Benjamin Zephaniah. 2025. Pen and ink, sketchbook. 9″x12″.
In a distracted culture, it’s crucial to look slowly. I like faces that demand scrutiny and make you think. If I’m going to invest hours of work on a portrait, the person being drawn must be worth it.
Benjamin Zephaniah was⏤and still is.
His stanzas didn’t follow rules; they followed his internal rhythm. He didn’t kowtow to convention or the status quo.
He was a rebel.
Zephaniah was shortlisted for Oxford’s Professor of Poetry. He was never elected.
He also declined an OBE, refusing an honor tied to a history he rejected.
Titles come and go. Integrity stays.
The lines in my drawings are made with conviction and expose a truth about my subject, and ultimately, about me.
I don’t need validation.
The algorithm is meaningless.
Likes mean nothing.
I follow my internal rhythm, as Benjamin Zephaniah did, with lived conviction.
For more than four decades, my work has been shaped by the Pre-Raphaelites, particularly the art of Edward Burne-Jones and the broader Symbolist and fin de siècle traditions. The essay below, published in the Summer 2025 issue of The PRS Review as the inaugural entry in the series In an Artist’s Studio, outlines the development of that influence across my artistic life.
In it, I trace the trajectory from my early encounters with the movement to my contemporary practice as a draughtsman working consciously within — and extending — this tradition. I offer it here as a concise record of the evolution that brought me to my present aesthetic and the principles that continue to guide my work.
In 1982, when I was sixteen, I was an aspiring young artist living in California’s flat, sun-baked, agriculturally dense Central Valley, the most unlikely place to fall in love with the Pre-Raphaelites. It was there that I discovered the illustration monograph, The Studio that chronicled the formation of the famed New York City collective made up of fantasists Jeffery Catherine Jones, Michael William Kaluta, Barry Windsor-Smith, and Bernie Wrightson, which led to my profound interest in The Pre-Raphaelites. In his chapter, artist Barry Windsor-Smith spoke of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, citing Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Edward Burne-Jones, JW Waterhouse, and Frederick Leighton as key influences on his work. Windsor-Smith’s Pre-Raphaelite-inspired style was new to me; it proved to be a sign in the road that galvanized me to seek out and learn more about the names he mentioned.
Mystery
Soon after, I discovered Christopher Wood’s seminal book The Pre-Raphaelites. That oversized tome continued the evolution that began with The Studio. At a glance, the image on its cover, Burne-Jones’s The Mirror of Venus, conveyed what was artistically possible and a direction; it also led me further down the path of fine art inspired by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.
Over the ensuing years, I continued to improve my work, graduated from art school, and began working professionally. During that time, I, like many artists, spent energy attempting to find “my style.” As always, the Pre-Raphaelites remained in the background, gently haunting me. Even though I yearned to embrace their aesthetic, I held myself back because I knew my work needed to be world-class to be worthy of their legacy.
In 2000, I had the opportunity to travel to the UK to show menu designs to a friend who had plans to open a café bookstore in Central London. During my stay, I had the opportunity to visit Tate Britain and see the work of the Pre-Raphaelites. The impact was profound. Standing in front of Millais’s Ophelia, Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott, and Burne-Jones’s King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid was nothing short of a religious experience that deepened my longing to commit to the aesthetic I had loved for so long.
In the years following, personal hurdles began to pile up—life circumstances, grief, and a myriad of other distractions. Due to this, I drifted from my work and considered giving up on the artistic vision I had nourished since adolescence. Still, I kept drawing, even though the work felt directionless. My skill had diminished, and my standards had slipped, but fierce resolve and perseverance kept me going. I knew things had to change, and after some genuine soul-searching, I found the answer I sought. To feel fulfilled, I had to return to where it all started: the Pre-Raphaelites, not as a nostalgic echo but as the foundation of my work. I began rebuilding, refining my skill, raising my standards, and constructing a personal ideology that would allow me to carry the Pre-Raphaelite tradition into the present while making it my own.
Fanny Eaton
Everything finally culminated in the summer of 2022 when I read Andrea Wolk Rager’s The Radical Vision of Edward Burne-Jones. Her brilliant reinterpretation of Burne-Jones’s oeuvre was the blueprint I had been seeking. Her scholarship illuminated Burne-Jones’s subtle but radical condemnations of environmental destruction, economic inequality, and empire. Her book gave me the intellectual and creative permission I had been waiting for. It proved that the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic could be a vehicle for contemporary relevance, not just homage. The style I have embraced continues to evolve as I slowly incorporate the ideas and themes I’ve mentioned. My drawings, Mystery, and my portrait of Fanny Eaton, pictured in this article, reflect the two sides of the style I have embraced. In Mystery, you see the ethereal and dreamlike nature so prominent in the work of the PRB, and in my portrait of Fanny Eaton, you see diversity and a global point of view.
Burne-Jones has always felt like a kindred spirit. Like me, he was an only child born to humble beginnings and shaped by the presence of a single parent. He drew to survive, to understand, to transcend. Although his sense of design and draughtsmanship have been lifelong inspirations, his painted work has spoken even more profoundly to me. Works such as The Mirror of Venus and King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid resonated most with me⏤his ability to use beauty and allegory to condemn the status quo and imagination and visual lyricism to sweep you away to what he called “a land no one can define or remember, only desire.” Burne-Jones has taught me that beauty has the power to be both ornament and epiphany. That runs through everything I create now.
This belief also informs my process. My new work always begins with an idea from something I’ve dreamed, imagined, read, listened to, or watched. Creating a new drawing starts in the pages of my sketchbook as a series of thumbnails that are transferred and developed on tracing paper, where I work through multiple layers until my composition feels right. Once I feel confident with my preliminary drawing, I transfer it to a sheet of 4-ply Bristol board. At this stage, I examine every detail with extreme precision. If something doesn’t feel right, I create separate studies or technique roughs until I resolve the issue.
Entre Sombras II
Then begins the slow, tedious process of drawing my design in ink, using mostly Rapidograph technical pens, building linework with patience and precision. Light, shadow, and value gradually develop through dense crosshatching and layered textures. Depending on the complexity, a single drawing can take over 40 hours. Once finished, minor flaws get corrected with white gouache. My process is slow by design, reflecting the same belief held by the Pre-Raphaelites: that care and intention matter in making an image.
Through my work, I aim to extend the visual language of the Pre-Raphaelites into the present. I draw from the PRB and the designers and artists of the fin de siècle and filter their legacy through a contemporary lens focused on creating work with genuine intent and a higher purpose beyond commodification that celebrates global culture and spotlights social concerns. The prescience, deeper meaning, and radical nature of Burne-Jones’s work revealed in Dr. Rager’s book have provided me with a framework to follow that allows me to express my own global point of view and concerns regarding environmental destruction, income inequality, and social injustice.
La Maja Soñadora
The Pre-Raphaelites presented me with an artistic vision that changed everything. The bar they set in my formative years has been a constant in my life, and Edward Burne-Jones’s work has continued to be a guiding light on the artistic road I am traveling. My work has undergone many changes since discovering the PRB; through years of trial and error, I have achieved a level of mastery in my draughtsmanship that has allowed me to confidently embrace an aesthetic inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites and the designers and artists of the fin de siècle. The merging of a PRB aesthetic and an ideology that reflects my worldview has finally allowed me to become the artist I envisioned when, at sixteen, I first encountered The Studio—and then, not long after, opened The Pre-Raphaelites by Christopher Wood and saw, perhaps for the first time, who I truly was.
Originally published in The PRS Review (Summer 2025) as part of In an Artist’s Studio, edited by Dr. Zaynub Zaman. Reproduced with gratitude to the Pre-Raphaelite Society.
Davis. 2025. Pen and ink in sketchbook. 8 1/2″ x 11″.
They say never meet your heroes because they might disappoint you—or because meeting them might not be as earth-shattering as you imagine.
Yesterday, I met one of mine: underground comix legend Robert Crumb.
The setting could not have been more ordinary. A quiet art store in Davis, California, The Paint Chip. Crumb lived for decades in nearby Winters before relocating to a remote village in southern France, and I’ve visited the area regularly for the past twenty-five years as a retreat from “the 209.” I always knew he lingered like a ghost in the local orbit, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I suspected our paths might cross one day.
On October 24, they did. My wife and I had come to Davis to take a break, browse a bit, and try a new Mediterranean place we’d seen on TikTok. Our stop at The Paint Chip was incidental; we were about to leave when an employee pointed us toward the elusive 0.9 mechanical pencil leads—those rare essentials of an online tutor’s life.
As my wife and I stood in front of the display, an older gentleman entered the store with a woman and a younger companion. His profile caught my eye immediately—sharp, unmistakable. I’d seen it before. Maybe. I tried not to stare, but when he shuffled past, it was clear: Robert Crumb was in the fucking Paint Chip.
I’ve never been one for chasing celebrities. Aside from a few backstage meetings with rock stars in the eighties, lunch with Burne Hogarth, studying with Barron Storey, and a brief encounter with Maya Angelou, my life has been largely devoid of brushes with fame.
Still, I knew this moment wouldn’t come again.
I walked over, extended my hand, and said, “R. Crumb.”
He looked startled. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I said, “but I know you. You have a very distinctive face.”
That broke the tension, and he smiled—half amused, half unsure.
Had this happened twenty years ago, I might have been starstruck. But those days are long gone. I’ve long since shed the fanboy impulse. Admiration remains, but it’s no longer worship; it’s recognition between artists.
I asked whether his Hup series from the 1980s would ever be collected into a hardcover volume. He said the publisher keeps promising. I almost told him they’ve been saying that for twenty-five years.
Our exchange was brief. Before we parted, the old wheeler-dealer recommended his upcoming comic, Tales of Paranoia.
“Check out my new comic.”
“I’ve seen the cover,” I told him. “The expression on your face is perfect.”
He laughed. And that was it—unexpected, low-key, almost uneventful, yet oddly perfect.
The creation of a new piece of work unfolds in ways most people never imagine. It’s nonlinear, unpredictable, and refuses to adhere to routine. This isn’t a recipe for paella, it’s the act of conjuring something from nothing.
My Lagan Love from 1985 UK 12″ of Cloudbusting by Kate Bush.
In past blog posts, when I’ve written about creating new work, I’ve fallen back on the same worn-out playbook, offering a play-by-play of pencils, pens, and technique. That approach has never done a damn thing for anyone, let alone provided any real insight into my process. It’s been nothing more than a polished façade, a false account of what it truly means to create something from nothing.
The changes my work has undergone over the past few years make it impossible for me to present anything but the raw truth behind what I do. Speaking that truth is essential to where I am now and what I create. The creative process is messy, complex, and rarely linear; it’s not a fucking Disney movie.
My drawing Mystery began as a ball of frustration after the worst bout of creative stasis I’ve ever experienced. 2024 started as a long list of projects that would move me closer to my goals, but life had other plans. In the past, whenever I’ve experienced rough patches on my journey, I’ve always turned to music to get me through; it’s never let me down. In 2005, after losing my mom and my way, I reached out to Hounds of Love, London Calling, and Point of Entry for salvation. The sounds on those albums were a balm for my mind during the bleakest period of my life.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s haunting study of Jane for Astarte Syriaca.
This time, the rescue came quietly, almost by accident. One night, after weeks of aimless sketching and abandoned starts, I sat in my petite atelier listening to Kate Bush’s reinterpretation of the traditional Irish air My Lagan Love. Stark and unaccompanied, her magnificent voice rose like a prayer in a vast, empty cathedral. Its resonance and haunting stillness carried the same ethereal quality and mystery that had first drawn me to the Pre-Raphaelites decades ago. Not long after that moment, I came across I Can’t Sleep from Wang Chung’s 1982 debut album. Its enigmatic tone, paired with the solemn beauty of My Lagan Love, reminded me of what had fueled my fascination with the Pre-Raphaelites from the beginning: beautiful mystery.
Alongside music, images play a vital role in sparking the creation of new work. In the case of Mystery, I recalled the sublime portraits of Jane Morris by Rossetti and a magnificent photograph by Clive Arrowsmith of Kate Bush–her face framed by leaves in a distinctly Pre-Raphaelite manner. Combined with the songs I’d been listening to, an image began to emerge, slowly, insistently. What followed was a long, deliberate stretch of hard graft: translating emotion and idea into form on paper.
The creative stasis I endured in 2024 was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I’d weathered dry spells in the past, but never one so long and so sustained. Still, I’ve come to see that every pause, every obstacle, has its purpose. The path of artistic growth always comes at a price.
As Mystery began to take shape, every mark I made carried the weight of my desire to excel and create something undeniable, something that bore witness to the struggle that preceded it.
A clear idea, a balanced composition, and solid drawing are essential to any new image. There must always be rhythm as well as weight in what you put down. What has always resonated with me about the Pre-Raphaelites’ work is the brilliance of their draughtsmanship and the precision behind their iconic images. Everything they created, whether an oil on canvas or a design in pen and ink, began with sketches and studies in pencil. They worked out every facet. Their pictures were born of a deep, genuine love of drawing and painting, a truth reflected in every mark and brushstroke. Their draughtsmanship set the bar when I first discovered the Brotherhood at sixteen, and it remains the standard I hold myself to today. I will never compromise my standards.
Mystery in-progress pencil preliminary.
Mystery is a chronicle of struggle and triumph, captured in exacting pen strokes and lush crosshatching. When I began the drawing, I had no idea what would emerge after the weeks of work required to bring my idea to life. Starting was a tentative step after a year of stasis, but as always, I found solace in the long, deliberate process of creation. The act of building form through a profusion of crosshatching and the feel of the pen nib etching ink into the surface of the paper has always carried a kind of therapeutic magic, capable of dissolving whatever hurdle stands in my way.
Whenever I complete a drawing, I’m always surprised by what I see when I finally step back. It’s one thing to sense the potential in an idea; it’s another to bring it fully to life. After weeks of work, I stepped away from the drawing table and looked hard at what I had made. My gut told me I had created something powerful. Maybe.
That intuition found its echo when my wife walked into the studio to see the finished piece. The look on her face said everything: “This is my favorite of all the newer, Pre-Raphaelite-inspired work you’ve done. “She isn’t one to mince words, so perhaps my instincts had been right all along. The moment that confirmed what we both felt came unexpectedly, weeks later, when Dr. Zaynub Zaman, editor of the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s journal, the PRS Review, emailed to offer me the opportunity to help inaugurate her new series, In an Artist’s Studio. To say I was gobsmacked would be an understatement. In an instant, Dr. Zaman validated years of effort and sacrifice and gave the voice I’d long been searching for new depth and resonance.
Fanny Eaton (After Fryer Stocks). 2025. Pen and ink on paper. 9″x12″.
My work is defiance on paper. I am not here to chase trends or court popularity—I am here to be myself. And being yourself means going against expectations. Declaring self-autonomy always comes with a generous cup of take it or leave it.
Over the years, I’ve come to see that defiance takes many forms—but at its core, it’s an attitude. For me, defiance has meant doing something most people are unwilling to do: playing the long game. It means pursuing a decades-long vision, holding myself to a world-class standard, embracing a global outlook, creating traditional art, and committing to black-and-white drawing in ink on paper. The recent publication of In An Artist’s Studio, an article on my work, has validated all of these things.
Defiance also lives in what you choose to draw. In recent years, I’ve been drawn to spotlight the downtrodden, the overlooked, the less valued, and the innocent victims of violence. It’s not the most glamorous path, but it resonates deeply with me. At some point, I realized there had to be more than kitchen utensils or coffeehouse patrons nursing five-dollar lattes. I pursued that for a time—but eventually, the novelty wore off. Sketchbook artist is not what I am.
Fanny Matilda Eaton (1835–1924) was a Jamaican-born, London-raised woman of color who lived in Victorian England and posed for members and associates of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. She appears in several notable works, including Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s The Beloved (1862), John Everett Millais’s The Pearl of Great Price (1860), and Simeon Solomon’s The Mother of Moses (1860), where she made her public debut. Beyond these paintings, Fanny was also the subject of numerous drawings and studies. Two that stand out are Rossetti’s magnificent pencil Study of a Young Woman (c. 1865) and Walter Fryer Stocks’s 1859 colored chalk drawing, which I used as a reference for my own portrait of Fanny.
I had long known that women of color had posed for the Pre-Raphaelites, but their names remained unknown to me. Fanny Eaton is the first Black model of the PRB whose name I’ve come to know. Her story has come into focus thanks to the investigative work of her great-grandson, Brian Eaton, who published Fanny Eaton’s Story in 2024. And yet, despite the publication of this book and a growing interest in her legacy, Fanny remains an enigma—like so many women whose lives were essential but unrecorded in the history of art.
Although some critics still try to dismiss the Pre-Raphaelites as an irrelevant niche Victorian art movement, it’s increasingly clear that the Pre-Raphaelites’ vision was broader and richer than their critiques suggest. A multicultural thread runs through their work—and through the lives of those who shaped it. Fanny is a prominent example. So is Dante Gabriel Rossetti, son of Italian immigrants and co-founder of the Brotherhood. Maria Zambaco, from London’s Anglo-Greek community, posed for many of Burne-Jones’s most iconic paintings. At the same time, her cousin, painter Maria Spartali Stillman, contributed significant works to the Pre-Raphaelite canon. All of these people have contributed to the rich, cultural, and diverse mélange that makes up Pre-Raphaelitism.
There are also quietly powerful undercurrents of LGBTQ presence and acceptance. Painter Simeon Solomon, who introduced Fanny to the public in The Mother of Moses, was part of that lineage—and contributed significantly to the Brotherhood’s visual language.
It is an exciting time for the Pre-Raphaelites and their kindred movements. As AI and digital technologies continue to proliferate, I believe the desire for traditional art—created with genuine intent and a purpose beyond commodification—will only grow. People are hungry for work that resists the algorithm, that refuses to pander to pop culture, that slows time instead of accelerating it.
It is in that quiet rebellion—in that defiance—that my work finds its place.
The portrait of Fanny Eaton in this post first appeared in the article, In An Artist’s Studio, in the summer 2025 issue of the PRS Review, published by the Pre-Raphaelite Society in the UK.
Beautiful Rebellion. 2025. Pen and ink on paper. 9″x12″.
A year ago, I was mired in a creativity-crushing stasis that all but strangled my productivity. Today, that paralysis has given way to triumph: I am the subject of a six-page feature in the summer 2025 issue of the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s journal, the PRS Review. Months ago, a dear friend remarked, “This article will be your introduction as an artist. You’ve always wanted your work recognized internationally—now it’s happening.”
I’ve always believed you can’t be a prophet in your own land.
The turning point came with my drawing Mystery, created at the tail end of that long, suffocating stretch as I fought to free myself from the grip of stasis. Its completion marked a new plateau. My embrace of a Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic, which began with Entre Sombras in 2022, had reached a higher level, giving me the means to express my authentic voice. That evolution did not go unnoticed.
In March of this year, I was contacted by Dr. Zaynub Zaman, editor of the PRS Review, regarding my submission to the Society’s annual art competition. She told me that my drawing, Mystery, had not been selected, but added, “However, I loved your drawing and would like to use it for something else.” Those words marked the beginning of something far more meaningful. A few weeks later, her follow-up email arrived with an opportunity that would change everything and validate my struggles and sacrifices. She was preparing to launch a new series, In an Artist’s Studio, designed to give readers a glimpse into the creative process—and she wanted me to help introduce it.
In the end, it wasn’t about winning—it was about being seen and being understood.
Suddenly, four decades of effort and sacrifice took on new meaning. In an Artist’s Studio was originally planned as a modest two-page spread: a short introduction to my work accompanied by four drawings. The request was for 500 words, but that could never contain my decades-long obsession with the Pre-Raphaelites. After wrestling with the limitations, I reached out to Dr. Zaman, who graciously doubled the word count. That expansion gave me the room not only to chart my journey, but also to make a clear, definitive statement about who I am as an artist—something that was long overdue.
For the next three months, I waited with bated breath, wondering how the published feature would take shape and hoping my words and drawings would translate on the page. The result exceeded every expectation: six full pages showcasing my work as never before. Every line, every word, every stroke found its place. Back in March, I could never have imagined what I now hold in my hands.
The picture that adorns this post, Beautiful Rebellion, is an expression of transformation and defiance—a continuation of the path my work has taken since 2022. In that time, my art has undergone a crucial shift. I have embraced an aesthetic that allows me to speak in my authentic voice, while making clear that my work is rooted in the tradition of hand-drawn art. I draw on paper with ink; I am a draughtsman, and that will never change. As AI and digital images proliferate, the hunger for hand-drawn work will only grow. People want art made with genuine intent, work that speaks to the heart and mind, created with a higher purpose beyond commodification.
Visually, I drew inspiration from Dante Gabriel Rossetti, painter, poet, and co-founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. His women are unmistakable: abundant hair, full sensual lips, and that iconic heavy-lidded gaze so prevalent throughout the work of the PRB. Yet Beautiful Rebellion is layered with more than Rossetti’s influence. William Morris also enters the picture. His 1866 wallpaper design, Fruit, plays a crucial role in my drawing and its story of transformation. The thrush perched in the corner adds its own voice to the piece—an emblem of the inner fulfillment I have found through committing to this chosen path. Beautiful Rebellion is a complete statement: this is who I am.
In many ways, it stands as the clearest expression of where my journey has brought me. It carries the echoes of Rossetti, Morris, and the mythic symbols they cherished, but it also declares my refusal to bow to the belief that technology is the only way forward. That defiance—my insistence on embracing tradition and reshaping it into something through which my authentic voice can shine—is precisely what made the PRS Review feature so meaningful. Seeing my work presented in those six pages was not only validation, but also proof that the long struggle had forged something enduring.
Decades of struggle have led me here, but this is not the end of the road. In an Artist’s Studio is proof that I was right to defy compromise and hold out for world-class recognition. I have found my voice—and what comes next will not be louder merely, but undeniable.
Forty years ago, I stood on the edge of the most significant chapter of my young life—preparing to move to Los Angeles to attend Otis Art Institute of Parsons School of Design. I was nineteen—naïve, brimming with piss and vinegar—and hell-bent on getting into Parsons’ exchange program so I could study at the American College in Paris. My nerves were on fire, but I knew this was the step I had to take. Even then, before I could name it, I carried the same thing I carry now: the unshakable belief that world-class was the only option.
Not everything went as planned—when Parsons didn’t work out, I headed to San Francisco the following year to attend the Academy of Art College, where I completed my education in 1992. Despite the passage of time, my obstinance and resolve haven’t faded. Today, I’m back on that edge—older, sharper, and feeling the same electric hum under my skin.
Academy of Art Logo
That edge I’m standing on now has a name: Drawing the Pre-Raphaelites, a five-page article in the summer 2025 issue of the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s journal, the PRS Review. It’s a milestone that reaches straight back to that nineteen-year-old in Los Angeles, chasing a vision. This article is more than recognition—it’s an ode to the resolve and defiance that have carried me through every hurdle since 1985, and a tribute to my unwavering conviction. Being recognized by the Society feels like coming full circle while still stepping forward.
In those five pages, I share my journey with the Pre-Raphaelites: how it began, the influences that shaped it, and why I work the way I do. It’s a look into the process, the persistence, and the vision I’ve chased for decades. For me, it’s not just about embracing a Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic—it’s about bringing my vision to fruition, giving my authentic voice its place, and expressing a global point of view. Following the example of my hero, Sir Edward Burne-Jones, and his brother-in-arms, designer William Morris, I push back against the status quo through beauty and reason.
Summer 2025 PRS Review
The Pre-Raphaelite Society was founded in October 1988 by the Provost of Birmingham Cathedral, the late very reverend Berry, M.A.
The aims of the Pre-Raphaelite Society are:
“To promote the study of the works and lives of, and also to promote the wider appreciation of, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and their successorslocally, nationally and internationally; to publish, or encourage publication of, writings relating to the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhoodand their successors; to hold meetings, confrences and seminarsof members and others who have an interestin the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and their successors and to arrange visits to places of local, national and international interest; and to co-operate with other societies with similar objectives.”
For further information, visit the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s website byclicking here
In the summer of 2022, I experienced a fundamental change. Reading The Radical Vision of Edward Burne-Jones finally gave me the clarity and purpose I had been searching for. Inspired by Andrea Wolk Rager’s brilliant reevaluation of Burne-Jones’s oeuvre, I made the decision I had delayed for years: to fully embrace the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic that had enthralled me for years.
My commitment wasn’t limited to the Brotherhood alone. I also drew inspiration from the artists and designers of the fin de siècle and the Symbolists, who carried the Pre-Raphaelites’ ideals forward. I understood this was a significant moment — the turning point I had been working toward. And yet, as always, I knew that developing my vision, grounded in these traditions, would take time.
The Radical Vision of Edward Burne-Jones
Caught up in the momentum of that decision, I created my first work, Entre Sombras, in what I now recognize as my mature style. Inspired by a portrait of Maria Zambaco by Burne-Jones, Entre Sombras was the first step — a proclamation in pen and ink: this is who I am.
Entre Sombras was not just a drawing. Much like Christopher Wood’s book The Pre-Raphaelites, which had set me on this path all those years ago, it was a sign in the road — a moment when I could finally say: I had arrived at the work I had always sought to create.
Since then, every piece I’ve made has carried forward that same intention: to use the visual language of the Pre-Raphaelites to explore my interests through a contemporary lens, and to do so with the level of care and mastery their legacy demands. The vision I had at eighteen has gone beyond influence; it’s become my identity. Now, that journey has brought me to a new milestone.
In 2015, I found myself at a crossroads. I was frustrated with the direction of my work — or, more accurately, the lack of one. What I was producing fell far below the standard I hold myself to. Worse, it said nothing about me. Something had to change.
That change began with honest soul-searching. I needed a direction that aligned with my deepest aspirations — and allowed my authentic voice to emerge. I recalled my visit to Tate Britain in London, a decade earlier, standing before Burne-Jones’s King Cophetua And The Beggar Maid, and instinctively turned back to the book that had changed everything for me. ChristoWood’s The Pre-Raphaelites still held the answer I was searching for. I saw it clearly within its pages: the aesthetic I had long admired wasn’t something to study from a distance. It was the path I needed to walk.
The time had come to stop waiting and start working toward embracing the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic that had obsessed me for three decades. I knew it wouldn’t happen overnight, but I felt sure I was moving in the right direction for the first time in years.
Over the next several years, I returned to the source, reacquainting myself with the Brotherhood’s origins and aims. I studied their work with new eyes. Slowly, I reached creative plateaus — real progress, not just repetition. For the first time, I could see that the work I wanted to create was possible.
Then, in the summer of 2022, everything changed. I began reading Andrea Wolk Rager’s The Radical Vision of Edward Burne-Jones. Dr. Rager’s work provided what I’d been searching for all along: a blueprint. Her scholarship revealed that Burne-Jones’s aesthetic was never merely escapist eye candy. It was a vehicle for critique — a way to address environmental destruction, inequality, and capitalist consumerism through beauty.
Her book opened the door to the next phase of my journey.
A Vision of Beauty: Discovering The Pre-Raphaelites
I had no idea I was stepping onto a forty-year path when I bought my copy of the illustration monograph The Studio at sixteen. That oversized tome felt like a sign on the road. While I admired all four of the artists featured, it was Barry Windsor-Smith’s Pre-Raphaelite-inspired work that caught my eye. His aesthetic was entirely new to me, as were the names he cited as influences: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Lord Leighton, and Edward Burne-Jones. I needed to know more.
When speaking about the moment that changed his life, Burne-Jones recalled the epiphany he experienced inside Beauvais Cathedral while traveling with William Morris through Northern France. In that singular moment, he knew his life’s direction. When I discovered Christopher Wood’s seminal book in 1984, I experienced a similar awakening. Its cover illustration — Burne-Jones’s The Mirror of Venus— enthralled me from first glance. That book expanded my limited understanding of what art could be, showing me the possibilities that open when you aspire to a higher purpose.
Beyond introducing me to the core members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and their followers, it led me to the artist who would become my guiding light: Edward Burne-Jones. My encounter with that book at eighteen planted a seed that would grow and mature over the next four decades. Despite all the ups and downs I have seen, the impression that book made on me has never faded. It’s never been far from me — always within arm’s reach. And it continues to inspire me. In those early years, I had no idea what the Pre-Raphaelites would ultimately mean in my life. But the path had begun.
Next: A Search for Direction; How The Pre-Raphaelites Saved My Work
A few years ago, I observed in a blog post that the world felt dark and that anything that could go wrong was going wrong. Every day felt like we were one step away from a point of no return. Sadly, I wish I could tell you that my observation has changed, but it hasn’t. We still need to address a lot of issues globally before we can begin to move out of the darkness and into the light: climate change, human rights, the ongoing pandemic, and economic inequality are just a few of the significant issues that need to be grappled with realistically to bring about meaningful change. In the coming years, the effects of these issues will become much more apparent. It’s up to us; we either choose to make the right decisions now or remain feckless, indifferent, and comfortable living in a hellscape of our making. Despite the grim realities that surround us, there will always be hope. Pessimism is a poison, and it’s up to each of us to decide if we’re going to gulp it down the same way we suck down our seven-dollar Frappuccinos or if we’re going to try to do some good in the world. Besides, have you seen the price of Frappuccinos lately? My wife tells me they’re almost seven dollars now. Go for the optimism; it’ll be cheaper in the long run. Amidst the doom and gloom surrounding us, I have discovered that some people care about things and are doing something to improve the world. Sometimes, finding those people requires looking beyond our limited local confines to other parts of the world. Seeing the picture is essential. A few years ago, I discovered one of those people while listening to Out To Lunch, a favorite podcast where people of note get wined, dined, and interviewed in some of London’s best restaurants. Jess Phillips, MP (Member of Parliament) for Birmingham Yardley in England’s West Midlands, is the antithesis of the pessimism and deep social malaise that plague us in this deeply troubled era. If there’s something Jess Phillips isn’t, it’s feckless and indifferent. For the past nine years, ahead of International Women’s Day, she has stood before Parliament and named every woman killed by a man in the UK over the past year. After listening to her interview, I was intrigued to know more about this outspoken and down-to-earth woman. In my research, I discovered that not only is she a member of Parliament and an unwavering champion of women’s rights, but she’s also a fierce advocate of the downtrodden and an author of three best-selling books. Her honesty, outspokenness, and gender have brought her much online abuse from trolls who have said the most vile things to her while threatening her safety. Still, she persists. Her resolve and sizeable cojones have earned her my admiration and made her my second favorite Brummy after Sir Edward Burne-Jones. I’m sure she’d be okay with that.
Jess Phillips is just one example of the sort of person who motivates me to keep writing this blog. There are others I’ve written about in the past whose names also deserve to be known: Dame Jacinda Ardern, the former Prime Minister of New Zealand, who demonstrated to the world what empathy means during the aftermath of the horrific mosque terrorist attacks in the city of Christchurch when she took to the streets to console the families of the victims.
Along with the names of courageous people who are making a difference in the world, there are also innocent victims of violence whose names also deserve our respect. Fourteen-year-old Ana Kriégel was lured from her home via social media in 2018 to a derelict house on the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland, where she was brutally attacked and sexually assaulted by three teenage boys. Spotlighting these voices is where my interest lies these days. As I get older, I see that the world is bereft of empathy and understanding and hungry for voices like those of Jess Phillips and Jacinda Ardern. The list of people doing essential things globally and those whose names deserve to be remembered is long, but that is no reason for me not to try and spotlight as many as possible.
The portrait of Jess Phillips that adorns this post began in the pages of my sketchbook in December 2022. Over the next year and a half, it underwent a myriad of revisions and changes. I thought I had arrived at the final version each time, only to realize I hadn’t. My initial idea was very different from what I completed. Sometimes, you try out new things that don’t work out. That doesn’t bother me; you can’t grow without stumbling and making mistakes. It’s part and parcel of making art. I am nonetheless thrilled with the results. It’s a cracking piece of work that I’m proud to put my name on.
Over the last few months, the music of one of my artist-heroes, Kate Bush, has been in the zeitgeist. Her song, Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God), from her classic album, Hounds Of Love, has had a massive resurgence and been introduced to a whole new generation of fans thanks to the show Stranger Things.
Kate and her brilliant work have been a part of my life for nearly forty years. It seems fitting that one of the artists I admire most is in the public eye now. I first discovered Kate in 1985 when Running Up That Hill was released. Its immediate impact piqued my interest, leading me to purchase her next release, The Whole Story, her greatest hits compilation, which was nothing short of epiphanic.
Over the last few months, I have been somewhat absent from social media. That absence has been intentional. I have spent my time indulging in things that nourish me creatively, such as revisiting favorite albums, watching documentaries, and reading as much as possible. I have spent most of my time quietly working on pictures I have wanted to make for myself. I have zero interest in sharing what I have been doing on social media or with anyone. It’s up to me to share my efforts ― or not. The work I have been doing is solely for myself and no one else. The only goal that I have had during this time is to create work that matters to me. People notice when you do work whose only goal is to satisfy your artistic goals. Doing work solely to please myself is the only way possible for me. There’s no point in creating things that don’t matter to me or satisfy me. Ultimately, whatever I do has to fulfill me.
I have long admired and respected Kate Bush for this very reason. She’s done things her way from the beginning, and her work has been brilliant. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Kate, it has always been to do things your way without compromise.
Kate and her work have been a part of my personal soundtrack ever since my formative years in the 80s when I went from being a beginner with nothing but a burning desire to make art and loads of talent to an art student. First in Los Angeles at Otis-Parsons, then in San Francisco at The Academy Of Art College. My college years were a supernova of people, places, culture, and remarkable artistic growth. Throughout those life-changing years, Kate’s music continued to challenge and amaze me. The Whole Story introduced me to Celtic folk music, The Sensual World introduced me to Bulgarian singing, and The Red Shoes furthered my exposure to Celtic music while also exposing me to the Madagascan valiha. This incredible exposure happened alongside my artistic skill’s growth and refinement.
Eventually, all this led to where I find myself at this very moment. Last weekend, I decided to give my followers on Facebook and Instagram a sample of some of the work I’ve been doing over the past year, and the response was fantastic. Between likes, comments, and reshares, total engagements were just over 200. It was clear that people were responding so strongly because they could see the decades of sweat and effort that I’ve dedicated to my work. They saw something genuine, and they responded. I couldn’t ask for more.
My picture of Kate for this week’s post is taken directly from my sketchbook. Her song, The Big Sky, from Hounds Of Love, is the inspiration. I have always loved the song’s meteorological-based lyrics ― cloudy, overcast days are magical and forever inspiring. Best of all is the song’s title; it best reflects my ambition.
The world seems crueler in 2019. It’s not really any worse, but it feels like it is. With the advent of the internet and social media, we are all now hyper-aware of all the bad things that happen in our world. The days of hearing only vague details about something happening in another part of the world on the nightly news are gone. Daily, we now get blow-by-blow, live on-the-spot, in-your-face reports about all manner of atrocities that are happening in any part of the world at any given time.
As time has passed, I have felt an increasingly strong need to use my work to give voices that have gone silent a chance to be heard anew. Every day, there are atrocities committed all over the world that leave me speechless. Last week, it was another mass shooting at a high school in Southern California where more innocent people died, and yesterday and today, it was Fresno and Oklahoma. Tomorrow it’ll be somewhere else, and it’ll happen to people that you are currently completely unaware of. You will learn the names of these innocent souls because their lives will have come to a sudden and unjust end. You might not personally know these people who are lost to senseless violence, but that doesn’t mean they’re unimportant. The names of the innocent deserve to be heard. Their lives deserve to be remembered.
One such person that I recently found out about is 14-year-old Ana Kriégel of Dublin, Ireland. Here’s a bit of Ana’s story from Wikipedia: “Anastasia “Ana” Kriégel (18 February 2004 – 14 May 2018) was a Russian-Irish girl who was subject to a violent attack, murdered and sexually assaulted in an abandoned house in late May 2018 in Lucan near Dublin. Ana was brutally murdered in May 2018 by two 13-year-old boys who lured her to a derelict farmhouse outside the city. Two boys, known only as Boy A and Boy B, who were 13 years old at the time of Kriégel’s death, were convicted of her murder, with one of the boys (Boy A) being further convicted of aggravated sexual assault. The two convicts are the youngest in the history of Ireland to be charged with murder.”
Ana’s death was a senseless, cold-blooded murder. There are no words for this act of pure evil. Just like so many other victims of violent crime, Ana’s name deserves to be remembered. As an artist, I feel that it’s important for me to share these stories. It’s the least that I can do. I hope that my drawing has done Ana justice.
This month marks the 40th anniversary of the death of anti apartheid activist, Stephen Biko. On August 18, 1977 Biko and a friend were detained at a police road block in Grahamstown, South Africa. Biko was arrested for violating a banning order against him, and was taken to Walmer police station in Port Elizabeth where he was held naked and shackled in a cell. On September 6 he was transefered to room 619 at security police headquarters in the Sanlam Building in central Port Elizabeth. There, handcuffed, shackled, and chained to a grill he was interrogated for 22 hours. He was beaten so severely by one of the officers that he suffered a massive brain hemorage because of the beating. After this incident, he was forced to remain standing while shackled to a wall. On September 11, he was loaded onto a Land Rover after a doctor suggested that he be transfered to a prision hospital that was 740 miles away. Biko made that trip naked and manacled. He died alone in a cell on September 12, 1977.
I wanted to post this drawing on September 12, but was unable to complete it in time because of other commitments. I learned about Biko, like many other people, through Peter Gabriel’s moving musical eulogy to him. I had long wanted to draw a tribute to Biko, and this is it. I am very proud of this drawing and consider it one of the absolute best that I have ever produced. Read more about Biko on Wikipedia.
