with everyday consumerism. At a 1914 event in Nashville, famed aviator Katherine Stinson reportedly flew over the crowd and dropped Kewpie dolls wearing yellow sashes, advocating for women's voting rights. Like fans, ribbons, and buttons, Kewpies became entertaining commodities that allowed suffragists to claim space in the public sphere while asserting legitimacy in a consumer capitalist society.

Kewpie Doll. bisque; German, O'Neill, Kestner, 1913. Victoria & Albert Museum.

Within this commercial context, the Kewpie functioned as both an ironic and sentimental symbol, simultaneously embodying innocence, community, and gentle critique. As an advertising icon and toy, the Kewpie soothed the anxieties of an industrial society with its associations of cuteness, comfort, and nostalgia. Yet, its association with motherhood would later entangle the Kewpie with the ideals of the feminine mystique.

O’Neill’s Kewpies were soon picked up by the toy industry. After her illustrations gained widespread recognition, toy company Geo. Borgfeldt & Co. approached her to produce a line of Kewpie dolls, which would be manufactured in Germany by J.D. Kestner, where porcelain production was cheaper. Though the dolls launched successfully in 1913, O’Neill hesitated to endorse them—male designers had transformed the androgynous cherub into a more feminized and passive figure. As Miriam Formanek-Brunell notes, “the sideways glances of Kewpie dolls, unlike the once wide-eyed, engaged, and exuberant characters in her illustrations, now conveyed stereotypically ‘girlish’ bashfulness and coyness.”

Isolated from their fellow Kewps, the doll became a novel object presented in a confined box. O’Neill had envisioned Kewpies as “soft to the touch,” but manufacturers chose hard bisque, and the once-flying characters were now static, grounded on shelves. As they became popular Christmas gifts, Kewpies were reproduced in materials like rubber, china, celluloid, and cloth. Their playful nudity, once a statement, was downplayed as clothing and accessories were introduced to expand the toy market. In this transformation, Kewpie dolls lost much of their rebellious edge. Now marketed as comforting playthings, they were even described as psychotherapeutic objects that soothed emotional distress through their assumed values of nostalgia, romance, and religion. Kewpie doll owners were no longer inspired to be better individuals in their day-to-day lives but rather expected their Kewpies to solve their problems for them.

Despite the commercialization and softening of her characters, O’Neill remained committed to using the Kewpie as a tool for activism. She continued drawing suffrage-themed Kewpie cartoons, aiming to balance the demands of the consumer market with her political beliefs.

By prioritizing the commercial realm for political discourse, suffragists integrated consumerism into their movement. While this strategy broadened their appeal, it also narrowed the vision of American womanhood, privileging maternal, white, middle-class ideals, and helped shape a conservative vision of women’s citizenship. In doing so, suffragists blurred the lines between consumer and political identity, laying the groundwork for what is now called commodity feminism: the repackaging of feminist messages into market-friendly products.

A pair of Kewpie dolls, Thunder Bay Museum.

Sonny Angels, designed by Toru Soeya, Dreams

Always situated within a commercial context, the Kewpie has assumed multiple roles over time, embodying irony, social critique, and a sense of community in its original cartoon form. As both an advertising symbol and a doll, it embodied cuteness and innocence as a response to the anxieties of an industrialized society. Even today, that sentiment is still alive in toys like the Sonny Angel, a Japanese figurine developed in 2005. As described in a New York Times article, Sonny Angel is “a fictitious 2-year-old cherub designed to be a tiny companion for working women in their mid-20s dealing with the stresses of adulthood”—a modern iteration of the Kewpie’s comforting presence.

While the Kewpie was never a radical suffrage icon, it nonetheless projected goodwill. Yet, its associations with motherhood became increasingly entangled with the feminine mystique. Cultural critic Daniel Harris suggests that our attachment to cute figures like the Kewpie stems from “maternal feelings for a mythical condition of endearing naïveté.” In his view, the exaggerated features of cute products—wide eyes, swollen limbs, and bloated cheeks—are grotesque in their distortion, evoking pitiful, affectionate reactions from consumers. Rather than seducing consumers through helplessness or sorrow, the Kewpie appeals as the image of an ideal child. As Harris writes, “Our unenviable role as the hygienic custodians of children… has led to a recurrent parental fantasy, that of the diaperless baby.” Whether as a cartoon or a doll, the mystical cherub represented the archetype of the well-mannered, eternally innocent child.

Regardless of how consumers perceived Kewpie, the character was, without a doubt, a commercial success. It is estimated that O'Neill earned over a million dollars in royalties from the Kewpie craze, and for a while, the artist, alongside her sister Callista, operated a Kewpie shop on New York City's Madison Avenue.

The transition from magazine illustration to mass-produced object obscures the integrity of the Kewpie. As benevolent, socially conscious beings, cartoon Kewpies thrived in collective action, bringing joy and goodwill to the people they encountered. Once ripped out of their fantastical realm and placed into the real world of dread and consumption, the Kewpies become isolated and stagnant as three-dimensional figurines. Intended to serve as role models for both children and adults, their philosophy of selflessness was manipulated to serve the desires of a growing consumer market.

Despite this shift, the Kewpie’s communal nature wasn’t entirely lost. For suffragists, owning Kewpie paraphernalia—postcards, soap, figurines—fostered a sense of shared identity and solidarity. That sense of community continues today. Since 1967, the International Rose O’Neill Club Foundation has hosted an annual convention, “Kewpiesta,” where collectors and fans celebrate the legacy of both O’Neill and her cherubic creation.

The Kewpie remains a fascinating figure that has spanned across various contexts, adopting new connotations through the turbulent relationship between American popular culture and consumerism. As both a political emblem and a commercial object, the Kewpie continues to carry the contradictions of the culture that produced it.

Rose O'Neill, Untitled Charcoal Sketch with Kewpie, 1929, Charcoal on paper. MutualArt.

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O’Neill, Shane. “Why Do People Love This Tiny Doll?” The New York Times, April 6, 2023. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/06/style/sonny-angels-dolls-tiktok.html.

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