Designs (below) for desert dragon image (above). I wanted to design a Homa-like form. I suppose it has the front limbs of a maniraptoran dinosaur, and the elongated plumage of a pretty drab peacock.

It turns out that figuring out the practicalities of unfolding chimney swift wings on a wolf spider body is more than a ten minute job.

Two turntables and (below) a still of Hammerbat. Horrible rat-like urban forager. Equal parts mole-rat, pig, shark, bat, rat and porcupine. Nasty stuff.

The actual house where Satan lives, actually. Environment study. I was thinking of the chimneys of Cappadocia in Anatolia.

What I secretly thought was inside every tumulus and fairy fort i ever came across as a kid. Some grass, some soil, some stone, and then something huge, long-dead and storied beyond words.

The moon has no atmospheric perspective, and light seems to resist reflection up there. Unless its to do with the fact that we’re waiting for the lunar hdr photography to come in. Until it does, a true-to-life lunar landscape will have black, boring shadows. One instance where poetic license comes in handy.

Oh yes, and the tudor house

There was always something particularly creepy to me about early science/fantasy-fiction, an eeriness which played out effectively in contemporary illustrations. This image by the Brazilian Alvim  Correa  is a good example. Those staring eyes. You don’t get staring eyes any more. Its not over-designed. Its something lodged in the context. Its just obviously weird. Its a weird scenario. Now  the subject is long-amalgamated into culture as  a trope, an interchangeable sign: Mars Attacks. But its interesting to look at the initial reactions and see how effective they were at conveying weirdness. And the bigger the dissonance between the invader and the domestic or pedestrian environment, the more effective the image. This is why British fiction of this type was always more potent to me than (for example) its American equivalent – the domesticity of chimney-stacks, pipes and slippers compared to the Bosch irrationality it could be juxtaposed with. This is not only about large-scale apocalypse or eschaton – its also unsettling on a more local level – inside your mind.

I don’t know why the monkey and the organillo. Its like the burning cows in Mars Attacks . Mumble mumble threat to the Dominion of Man mumble mumble.

In the early 19th century, the fortunes of the City of Manchester are on the up. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for its mill-working chillun’. These here two misfortunates have managed to slap together a zero-G rig in the style of a Wenzel Jamnitzer Polyhedron. As a companion, they have a male orangutan in whiteface named Jupiter whom, during their escape, they thoughtfully liberated from the Mill-Overseer’s private menagerie. Together,  they cruise the outlands of The Industrial North, raiding mills and generally smashing the system. I think this is probably a poster for a theatrical production rather than a cover.

Ah,  yeah. Those were crazy, scientifically anachronistic times.

A stab at a pulp adventure fantasy cover. The texturing may be a bit much but, you know, a lot of fun. Now  that I think of it, pulp and fantasy fiction novel covers were stealthy additions to my early visual memory. Its amazing how a good cover can remain lodged somewhere in your mind for decades. Alright – not necessarily good. But looking back, they had certain qualities that make them self-selecting as memories.

So pretty much an established “style”, now. I’ve always had a problem with this term, because to me it’s always been a marketing thing. As a branding gizmo, style is used to establish the niche to which your work can be applied. Looking at it now I see that, in a functioning industry, style is an appropriate approach to a career. It is more than a conscious decision to categorise and package oneself: In a competitive world where time is such a valuable asset, any approach that helps you to produce work as quickly as possible with as few aesthetic sacrifices as possible has to be considered. Not having to think about the form of your work as you approach a brief is more than handy – it seems to be essential. Of course, to most practitioners this is a blatant fact of life, but if you’ve come from a background in what I call “Institutional Art”, where context is absolutely everything, you might understand my position. There are so many illustrators whose work I admire, and so distinct in their own way. You fantasize that you could be their equal, each one in turn, all the while quietly denying that this is an impossibility: Each and every one has a biography, a book of influences of their very own – not only people, but biographical influences. None of the greats got to their positions by aping the work of others. Its just a question of asking of each one  “What one thing can I take away with me that I can put – at some stage – to good use?”

Above, a detail and, below, an animation of the layers used to establish a colour scheme. Its a delicate, panicky stage of the process because it requires a huge reliance on a kind of inspiration, in the true meaning of the word: the ability to leap the gap between what is in front of you and what you want to be in front of you.