THE

PURPLE
 THE

PURPLE

Symbolism & Sensuality in Contemporary Art & Illustration

Angus Hyland & Angharad Lewis

Laurence King Publishing

 CONTENTS

Page 7 Pages 80–97 Page 147

FOREWORD WORKS BY
Angus Hyland Vania Zouravliov, Amelie Hegardt,
Tim Hon Hung Lee, Izzie Klingels,
Szamota’s Mistress
Stefan Grabinski
Page 9 Dan Hillier, Sam Wolfe Connelly
INTRODUCTION illustrated by Andrzej Klimowski
Angharad Lewis Page 99
JULES JULIEN Pages 156–173
Page 19 Interview & Portfolio WORKS BY
LAURA LAINE Yuko Shimizu, Natalie Ratkovski,
Interview & Portfolio Page 107 Deanne Cheuk, Yuko Michishita,
An extract from Dan Hillier, Daisy Fletcher,
Page 25 Kelly Thompson,

Goblin Market Story of Makiko Sugawa, Soey Milk

Christina Rossetti the Eye

illustrated by Laura Laine
Pages 42–61
WORKS BY
Laura Laine, Yuko Michishita,
Miss Van, Deanne Cheuk,
Daisy Fletcher, Tran Nguyen, Conrad
Roset, Tim Hon Hung Lee, Yuko
Shimizu, Izzie Klingels
Page 63
VA N I A
Z O U R AV L I O V
Interview & Portfolio
Page 71
Eleonora
Edgar Allan Poe
Georges Bataille
illustrated by Jules Julien
Pages 116–135
WORKS BY
Izzie Klingels, Jules Julien,
Yukari Terakado, Miss Van,
Makiko Sugawa, Soey Milk,
Sam Wolfe Connelly, Amelie Hegardt,
Jasper Goodall, Jesse Auersalo,
Yuko Shimizu
Page 137
ANDRZEJ
KLIMOWSKI
Interview & Portfolio

Page 175
M A RT I N E J O H A N NA
Interview & Portfolio
Page 183
An extract from
Ulysses
James Joyce
illustrated by Martine Johanna
Pages 190–207
WORKS BY
Soey Milk, Martine Johanna,
Tran Nguyen, Conrad Roset,
Ëlodie Nadreau, Tim Hon Hung Lee,
Cho Kyuhyung, Yukari Terakado,
Megan Pearce

Page 209
illustrated by Vania Zouravliov BIOGRAPHIES
 FOREWORD
When your dream
of perfect beauty comes true
Angus Hyland
‘Je te salue, ô très occulte, ô très profonde
Luxure, étoile triste au ciel pourpre du monde.’ – Albert Samain
‘Pink begat mauve begat purple begat violet.’ – Derek Jarman
If roses are red and violets are blue, then any flower that
lies chromatically in between the two must be considered
one of the many variants of purple. Purple is an enigmatic
non-spectral colour; it is absent from Newton’s colour
wheel, which moves directly from violet to red. There is
no such thing as the ‘wavelength of purple light’; it exists
only as a combination. Perhaps that is why this enigmatic
colour has such a shifty reputation: it is a chimera. Partly
elitist, as in the priceless Tyrian, or imperial, purple which
in antiquity was made from the crushed shells of thousands
of purpura sea snails and was the vivid colour of the sails
on Cleopatra’s barge, purple is also seen as artificial, most
notably in Mauveine, the first industrialized aniline dye
created in the 1890s. The name mauve was first coined
by Sir William Henry Perkin, the chemist who in 1856
created the dye for cloth. So popular was the colour with
the late Victorians that the 1890s became known as the
Mauve Decade. Not entirely respectable, however, mauve
(then much deeper in shade than our faded contemporary
understanding of it) was identified with decadence,
occultism and not unsurprisingly, artificiality.
The themes of sensuality and symbolism explored within
the art of The Purple Book have their origins in the period
leading up to the fin de siècle and the last flowering of the
Aesthetic Movement retitled as the Decadent Movement.
The most notorious periodical of the 1890s was The Yellow
Book, a magazine whose literary content was as innovative
as its graphic design. Aubrey Beardsley, its first art editor
and the most influential illustrator of his generation has
been credited with the idea of its yellow cover and thus its
name. While The Yellow Book is more a touchstone than a
direct ancestor, there is no doubt that it has inspired The
Purple Book’s form as a lavishly illustrated marriage of art
and literature. Beneath the decorative detail inherent in
much of the work, there is a surrealist undercurrent that
weaves its way through these fantasies, connecting the
texts, whether symbolist or gothic. It is the theme of a
lucid and sensual dream, a vision of beauty imbued with
mortality and on the point of decay, a vision at one with
the dominant aesthetic of the Decadent Movement.
Many of the artists featured here share both a particular
aesthetic vision and a commitment to the hand-drawn
image. It is as though the qualities of highly detailed and
decorative graphic art imbue a deeper sensuous emotional
core. This is certainly true when one compares the work
in this book with the more immediate and ephemeral
art forms that dominate our visual culture today. Such
intensity results in a powerful fetishism – in the original
meaning of the term.
Published at a time when the anodyne and standardized
showcase of artwork has become something of an
anachronism, The Purple Book looks back to a tradition
of the beautifully crafted publication; a book for book’s
sake (art for art’s sake in the decorative spirit of la belle
époque). It is the only way forward for the printed book, as a
tangible and sensual object of beauty and desire – anything
else would be a waste of good material.
7
 INTRODUCTION
1 Introduction, Erotica: Drawings
by Jean Cocteau, Margaret Crossland,
Peter Owen Publishers, 2003
Angharad Lewis
It might be possible to imagine a time when the printed book is a rarity, an
anachronism, near obsolete, pursued only by collectors. The book you are
reading, however, celebrates the still living, breathing heart of the printed book
for its unique, enduring pleasures — as a tactile and intimate object, a place of
private reverie, of concentrated attention and as an unparalleled vehicle for the
transportation of the imagination.
The Purple Book (purple for the colour’s association with sensory
headiness, decadence, sexuality, mystery, faith and mortality) revisits the
intimate language and flights of imagination of writers known for deeply
sensual, almost hallucinatory storytelling, from Edgar Allan Poe to Georges
Bataille. These texts and extracts are paired with the work of contemporary
illustrators whose output is influenced by or still carries a flavour of the
Symbolists, Decadents and Surrealists of the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries — movements in art and literature that tapped the far reaches of
imagination and encouraged the intimate embrace between word and image,
poetry and picture-making.
Drawing as a medium has an immediacy that makes it a tool for
accessing the furthest parts of the human psyche, as the Surrealists discovered
through their experiments in automatic drawing and Andrzej Klimowski
discusses in his interview in this book (page 137). ‘Drawing is complete
invention, the closest to your imagination,’ he says, ‘it’s all coming completely
from the mind.’ Illustration, then, can make a valuable addition to the text of a
story, tuning in to the poetic imagery but also introducing moments, ideas and
gestures teased from between the words. Polymath and compulsive draftsman
Jean Cocteau recognised no boundaries between the use of words, outlines and
colours across the regions of literary and visual arts, describing drawing as
simply a ‘different way of tying up the lines’1.
The immediacy and intimacy of drawing as a medium has long
made it a powerful tool for exploring sexuality. Through print-making and
book illustration, drawings depicting physical intimacy and flights of erotic
imagination have liberated ideas about sexuality from the artist’s personal
sketchbook to wider — albeit sometimes esoteric — audiences.
9

2 Walter Crane, The Decorative
Illustration of Books, 1896
3 Walter Crane, ibid
Max Ernst
plate from Une Semaine de Bonté, 1934
4 Mum’s the Word, Eros In the Mind’s
Eye, page 60
5 Michael Gibson, Symbolism,
Taschen, 2011, page 8
The illustrations made to accompany the 2,000-year-old Hindu love-making
manual the Kama Sutra; volumes of Japanese erotic Sunga prints by artists of
the Ukiyo-e; pornographic art portfolios of privileged Victorian gentlemen;
and popular, risqué French novels of the fin de siècle: books are a long-established
forum for erotic illustration.
‘The story of man is fossilized for us, as it were, or rather preserved
with all its semblance of life and colour in art and books,’ writes Walter Crane
in his 1896 publication The Decorative Illustration of Books2. The history of
book illustration — the way it has evolved through and been appropriated
by art movements like Symbolism and Surrealism — feeds the work of many
contemporary artists featured in The Purple Book. Drawings and stories have
held each other in an intimate embrace since the earliest human mark-making
on cave walls, but at certain points in history the arts of verbal and visual
storytelling have stepped out flamboyantly in public together. The social
context of Victorian England and the era’s advances in printing technology made
illustrated books and magazines a playground for artists who gave expression
to the moral tensions of the day, and in the 1890s there was a blooming of book
illustration. ‘A brilliant band of illustrators and ornamentalists have appeared...
and nearly every month or so we hear of a new genius in black and white who is
to eclipse all others,’ wrote Crane in 18963.
While William Blake’s visionary genius had laid the path for intense
fusions of word and image with sensually euphoric compositions like The
Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1790–93), what emerged in the work of Victorian
and early twentieth-century artists and illustrators was an outward expression
of society’s hidden erotic sensibilities. They ranged from the subtle to the
outrageous. Illustrators such as Virgil Burnett and Arthur Rackham wrapped
sensuality up in dense fairy-tale narratives and even denser visual detail.
Aubrey Beardsley, on the other hand, was flagrant in his depictions of forbidden
pleasure, and the enfant terrible of the Decadent movement is still a touchstone
of both graceful style and impish, salacious storytelling for illustrators
today. Beardsley ‘gave style to the unspeakable and provided a forum for the
forbidden’4. The delicate lines and ornate detailing of Makiko Sugawa’s work
(pages 122–23, 169) give a clear nod to Beardsley’s legacy, as do the heady
atmosphere and Salomé-like heroines of Tim Hon Hung Lee’s work (pages 57,
86, 200). Likewise, Jules Julien cites Beardsley as an inspiration for the specially
commissioned illustrations he created to accompany an extract from Georges
Bataille’s erotic novella Story of the Eye in this book (pages 107–15).
Victoriana is a clear source of inspiration for Dan Hillier (pages
92–95, 162–63), whose collaged work references both Victorian book
illustration and the work of Surrealist artist Max Ernst. Ernst’s Une Semaine
de Bonté published in 1934 is a visual stream-of-consciousness experiment
collaging together fragments of Victorian book illustrations to conjure up an
unsettling new narrative. Hillier’s work is a twenty-first century version of this
— highly finished and decorative but no less poetic.
The lineage between the Symbolist art and literature of the nineteenth
century and Surrealism in the twentieth century is traceable through the
admiration of the latter artists for the former, and shared elements of sex and
fantasy — the writing of Guillame Apollinaire, father of concrete poetry, erotic
novelist and inventor of the term ‘Surrealism’, bridged the Symbolists and
Surrealists; founder of the Surrealist movement and publisher of its manifesto
André Breton was a devotee of Gustave Moreau; and Marcel Duchamp was a fan
of Arnold Böcklin5. The connection between the two movements is also laid
bare in their fetishization of the female body and the figure of the femme fatale
— a theme that continues to obsess our Purple Book artists.
The Symbolist movement, which dominated European art and
literature in the late nineteenth century, opened art up to the power of the
imagination, as opposed to realism, and freed up a space for dream-like visions
and expressions of the human psyche. Rather than rational depictions of the
world, Symbolist art — and its counterparts Decadence and Aestheticism —
 Arthur Rackham
Fasolt Suddenly Seizes Freia and Drags Her to One Side with Fafner, colour litho,
illustration from The Rhinegold and the Valkyrie by Richard Wagner 1910
11
 Frederick Sandys
Proud Maisie, pencil & red chalk on paper, 1893

6 Elizabeth Prettejohn, Rossetti
and his Circle, Tate Gallery Publishing,
1997, page 26
Aubrey Beardsley
illustration for frontispiece (litho), A Full and True
Account of the Wonderful Mission of Earl Lavender, which
Lasted One Night and One Day, by John Davidson, 1895
7 Charles Baudelaire, extract
from ‘Le Voyage’ in Les Fleurs du
Mal, 1857
projected the inner world of the imagination outwards. While some Victorian
painters upheld the idealized view that society imposed on itself, with images
of domestic utopia and and sanitized views of the effects of industrialization,
others were not afraid to hint at the darker side of Victorian life. The English
Symbolists filled their work with visual clues and signs to represent a far-
from-innocent ideal. ‘Talismanic parts of the female body that were repeated
in picture after picture,’ writes Griselda Pollock in Vision and Difference —
‘eyes, lips, hands, rippling hair. At one level these must be called symbols of
eroticism. Their Symbolic reference is not so much to the characteristics of
the depicted woman as to those of male desire’6. Other symbols loaded with
meaning took the form of flowers, fruit and objects like books and mirrors.
Lilies stood for purity and innocence, poppies for death, roses for love, apples
for temptation and books for virtue. In work by artists like Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, William Holman Hunt and Edward Burne-Jones women were shown
absorbed in self-contemplation at the dressing table mirror, or combing their
hair. Hair as a symbol of sexuality endures — Victorian artist Frederick
Sandys’s famous Proud Maisie (opposite) has counterparts today in the hair-
obsessed work of illustrators Laura Laine (page 18–43), Daisy Fletcher
(pages 50–51, 170–71), Yuko Shimizu (pages 58–59, 134–35, 156–57), Yukari
Terakado (pages 118, 202–3, 206–7) and Martine Johanna (pages 174–88, 191).
These contemporary female illustrators, however, have reclaimed the erotic
depiction of the female body for a new post-feminist narrative.
Symbolic images of women have often fallen at the extremes of two
potent poles: the submissive victim and the dominant femme fatale. The name of
the Austrian writer Leopold von Sacher-Masoch gave us the term ‘masochism’
and his 1870 novella Venus in Furs tells the tale of a man who is sensually
aroused by the idea of being dominated by a beautiful woman dressed in furs
— an archetypal femme fatale. But in characterizing her, Masoch describes the
dichotomy that the nineteenth-century Western mind imposed on women —
the faithful wife versus the sexualized mistress; the insipid, so-called ‘angel
in the house’ or the dangerous whore. The anti-hero of Venus in Furs, Severin,
throws himself (both literally and metaphorically) at the feet of his mistress
Wanda. Ostensibly he seems to be the subjugated party, but ultimately he seeks
to trap her with a sexual pact.
Masoch’s characters embody the tensions in the way that both
wider society and the male-dominated art world of the nineteenth century
struggled to come to terms with the representation of women. On the one
hand, women were muses, idealized beauties, like the succession of wives,
mistresses and models immortalized in the work of English Pre- Raphaelite
and Symbolist painters like Burne-Jones, William Morris and Rossetti. On the
other hand, women were seen as dangerous — for men to submit to lust was
a moral failure that meant risking not only social stigma but also, apparently,
disease and death. In this climate the suggestion of illicit acts and half-hidden
visual innuendo, became an exciting game to play. Moral panic in wider society
over issues like prostitution in the late nineteenth century had an opposite
effect in permissive bohemian art circles, where a decadent interest in sensual
and aesthetic pleasures was courted, epitomized by admiration for Charles
Baudelaire, with his interest in vice and dangerous sensual pleasure as artistic
pursuits. ‘Only when we drink poison are we well,’ runs the line in Baudelaire’s
Les Fleurs du Mal, ‘— we want, this fire so burns our brain tissue, / to drown
in the abyss — heaven or hell, / who cares? Through the unknown, we’ll find
the new.’7 Masochism also had a titillating side: Beardsley relished depicting
the whip-wielding heroine for his frontispiece to John Davidson’s comic novel
published in 1895 (see left). The proximity of love to danger, and sex to death
remain a strong visual theme of the work of today’s artists in The Purple Book,
as evinced by the proliferation of skulls, decay and ghostly forms in the work of
illustrators like Izzie Klingels (pages 60–61, 90–91, 116), Sam Wolfe Connelly
(pages 96–97, 126–27), Tim Hon Hung Lee (pages 57, 86, 200), Yukari
Terakado (pages 118, 202–3, 206–7) and Jules Julien (pages 99, 114, 117).
13

Aubrey Beardsley
Enter Herodias, from the series Salomé, 1899
8 Philippe Jullian, Dreamers
of Decadence, Praeger Publishers,
1969, pages 223
9 Elizabeth Prettejohn, ibid,
page 18
10 Philippe Jullian, ibid, page 108
11 Stephen Bayley, V&A online
collection http://www.vam.ac.uk/
images/image/10019-popup.html
12 Stephen Calloway, Aubrey
Beardsley, V&A Publications,
1998, page 83
13 André Breton, Sur la Route de San
Romano, in Poems, 1949. Quoted from
Love of Books, Love Books, by Vincent
Gille, the catalogue for Surrealism:
Desire Unbound, ed Jennifer Mundy,
Princeton University Press, 2001
The femme fatale is a trope central to ‘Szamota’s Mistress’, the short
story written in 1918–22 by Polish writer Stefan Grabinski illustrated for The
Purple Book by graphic artist Andrzej Klimowski (pages 147–54). The female
character in the story is at once erotic and deadly, hypnotically alluring but
ultimately repulsive. Klimowski discusses the hallucinatory qualities of the
story and the use of stream-of-consciousness in his work in the interview
on pages 137–44. The use of dream-like states and stream-of-consciousness
are also characteristics that connect writing and art via another Purple Book
commission — the words of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy in the novel Ulysses by
James Joyce (1922), illustrated by Martine Johanna (pages 183–88). James Joyce
shared terrain with the Surrealists through a mutual interest in Freud and the
workings of the unconscious mind. There are parallels between Joyce’s stream-
of-consciousness style and the Surrealists’ use of automatic writing.
For the Surrealists, women were a focus of obsessive adoration,
and unlike in paintings by the likes of Rossetti where women are limpid and
highly decorative, Surrealism celebrated a more powerful image of femininity.
Philippe Jullian compares Symbolism and Surrealism in Dreamers of Decadence:
‘If there are considerable resemblances between the two movements they
differ completely in the way in which they express themselves. Surrealism is
aggressive: its Baudelairean penchant for shocking the bourgeois has turned
into a feeling of positive hatred... There is more vitality too in the Surrealists;
they may be precious but they are never languid. What is more, they adore
women. In the matter of inspiration Freud has turned everything topsy-turvy:
the analysis of dreams gives rise to a very different aesthetic from one based
on aspirations towards a world of dreams... With heroes like de Sade and
Lautréamont, Surrealism becomes a black Symbolism’8.
The pornographic writing of the Marquis de Sade had an influence
both on the Symbolists and the Surrealists, with artists from both groups
regarding the artist as exempt from society’s moral conventions. Describing
the Bohemian atmosphere of Rossetti and his circle, art historian Elizabeth
Prettejohn recounts that ‘[English poet Algernon Charles] Swinburne
introduced even more flagrant French immorality to the circle; [George Price]
Boyce reported finding him and Rossetti poring over a copy of Justine, the
notoriously licentious novel by the eighteenth-century French writer and
pornographer, the Marquis de Sade’9. For Jullian, the connection to de Sade is
evident not only in the masochistically inclined Swinburne’s poetry but also
his cohorts’ art: ‘Swinburne found in Sade a justification of his tendencies,
and pictures of his heroines in the works of his painter friends... Rossetti
and Burne-Jones’10. English Symbolist painters caused scandal by pushing
the boundaries of what society would tolerate of its artists. ‘This painting
of a predatory woman with a keen sexual appetite,’ writes Stephen Bayley
about The Day Dream, Rossetti’s portrait of William Morris’s wife Jane, ‘is as
erotically intense as it was possible to be in 1880’11. In 1893 Aubrey Beardsley’s
illustrations for Oscar Wilde’s Salomé were an affront to moral decency and the
focus of public outcry against the Decadent movement: ‘The Times declared that
Beardsley’s pictures were “unintelligible for the most part and, so far as they are
unintelligible, repulsive”’12. Not all his daringly licentious illustrations made
it past the publisher’s censorious eye but Beardsley managed to smuggle in
endless phallic symbols, an erect, outrageously proportioned phallus, images of
masturbation and repeated depictions of erotic display. The illustrated book, in
the hands of Decadents like Wilde and Beardsley, possessed the power to shock.
When it came to books, the work of the Surrealists came almost
exclusively from personal experiences, whether dreams or love affairs. ‘Poetry
is made in bed like love,’ wrote André Breton13, hinting at the spirit of creative
collaboration that was important to Surrealists, notably writers and artists,
including pairings between André Masson and Hans Bellmer, both of whom
made illustrations for Georges Bataille’s explicitly erotic novella Story of the Eye.
Published in 1928, this Surrealist masterpiece dwells obsessively on recurring
symbols like eyes, eggs, the moon and genitalia. In Susan Sontag’s essay ‘The
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The Day Dream, oil on canvas, 1880

15
 Hokusai,
Awabi Fisher and Octopus (Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife), colour woodblock print, 1814

Hans Bellmer,
Untitled, pencil and gouache on paper, 1961
14 Susan Sontag, The Pornographic
Imagination, published with Story of
the Eye, Penguin Books, 2001, page 94
15 Edward Lucie-Smith, Sexuality
in Western Art, page 157
16 Walter Crane, ibid, pages 132–33
17 Stephen Calloway, ibid, page 99
Pornographic Imagination’ she dissects the peculiarities of pornography
within ‘authentic’ literature and art as opposed to social and psychological
definitions of pornography. She validates pornography in art as the outcome
of its creators’ genuine investigations into the extremes of the human mind:
‘What makes a work of pornography part of the history of art rather than of
trash is not distance, the superimposition of a consciousness more comfortable
to that of ordinary reality upon the “deranged consciousness” of the erotically
obsessed. Rather it is the originality, thoroughness, and power of that deranged
consciousness itself, as incarnated in a work’14. This could perhaps apply
equally to the work of Beardsley, Bataille and Purple Book artist
Vania Zouravliov.
The medium of illustration is an eloquent tool for accessing the
subconscious, allowing artists to visualize the impossible (or the illegal).
Proportions and scale can be exaggerated, unlikely pairings are achieved,
anachronistic elements coexist. The visual alchemy of Surrealist artists meant
that any scandalous thought, association or hidden desire could be depicted. As
Edward Lucie-Smith observes in Sexuality in Western Art, ‘the Surrealist artist
sought to remake reality so that it became the perfect expression of his own
fantasies’15. Thus we have works like Salvador Dalí’sYoung Virgin Autosodomized
by Her Own Chastity. Max Ernst’s Robing of the Bride and Oscar Dominguez’s
Electrosexual Sewing Machine. For today’s illustrators, influenced by Surrealism
the juxtaposition of odd or anachronistic visual elements creates weird,
dream-like scenes (as seen in work by Tran Nguyen and Sam Wolfe Connelly)
or poetic, fantastical forms (in work by Deanne Cheuk and Amelie Hegardt).
It would be impossible to talk about the relationship between drawing
and eroticism without touching on Japanese art. Access to Japanese art, with
its permissive attitude to depiction of sex such as that of Hokusai (1760–1849)
and Utamaro (1753–1806), gave Western artists license to explore themes taboo
in their own society, and had a significant influence on style. Walter Crane
recognizes the influence of Japan but does not altogether condone it: ‘There
is no doubt the opening of Japanese ports to Western commerce... has had an
enormous influence on European and American art... We see unmistakeable
traces of Japanese influences almost everywhere — from the Parisian
Impressionist painter to the Japanese fan in the corner of trade circulars... We
have caught the vices of Japanese art certainly, even if we have assimilated some
of the virtues’16. The influence of Japonisme is clearly apparent in Beardsley’s
drawing style of the 1890s. It also seems to have encouraged his adventurous
attitude to the erotic: ‘At Beardsley’s house,’ wrote [art historian Julius] Meier-
Graefe, ‘one used to see the finest and most explicitly erotic Japanese prints in
London... the wildest fantasies of Utamaro.’17
One artist today whose work elegantly prods attitudes to sexual
morality is Vania Zouravliov, who draws on myriad historical visual references to
create dramatic situations and an illicit sensual response in the viewer. For
The Purple Book Zouravliov has illustrated an extract from Edgar Allan Poe’s story
‘Eleonora’. Zouravliov’s work is often unnerving and weird, granting equal status
to both the beautiful and innocent and to corruption, decay and violence. ‘It’s
very melodramatic,’ he observes of Poe’s story. ‘It is overripe with mythological
imagery and allegories and its drama is derived from tragedy and heightened
emotions’. Like the overripe qualities of Poe’s story, Zouravliov’s work has an
excessive, decadent feel — he is a master of sensory overload.
What all the Purple Book artists share, whether their style is as densely
decadent as that of Zouravliov, Tim Hon Hung Lee and Laura Laine, or more
cool and spare like that of Makiko Sugawa, Deanne Cheuk and Jules Julien, is a
strong sense of the fantastical — both in the stories they tell and their styles
of representation. As illustrators, they create their images by accessing parts
of the imagination unfettered by reality, demanding that we the viewers do the
same. If only for a few minutes, we can lose our grip on worldly concerns and
slip into a universe of dreams.
17
 I N T E RV I E W

Laura Laine
' like the decorativeness of the language, and that the style of the
I
narration keeps the story very vivid in its shifting between the beautiful
and the grotesque.'

What was your initial response to Christina Rossetti’s poem ‘Goblin

Market’? I was very excited about the poem. I was inspired
by the contradiction of the fairness and youth of the two
sisters and the dark, seductive magic of the goblins and
their fruit. This was the first time I had read the poem and,
to me, the happy ending was unexpected. It was a positive
surprise since it lacked the thought that a woman giving
way to her desires is doomed. Even better, the healing
power was the sister’s love.
Which elements of Rossetti’s narrative and style most
inspired your illustrations? I think it’s a very visual poem,
but in a way that it doesn’t provide too much ready-made
imagery but rather gives space for the reader to let his or
her imagination fly. For example, the story doesn’t take
place in any specific time or country.
I like the decorativeness of the language, and that
the style of the narration keeps the story very vivid in
its shifting between the beautiful and the grotesque.
Some images and acts are brought to such extremes
that they acquire surrealistic and distorted qualities,
thus emphasizing the unnaturalness of the goblins’
merchandise, but also giving the description of beauty
a somewhat eerie tone. The irregular poetic form gives
the narrative a lightness and space that also inspired
the illustrations. I was also fond of the transformations,
where Laura withers away because of her desire, and then
undergoes another transformation when she drinks the
juices of the fruits from Lizzie’s body.
What are your favourite visual moments from the poem?
I feel drawn to the grim moments in stories, regarding the
visuality, therefore I like the part where Laura is growing
thin and grey because of her desire. Also, the way Lizzie
was attacked by the goblins was interesting. This is where
they reveal their true nature. I think it’s visually one of the
'
I ’m interested in searching for something
new in the feminine, maybe a search in myself
that I project on the paper using the feminine
form as a tool for this expression.'
most intense moments, when the goblins try to force-feed
Lizzie the fruits by pushing them against her mouth and
the juices cover her body.
How would you describe your illustration style in general?
I like to study compositions and volumes in my work. I
like to combine opposing elements or elements that are
just very different from one another. I like, for example,
the combinations of fragility and mass, decorativeness and
clean lines, and movement and stiffness. I think it’s these
mixtures that keep my work alive for me, because they
provide material for endless research.
I used to be only interested in doing greyscale work,
but lately I’ve been more into colour. Still, the greyscale
is closer to my heart, it’s also not really absence of colour
either. I like the restriction of using only the tonal chart of
one colour as a challenge, but also that way I can emphasize
better textures, shadows, lines and silhouette.
The female form is absolutely key to your work, what
attracts you to this subject? What I like about illustrating girl
characters is that I can identify with them on some level, I
feel comfortable playing with femininity, emphasizing and
questioning it. More than that, I’m interested in searching
for something new in the feminine, maybe a search in
myself that I project on the paper, using the feminine form
as a tool for this expression.
I also think the feminine body is aesthetically more
interesting than the male, and with drawing girls I get
to draw a lot of hair, which I like. Hair is great because
it is a part of the body that can be modified almost
endlessly without losing the look of hair, the body itself
can only be distorted to a point and then the sense of the
real disappears.
What part do romanticism and sensuality play in your work?
How I see romanticism in my work is mostly the attraction
towards drama.
What other cultural references feed your work? Since
I was a child until my late teens I was heavily into Japanese
manga and anime, it’s not something relevant anymore
but some people have said that the influence can be seen
in my illustrations. Later, another artist who had a big
impact on me was the Austrian painter Egon Schiele.
Again, today his work is less significant as an influence
on my own work.
So mostly that’s something that keeps changing all the
time depending what I see and come across. At the moment
I like movies by Kevin Smith, books by Italo Calvino and
poems by Kabir, and I’m really into A Song of Ice and Fire
series, both novels and the TV-series based on them.
What makes illustration the ideal medium for exploring
fantasy? Because with illustration everything is possible.
The only restrictions are the medium and skills of the
illustrator. There’s no need for any connection to reality. 
Laura Laine 23
GOBLIN
MARKET
Christina Rossetti

Illustrated by
Laura Laine
M O R N I N G and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
‘Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries; –
All ripe together
In summer weather, –
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.’
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
‘Lie close,’ Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
‘We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?’
‘Come buy,’ call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
‘Oh,’ cried Lizzie, ‘Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.’
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
‘Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.’
‘No,’ said Lizzie, ‘No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.’
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
One whisk’d a tail,
One tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 27
One crawl’d like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
‘Come buy, come buy.’
When they reach’d where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One rear’d his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav’d the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
‘Come buy, come buy,’ was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long’d but had no money:
The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr’d,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried ‘Pretty Goblin’ still for ‘Pretty Polly;’ –
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
‘Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.’
‘You have much gold upon your head,’
They answer’d all together:
‘Buy from us with a golden curl.’
She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather’d up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn’d home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
‘Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck’d from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 29
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.’
‘Nay, hush,’ said Laura:
‘Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;’ and kiss’d her:
‘Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.’
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d together in one nest.

Early in the morning
When the first cock crow’d his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows,
Air’d and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d;
Talk’d as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: ‘The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.’
But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
‘Come buy, come buy,’
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 31
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, ‘O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?’
Laura turn’d cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
‘Come buy our fruits, come buy.’
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop’d from the root:
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
‘Come buy, come buy;’ –
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax’d bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch’d for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown’d trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
‘Come buy our orchard fruits,
Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 33
Come buy, come buy;’ – Cat-like and rat-like,
Beside the brook, along the glen, Ratel- and wombat-like,
She heard the tramp of goblin men, Snail-paced in a hurry,
The yoke and stir Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Poor Laura could not hear; Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, Chattering like magpies,
But fear’d to pay too dear. Fluttering like pigeons,
She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Gliding like fishes, –
Who should have been a bride; Hugg’d her and kiss’d her:
But who for joys brides hope to have Squeez’d and caress’d her:
Fell sick and died Stretch’d up their dishes,
In her gay prime, Panniers, and plates:
In earliest winter time ‘Look at our apples
With the first glazing rime, Russet and dun,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Till Laura dwindling Citrons and dates,
Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Grapes for the asking,
Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Pears red with basking
Better and worse; Out in the sun,
But put a silver penny in her purse, Plums on their twigs;
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze Pluck them and suck them,
At twilight, halted by the brook: Pomegranates, figs.’ –
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look. ‘Good folk,’ said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
Laugh’d every goblin ‘Give me much and many’: –
When they spied her peeping: Held out her apron,
Came towards her hobbling, Toss’d them her penny.
Flying, running, leaping, ‘Nay, take a seat with us,
Puffing and blowing, Honour and eat with us,’
Chuckling, clapping, crowing, They answer’d grinning:
Clucking and gobbling, ‘Our feast is but beginning.
Mopping and mowing, Night yet is early,
Full of airs and graces, Warm and dew-pearly,
Pulling wry faces, Wakeful and starry:
Demure grimaces, Such fruits as these

Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 35

No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.’ –
‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie: ‘But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss’d you for a fee.’ –
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call’d her proud,
Cross-grain’d, uncivil;
Their tones wax’d loud,
Their look were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbow’d and jostled her,
Claw’d with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
Twitch’d her hair out by the roots,
Stamp’d upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood, –
Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone
Lash’d by tides obstreperously, –
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, –
Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, –
Like a royal virgin town
Topp’d with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer’d by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff ’d and caught her,
Coax’d and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Kick’d and knock’d her,
Maul’d and mock’d her,
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh’d into the ground,
Some div’d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish’d in the distance.
Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 37
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse, –
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear’d some goblin man
Dogg’d her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she prick’d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried, ‘Laura,’ up the garden,
‘Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.’
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch’d her hair:
‘Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin’d in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?’ –
She clung about her sister,
Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
Tears once again
Refresh’d her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with anguish fear, and pain,
She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loath’d the feast:
Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks stream’d like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins,
knock’d at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense fail’d in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Christina Rossetti ‘Goblin Market’ 39
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topp’d waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watch’d by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laugh’d in the innocent old way,
Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May
And light danced in her eyes.
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
‘For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.’

Days, weeks, months, years

Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
 All that we see or seem
is but a dream within a dream.
Edgar Allan Poe
Laura Laine 43
Laura Laine (opposite), Yuko Michishita (above) 45
Miss Van 47
Deanne Cheuk 49
Daisy Fletcher 51
Tran Nguyen 53
Conrad Roset 55
 NO LOVER,
I F H E B E O F G O O D FA I T H , A N D S I N C E R E ,

WILL DENY
H E WO U L D P R E F E R T O S E E H I S M I S T R E S S

DEAD THAN UNFAITHFUL. Marquis de Sade

Tim Hon Hung Lee 57
Yuko Shimizu 59
Izzie Klingels 61
 I N T E RV I E W

Vania Zouravliov
'“Eleonora” is overripe with mythological imagery and allegories
and its drama is derived from tragedy and heightened emotions.'

What relationship does literature have with your work? When I

was growing up literature had a very direct and obvious
effect on my drawings and over the years this relationship
became much more subtle and elusive. I understand
and make sense of the world primarily with my eyes
and so when it comes to work, my interests, tasks and
inspirations are also mostly visual. Having said that, I
derive huge pleasure from reading my favourite authors
and I am sure that the energy and beauty of their work
finds its way into mine.
Could you describe your personal response to Poe’s ‘Eleonora’?
What appeals to you about the story? It’s very melodramatic.
There are many elements in ‘Eleonora’ that made me think
of Symbolist literature and painting which has its roots in
Romanticism. One artist that came to mind instantly as I
was reading the story was Gustave Moreau. His work can
be described as poetic or overly sentimental depending on
the viewer's mood and the same can be said of ‘Eleonora’.
It is overripe with mythological imagery and allegories and
its drama is derived from tragedy and heightened emotions.
What is it about Poe’s writing more generally that speaks
to you as a visual artist? He is undoubtedly unique amongst
American writers. To me he is much closer in spirit to
somebody like Baudelaire than Longfellow or any of his
countrymen. I think that there are relatively few truly
great story tellers and Poe is one of them.
Was there one key moment in ‘Eleonora’ that unlocked the
visual narrative for you? The description of nature changing
around the main characters to emphasize their feelings
is so incredibly exaggerated and epic that it often feels
'
I had this huge, ravenous hunger for
discovering anything that looked beautiful and
exciting. I loved studying costumes, animals,
watching old hand-drawn Soviet animation,
reading books on folklore...'
hallucinatory. ‘Eleonora’ can be seen as an exercise in
excess or as Poe’s reflection on the events in his own life.
It’s certainly a very poetic piece and as such allows a wide
scope for interpretation.
It’s been said your work is ‘from the devil’ — could you
tell us the story behind that comment? When I was in my early
teens I was asked to do a radio interview. The other guest
was a very famous painter who has his own academy in
Moscow and, needless to say, he had absolutely no idea
who I was. After the interview he invited me to his house.
I had a little portfolio of my drawings with me and at one
point during the evening I was asked to show it to him and
his guests. They were looking at my work, nodding, and
that is what they said.
The narrative and symbolism in your work suggest a link to
book illustrators like Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac — to
what extent does the tradition of book illustration influence you?
There are a number of great artists whose work I find
important. Some of them had a very profound effect not
only on my style of drawing but my values and interests
in general. During my childhood I used to spend a lot of
time looking through my parents’ art books and going to
museums to draw from paintings. I had this huge ravenous
hunger for discovering anything that looked beautiful and
exciting. I loved studying costumes, animals, watching
old hand-drawn Soviet animation, reading books on
folklore, looking through old anatomy and pathology
books, learning from German Renaissance artists, going to
churches and looking at frescoes or spending time in a vast
forest that was very near my home and enjoying its moods
and seasons. All these things formed my way of drawing
and my inner world and are still as important and exciting
to me now as they were when I was a child.
When I was ten years old I really wanted to start
using tone in my drawings. Prior to that everything I did
was line-based. I spent the next one or two years studying
the drawings of [Francisco] Goya, [Albrecht] Dürer,
[Albrecht] Altdorfer and [Hans] Baldung Grien. The
change from line to tone was an incredibly frustrating and
difficult process, but whenever I noticed some progress it
was a most rewarding feeling.
About eight years ago I started to feel that I wanted
more softness in my work and I fell in love with [Odilon]
Redon. Looking at his still lifes took me where I wanted
to go. These are just some examples of how other artists’
work helped me to develop my own work.
What other figures from history inspire your work? French
Romantic painters and Orientalists. Japanese masters of
woodblock printing Utamaro and Kuniyoshi. Artists of
the Italian Renaissance. Belgian Symbolist painters, in
particular Fernand Khnopff. Early photographers such as
von Stillfried, Afong Lai and Felice Beato.
And who are your cultural heroes working today? A lot
of my inspiration comes from high fashion designers and
how they work with shapes and the body. In other areas
my heroes are [photographer and filmmaker] Eikoh Hosoe,
[artist] Thomas Köner and [artist] Feng Zhengjie.
How did you develop your strong sense of visual story-
telling? It’s obvious that any example of figurative art can
be seen as telling a story of some kind but it’s the image
 '
I am certain that erotic energy and creative
energy are one and the same. Nothing of value
can be achieved without a strong desire. The
nature of all art is erotic. It’s our desire to live,
to conquer, to create something powerful, to strive
for beauty and to celebrate our strengths.'
itself that is always of utmost importance. There are two
elements that are important to me in creating a work of
art. The first one is structure and shape. They need to
be harmonious and pleasing. For example, I am obsessed
with how the human body is restructured by clothes or
finding beautiful combinations of shapes that come from
nature combined with man-made ones.The second one is
mood. I find it endlessly fascinating how a scent or a sound
can produce a very strong emotional response and trigger
off all kinds of dormant memories. I think a work of art
should have the same quality.
Could you describe the process of working up a final image
from initial ideas to final artwork? It always starts with seeing
something that produces a strong and pleasant emotional
response in me. I then put this object or image into my
memory bank and keep mulling over it in the next one or
two months. At any one time I have maybe five of these
ideas in development while simultaneously working on
something else.
During this period I keep changing the image in my
mind. Adding things to it or stripping it down to some
basic parts until I feel that I am satisfied with the result.
I can then start the actual drawing. There is usually some
very loose sketching at the beginning but I try to keep
things fairly flexible almost till the very final stage.
The process that I am describing here of course only
applies to my personal work as no client in the world will
allow two months for mulling things over. Any commercial
work usually takes days or weeks rather than months.
Why are fetishism, sensuality and the erotic so prevalent
in your work? I am certain that erotic energy and creative
energy are one and the same. Nothing of value can be
achieved without a strong desire. The nature of all art
is erotic. It’s our desire to live, to conquer, to create
something powerful, to strive for beauty and to celebrate
our strengths. Without this desire everything instantly
becomes meaningless.
What makes illustration as a medium so suitable for
exploring these themes? I don’t think illustration is more
suitable than other media for exploring eroticism.
There are of course some fantastic examples of erotic
illustration. Hans Bellmer’s [illustrations for George
Bataille’s] Story of the Eye, Picasso’s [illustrations for
Metamorphosis by] Ovid or the works of Franz von Bayros
are among my favourites.
Is there a difference in the way you approach the depiction
of men and women in your work? Women are more difficult to
draw but also more rewarding. Men and women inevitably
represent different qualities and it’s one of the most
fascinating dynamics.
Is it possible to consider drawing as an erotic act? I think
so, but there is always plenty of sterile art.
How much do you draw from life and how much from
imagination? I would say that it all comes from life and is
then filtered through my imagination. I always have this
association between making art and cooking. Everyone
is given the same ingredients but the possibilities of
combining them are endless.
Do you have a muse? Not at the moment but I like
the idea very much. 
Vania Zouravliov 69
ELEONORA
Edgar Allan Poe

Illustrated by
Vania Zouravliov
Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima.
Raymond Lully.
I
AM come of a race noted for vigour of fancy and
ardour of passion. Men have called me mad;
but the question is not yet settled, whether
madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence –
whether much that is glorious – whether all
that is profound – does not spring from disease
of thought – from moods of mind exalted at the expense
of the general intellect. They who dream by day are
cognizant of many things which escape those who dream
only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses
of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have
been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they
learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more
of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate,
however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of
the ‘light ineffable,’ and again, like the adventures of the
Nubian geographer, ‘agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo
esset exploraturi’.
We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that
there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence
– the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed,
and belonging to the memory of events forming the first
epoch of my life – and a condition of shadow and doubt,
appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what
constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore,
what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe; and to what
I may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may
seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt it ye cannot,
then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.
She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen
calmly and distinctly these remembrances, was the sole
daughter of the only sister of my mother long departed.
Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always
dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley
of the Many-Coloured Grass. No unguided footstep ever
came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range of
giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting
out the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was
trodden in its vicinity; and, to reach our happy home,
there was need of putting back, with force, the foliage of
many thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death
the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it
was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world
without the valley – I, and my cousin, and her mother.
From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the
upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow
and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora;
and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed
away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills
still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called
it the ‘River of Silence’; for there seemed to be a hushing
influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and
so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon
which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred
not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own
old station, shining on gloriously forever.
The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling
rivulets that glided through devious ways into its channel,
as well as the spaces that extended from the margins away
down into the depths of the streams until they reached
Edgar Allan Poe ‘Eleonora’ 73
the bed of pebbles at the bottom, – these spots, not less
than the whole surface of the valley, from the river to
the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a
soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla-
perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the yellow
buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the
ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our
hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.
And, here and there, in groves about this grass,
like wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees,
whose tall, slender stems stood not upright, but slanted
gracefully toward the light that peered at noon-day into
the centre of the valley. Their mark was speckled with
the vivid alternate splendour of ebony and silver, and was
smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so that, but
for the brilliant green of the huge leaves that spread from
their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying with the
Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of
Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.
Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years,
roamed I with Eleonora before Love entered within our
hearts. It was one evening at the close of the third lustrum
of her life, and of the fourth of my own, that we sat, locked
in each other’s embrace, beneath the serpent-like trees,
and looked down within the water of the River of Silence
at our images therein. We spoke no words during the rest
of that sweet day, and our words even upon the morrow
were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from
that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within
us the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which
had for centuries distinguished our race, came thronging
with the fancies for which they had been equally noted,
and together breathed a delirious bliss over the Valley of
the Many-Coloured Grass. A change fell upon all things.
Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burn out upon the
trees where no flowers had been known before. The tints of
the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white
daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them, ten
by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life arose in our paths;
for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing
birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden
and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of which
issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length,
into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of
Aeolus-sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And
now, too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched
in the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous
in crimson and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank,
day by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested upon
the tops of the mountains, turning all their dimness into
magnificence, and shutting us up, as if forever, within a
magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.
The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim;
but she was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life
she had led among the flowers. No guile disguised the
fervour of love which animated her heart, and she examined
with me its inmost recesses as we walked together in the
Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and discoursed of the
mighty changes which had lately taken place therein.
At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of
Edgar Allan Poe ‘Eleonora’ 75
the last sad change which must befall Humanity, she
thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful theme,
interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs of the
bard of Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again
and again, in every impressive variation of phrase.
She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her
bosom – that, like the ephemeron, she had been made
perfect in loveliness only to die; but the terrors of the
grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she
revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of
the River of Silence. She grieved to think that, having
entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass, I
would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love
which now was so passionately her own to some maiden
of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I
threw myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered
up a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would never
bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth – that I
would in no manner prove recreant to her dear memory, or
to the memory of the devout affection with which she had
blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe
to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse
which I invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion
should I prove traitorous to that promise, involved a
penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not
permit me to make record of it here. And the bright eyes
of Eleonora grew brighter at my words; and she sighed as if
a deadly burthen had been taken from her breast; and she
trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made acceptance
of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it made
easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not
many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of
what I had done for the comfort of her spirit she would
watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it
were permitted her return to me visibly in the watches
of the night; but, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the
power of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least,
give me frequent indications of her presence, sighing upon
me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I breathed
with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with
these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life,
putting an end to the first epoch of my own.
Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier
in Time’s path, formed by the death of my beloved, and
proceed with the second era of my existence, I feel that a
shadow gathers over my brain, and I mistrust the perfect
sanity of the record. But let me on. – Years dragged
themselves along heavily, and still I dwelled within the
Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass; but a second change
had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank
into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The
tints of the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-
red asphodels withered away; and there sprang up, in place
of them, ten by ten, dark, eye-like violets, that writhed
uneasily and were ever encumbered with dew. And Life
departed from our paths; for the tall flamingo flaunted no
longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly from
the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that
had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver
fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our
Edgar Allan Poe ‘Eleonora’ 77
domain and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the
lulling melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of
Aeolus, and more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora,
it died little by little away, in murmurs growing lower and
lower, until the stream returned, at length, utterly, into
the solemnity of its original silence. And then, lastly, the
voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning the tops of the
mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the regions of
Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden and gorgeous
glories from the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass.
Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for
I heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the
angels; and streams of a holy perfume floated ever and ever
about the valley; and at lone hours, when my heart beat
heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me
laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs filled often
the night air, and once – oh, but once only! I was awakened
from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the pressing
of spiritual lips upon my own.
But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to
be filled. I longed for the love which had before filled it to
overflowing. At length the valley pained me through its
memories of Eleonora, and I left it for ever for the vanities
and the turbulent triumphs of the world.
I found myself within a strange city, where all things
might have served to blot from recollection the sweet
dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley of the Many-
Coloured Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately
court, and the mad clangour of arms, and the radiant
loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my brain.
But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the
indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in
the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations
they ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and
I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at
the terrible temptations which beset me; for there came
from some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay
court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my
whole recreant heart yielded at once – at whose footstool I
bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the
most abject worship of love. What, indeed, was my passion
for the young girl of the valley in comparison with the
fervour, and the delirium, and the spirit-lifting ecstasy of
adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears
at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? – Oh, bright was the
seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had room for
none other. – Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and
as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I
thought only of them – and of her.
I wedded; – nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and
its bitterness was not visited upon me. And once – but
once again in the silence of the night; there came through
my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken me; and they
modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying:
‘Sleep in peace! – for the Spirit of Love reigneth and
ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her who
is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which
shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows
unto Eleonora.’
Vania Zouravliov 81
 LOVE KNOWS
N O V I RT U E , N O P R O F I T ;

IT LOVES AND FORGIVES

A N D S U F F E R S E V E RY T H I N G ,

BECAUSE IT MUST.
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch

Amelie Hegardt (opposite) 83

Amelie Hegardt 85
Tim Hon Hung Lee (opposite), Vania Zouravliov (above) 87
Amelie Hegardt 89
 Common sense tells us
that the things of the earth exist only a little,
and that true reality is only in dreams.
Charles Baudelaire

Izzie Klingels 91
Dan Hillier 93
No one could have less faith
I N T H E A B S O L U T E A N D D E F I N I T I V E I M P O RTA N C E

of the work created by man,

B E C A U S E I B E L I E V E T H AT T H I S WO R L D

is nothing but a dream.

Gustave Moreau

Dan Hillier 95
Sam Wolfe Connelly 97
 I N T E RV I E W

Jules Julien
'Eroticism is the poetry of sex — an ear or neck, hand or thigh, tells
us about the entire body. Desire is at once strong and 'fragile, like
a hallucination that is holding our minds.

What was your initial response to Bataille’s Story of the Eye?

A shift towards eroticism, sex, obsession and horror.
Then, the last chapter ‘Reminiscences’ puts the story
in perspective through the prism of unconsciousness.
I thought it was really strong.
Which elements of Bataille’s narrative and style most
inspired your illustrations for the piece? I was attracted to the
obsessive use of shapes, the recurrence of globe shapes
in the eye, egg, moon, gun shot hole and bull’s testicles.
To reflect the parallels between story-telling and the
unconscious of the author in my illustrations, I’ve used
the characters as windows to the outside. I’ve chosen
to represent the characters of Simone and Marcelle
essentially through their legs, thighs and bottoms —
never far from their vaginas. I’ve used the leitmotif of
stockings to give volume to the shapes and I’ve capsized
the sky in each illustration, with stars, moon and lightning
storms to dematerialize their bodies. This also references
a part from chapter eight of the book — ‘I stretched out in
the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring
straight up at the Milky Way, that strange breach of astral
sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed
by the ring of constellations...’. Before I read Bataille’s
book for this commission I had already been thinking
about Aubrey Beardsley, so there is also some influence of
Beardsley’s work in the illustrations.
'
I have a dark side just like everyone.
Bataille himself wrote “Story of the Eye”
to get rid of his own fears. Our society is made
up of the two poles of death and sex — sex to
forget about death, which is waiting for us
at the end of sex.'
How would you describe your illustration style?
Graphically my style is realist but underneath, it is
surrealist. I make associations between people and familiar
objects in order to create a universe in which symbol
marries line and where strangeness is hidden behind
the smooth and sensual appearance of my pictures: an
underground world where superheroes are called Eros
and Thanatos.
What role do fetishism and the erotic play in your work?
I’m gay and my drawings were first published in the gay
press. It is my universe that I present in my illustrations.
A soccer outfit, a Nike shoe or a tie makes us imagine who
has been wearing it — I believe that objects have a strong
erotic power, especially clothes. They are a direct link to
our fantasies, they give a sense of the body as a ghost, an
evanescent presence and yet they are extremely visceral at
the same time.
What makes illustration as a medium suitable for exploring
these themes? I think that it depends on the illustration
and its style but there is always an un-realness to
illustration, which by definition comes closer to fantasies
than photography, for example. Photography will always tell
more at the expense of imagination. Drawing may be the
starting point of an inner journey; it recalls imagination.
When I started out I hesitated between choosing
photography or drawing as a medium. I find that the
subject is too present in photography, our eyes stop at
reality. But illustration is limitless, it sits at the crossing
point between thoughts and reality, like an independent
entity. What is exciting about breasts for example, is
more the fantasy about breasts than breasts in particular.
For me, illustration is like that, it is more the idea, the
suggestion of something rather than the object itself, like
a fantasy.
How would you define ‘the erotic’? Eroticism is the
poetry of sex — an ear or neck, hand or thigh, tells us
about the entire body. Desire is at once strong and fragile,
like a hallucination that is holding our minds.
Your drawing work contains elements of surreal collage and
an air of the gothic — how do you interpret these influences for a
contemporary audience? I have a dark side just like everyone.
Bataille himself wrote Story of the Eye to get rid of his own
fears. Our society is made up of the two poles of death and
sex — sex to forget about death, which is waiting for us at
the end of sex. We are living in an unsolved equation.
My black drawings bring together a mix of elements
to create a new meaning — hair and melting ice; a kitten
and a gun. Black makes them one, it solders them together.
It is a disappearance for the benefit of an appearance. This
use of black is the rule of the game that I gave to myself
when I started illustrating and it is what has defined my
style. The outcome it creates is somewhat closer to collage
Jules Julien 103
'
I am interested by the body above all, its
flesh, its clothes, its hair, its pose, its weakness
and strength. It goes beyond male and female.'
than illustration — I draw each element in black (or with
colours), and combine it with others.
I believe there is a minimalist point of view in this
approach — once drawn, the elements are somewhere
on the border between photography and drawing. They
keep their shape and their pattern but lose their reality.
My creative intervention is almost only of the choice and
layout of the subjects and colours that are used. More that
the hand, it is the eye working.
Tell us about some of the elements and symbols in your Cadavres
Exquis series, and how you put the images together... Cadavres
Exquis is a series of drawings and a small movie that I
created for a solo show at Diesel Art Gallery Tokyo in
2009. I wanted to make a work about fashion, which
obviously has a big arena in Japan but in a different way
to in Paris where I live. Fashion is very creative in Japan,
especially with the people wearing it, mixing styles and
trade marks, they become their own stylist.
To realize this series, I drew in black many pieces of
clothes and patterns found in fashion magazines, across
many styles — a skull as necklace from Dior, a Vivienne
Westwood hat, a Uniqlo shirt. Then I glued them together
to create new silhouettes, which evolved over the course
of the movie. I wanted it to be alive and animated, and
yet without life because it is made up of clothes, like
scarecrows or rag dolls in appearance. From this movie, I
chose a few silhouettes that I printed.
Is there a difference in the way you approach male and female
sensuality in your work? I think that there is no difference
in my approach. Above all, I am interested by the body,
its flesh, its clothes, its hair, its pose, its weakness and
strength. It goes beyond male and female.
Is it possible to consider drawing as an erotic act? If I
were drawing with a pencil or a brush, I’d say perhaps yes.
However, I work on computers for the moment. So the act
of drawing itself, physically speaking, has nothing erotic
for me, my body does not participate a lot in it. It is more
in the conception phase, the imagination, that there is an
erotic game for me.
Do you have a muse? Not really. But perhaps a muse
in pieces, just like the many recurring elements of my
work — skulls, hair, sneakers, chains… We live in a
society made up of pictures and today’s muses are often
fragmented by the rhythm of our screens.
What other cultural references feed your work? I’m
really fascinated by many things: in art: (Wim Delvoye),
graphic design (Tadanori Yokoo), dance (Sidi Larbi
Cherkaoui), comic books (Taiyo Matsumoto), cinema,
music and literature — quite a few books have moved me,
by authors like Samuel Beckett, Éric Chevillard, Eugène
Ionesco and Haruki Murakami. 
Jules Julien 105
S T O RY
OF THE

EYE
Georges Bataille

Illustrated by
Jules Julien
Surrealist writer Georges Bataille’s explicit, erotic novel Story of the Eye
was first published under a pseudonym in 1928. The story follows the
adventures, fantasies and sexual experiments of the young male protagonist
and his lover Simone. The pair becomes fixated with a girl named Marcelle,
whom they recruit into their increasingly bizarre games. In the following
chapter they attempt a chaotic rescue of Marcelle, who has been confined
to the sanatorium...

CHAPTER IV

A Sunspot

O
ther girls and boys no longer
interested us. All we could think
of was Marcelle, and already we
childishly imagined her hanging
herself, the secret burial, the funeral
apparitions. Finally, one evening,
after getting the precise information, we took our bicycles
and pedalled off to the sanatorium where our friend was
confined. In less than half an hour, we had ridden the
twenty kilometres separating us from a sort of castle within
a walled park on an isolated cliff overlooking the sea. We
had learned that Marcelle was in Room 8, but obviously we
would have to get inside the building to find her. Now all
we could hope for was to climb in her window after sawing
through the bars, and we were at a loss how to identify
her window among thirty others, when our attention was
drawn to a strange apparition. We had scaled the wall and
were now in the park, among trees buffeted by a violent
wind, when we spied a second-storey window opening and
a shadow holding a sheet and fastening it to one of the bars.
The sheet promptly smacked in the gusts, and the window
was shut before we could recognize the shadow.
It is hard to imagine the harrowing racket of that vast
white sheet caught in the squall. It greatly outroared the
fury of the sea or the wind in the trees. That was the first
time I saw Simone racked by anything but her own lewdness:
she huddled against me with a beating heart and gaped at
the huge phantom raging in the night as though dementia
itself had hoisted its colours on this lugubrious château.
We were motionless, Simone cowering in my arms and
I half-haggard, when all at once the wind seemed to tatter
the clouds, and the moon, with a revealing clarity, poured
sudden light on something so bizarre and so excruciating for
us that an abrupt, violent sob choked up in Simone’s throat:
at the centre of the sheet flapping and banging in the wind,
a broad wet stain glowed in the translucent moonlight. …
A few seconds later, new black clouds plunged
everything into darkness, but I stayed on my feet,
suffocating, feeling my hair in the wind, and weeping
wretchedly, like Simone herself, who had collapsed in the
grass, and for the first time, her body was quaking with
huge, childlike sobs.
It was our unfortunate friend, no doubt about it,
it was Marcelle who had opened that lightless window,
Marcelle who had tied that stunning signal of distress to
the bars of her prison. She had obviously tossed off in bed
with such a disorder of her senses that she had entirely
inundated herself, and it was then that we saw her hang the
sheet from the window to let it dry.
As for myself, I was at a loss about what to do in
such a park, with that bogus château de plaisance and its
repulsively barred windows. I walked around the building,
leaving Simone upset and sprawling on the grass. I had
no practical goal, I just wanted to take a breath of air by

Georges Bataille Story of the Eye 109

Georges Bataille Story of the Eye 111
myself. But then, on the side of the château, I stumbled
upon an unbarred open window on the ground floor; I
felt for the gun in my pocket and I entered cautiously: it
was a very ordinary drawing-room. An electric flashlight
helped me to reach an antechamber; then a stairway. I
could not distinguish anything, I did not get anywhere,
the rooms were not numbered. Besides, I was incapable of
understanding anything, as though I were under a spell:
at that moment, I could not even understand why I had
the idea of removing my trousers and continuing that
anguishing exploration only in my shirt. And yet I stripped
off my clothes, piece by piece, leaving them on a chair,
keeping only my shoes on. With a flashlight in my left hand
and the revolver in my right hand, I wandered aimlessly,
haphazardly. A rustle made me switch off my lamp quickly.
I stood motionless, whiling away the time by listening to
my erratic breath. Long, anxious minutes wore by without
my hearing any more noise, and so I flashed my light back
on, but a faint cry sent me fleeing so swiftly that I forgot
my clothes on the chair.
I sensed I was being followed: so I hurriedly climbed
out through the window and hid in a garden lane; but no
sooner had I turned to observe what might be happening
in the château than I spied a naked woman in the window
frame; she jumped into the park as I had done and ran off
towards a thorn bush.
Nothing was more bizarre for me in those utterly
thrilling moments than my nudity against the wind on
the path of that unknown garden. It was as if I had left
the earth, especially because the squall was as violent as
ever, but warm enough to suggest a brutal entreaty. I did
not know what to do with the gun which I still held in my
hand, for I had no pockets left; by charging after the woman
who had run past me unrecognized, I would obviously be
hunting her down to kill her. The roar of the wrathful
elements, the raging of the trees and the sheet, also helped
to prevent me from discerning anything distinct in my will
or in my gestures.
All at once, I halted, out of breath: I had reached the
bushes where the shadow had disappeared. Excited by my
revolver, I began looking about, when suddenly it seemed
as if all reality were tearing apart: a hand, moistened
by saliva, had grabbed my cock and was rubbing it, a
slobbering, burning kiss was planted on the root of my
arse, the naked chest and legs of a woman pressed against
my legs with an orgasmic jolt. I scarcely had time to spin
around when my come burst in the face of my wonderful
Simone: clutching my revolver, I was swept up by a thrill
as violet as the storm, my teeth chattered and my lips
foamed, with twisted arms I gripped my gun convulsively,
and, willy-nilly, three blind, horrifying shots were fired in
the direction of the château.
Drunk and limp, Simone and I had fled from one
another and raced across the park like dogs; the squall
Georges Bataille Story of the Eye 113
was far too wild not for the gunshots to awake any of the
sleeping tenants in the château, even if the bangs had been
audible inside. But when we instinctively looked up at
Marcelle’s window above the sheet slamming in the wind,
we were greatly surprised to see that one of the bullets had
left a star-shaped crack in one of the panes. The window
shook, opened, and the shadow appeared a second time.
Dumbstruck, as though about to see Marcelle bleed
and fall dead in the windowframe, we remained standing
under the strange, nearly motionless apparition. Because
of the furious wind, we were incapable of even making
ourselves heard.
‘What did you do with your clothes?’ I asked Simone
an instant later. She said she had been looking for me and,
unable to track me down, she had finally gone to search the
interior of the château; but before clambering through the
window, she had undressed, thinking she ‘would feel more
free’. And when she had come back out after me, terrified
by me, she found that the wind had carried off her dress.
Meanwhile, she kept observing Marcelle, and it never
crossed her mind to ask me why I was naked.
The girl in the window disappeared. A moment that
seemed unending crawled by: she switched on the light in
her room. Finally, she came back to breathe the open air
and gaze at the ocean. Her sleek, pallid hair was caught
in the wind, we could make out her features: she had not
changed, but now there was something wild in her eyes,
something restless, contrasting with the still childlike
simplicity of her features. She looked thirteen rather than
sixteen. Under her nightgown, we could distinguish her
thin but full body, firm, unobtrusive, and as beautiful as
her fixed stare.
When she finally caught sight of us, the surprise
seemed to restore life to her face. She called, but we
couldn’t hear. We beckoned. She blushed up to her ears.
Simone, weeping almost, while I lovingly caressed her
forehead, sent her kisses, to which she responded without
smiling. Next, Simone ran her hand down her belly to her
pubic hair. Marcelle imitated her, and poising one foot on
the sill, she exposed a leg sheathed in a white silk stocking
almost up to her blond cunt. Curiously, she was wearing
a white belt and white stockings, whereas black-haired
Simone, whose cunt was in my hand, was wearing a black
belt and black stockings.
Meanwhile, the two girls were masturbating with
terse, brusque gestures, face to face in the howling night.
They were nearly motionless, and tense, and their eyes
gaped with unrestrained joy. But soon, some invisible
monstrosity appeared to be pulling Marcelle away from
the bars, though her left hand clutched them with all her
might. We saw her tumble back into her delirium. And all
that remained before us was an empty, glowing window, a
rectangular hole piercing the opaque night, showing our
aching eyes a world composed of lightning and dawn.
Izzie Klingels (opposite), Jules Julien (above) 117
 Variety, multiplicity
A R E T H E T WO

Most powerful
VEHICLES OF

Lust
Marquis de Sade

Yukari Terakado 119

Miss Van 121
Makiko Sugawa 123
Soey Milk 125
 I want to adore a woman, and this
I can only do when she is cruel towards me.
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch

Sam Wolfe Connelly 127

Amelie Hegardt 129
 MODERATION
I S A FA TA L T H I N G .

NOTHING SUCCEEDS
LIKE

EXCESSOscar Wilde
Jasper Goodall 131
Jesse Auersalo 133
Yuko Shimizu 135
 I N T E RV I E W

Andrzej Klimowski
‘In Grabinski’s writing we witness heightened states of emotion
and sensuality that perhaps only exist in dreams.’

Could you describe your personal response to Grabinski’s story

‘Szamota’s Mistress’? What appeals to you about the story?
‘Szamota’s Mistress’ is a story that immediately sucks
you into its centre; before you find your bearings you are
seduced into a world that is at once sensual and repulsive.
The tone of the story is set when the narrator receives
a letter from a woman he does not know but has been
attracted to from a distance. She has been away a long
time and on her return she is inviting him to her villa.
The letter is intimate. It is also specific. The man is to
arrive at an appointed hour on a particular day. The villa
is deserted, it is autumn, darkness pervades. The woman
appears on the landing and a passionate affair ensues. The
relationship is wildly erotic, yet as it unfolds over the next
few months, the woman withholds her face from the man,
she hides behind veils. Paradoxically the more she gives
herself to him, the more she holds back. Is she really there?
What is it about Grabinski’s writing more generally
that speaks to you as a visual artist? What attracts me to
Grabinski’s writing is the hallucinatory spell his stories
cast. In them we witness heightened states of emotion
and sensuality that perhaps only exist in dreams. We
experience an event with all our senses only to question
whether it ever occurred. Yet the experience is so intense
that it remains etched in our memory. And it is in images,
vivid images, that I retain this experience.
Which aspects of Grabinski’s writing style and approach to
narrative have you conveyed in your illustrations for ‘Szamota’s
Mistress’? I try to convey the darkness of the story in
my illustrations as well as the idea of looking intensely
'
I like it when things are in the shadows, so
the reader or spectator has to fill it in themselves
... you don’t want to be too explicit, you lurk in
the shadows, the detail is unspecific... It’s a bit
like the theatre — suggestive rather than real. ’
and being looked at. This reciprocal staring, as well
as the mystery of disappearing seems important. The
female protagonist radiates a certain light about her in
scenes that are otherwise dark. The mesmeric force she
exerts over her lover is the theme that unlocks the visual
narrative for me.
What importance does literature have to your work?
Literature inspires me more than anything else. I would
include cinema and theatre as well, which are on the
whole based on literature. I was educated as a painter, I
studied fine art at Saint Martins, then I left for Poland
to study at the Warsaw Academy with a professor who
focused his attention on poster design. When I graduated
from the academy my main clients were theatres and film
distributors, so the kind of graphic imagery I did was
always based on drama or literature. In my more recent
past I’ve been writing my own books.
How does the written word directly influence your process
as an illustrator when you’re interpreting a text? I always read
the text. Quite often designers or illustrators working
on a book cover, which is the most common kind of
commission, they go according to a synopsis. But I can’t
do that, I’ve always had to read the book, first of all
because I love books, I like reading, but also because the
few times that I made a mistake or went wrong was when
I didn’t read it... As you’re reading, there are moments
which reveal the essence of the thing — it can be a small
anecdote, part of an episode or sometimes I manage to
find a visual metaphor or a symbolic interpretation. Or
sometimes it can just be to do with atmosphere... The
trick is not to interfere with the imagination of the reader.
Not to suggest too much because then you spoil the fun for
the reader.
Do you start with a written outline or a storyboard? If
I’m adapting a novel or a short story into a graphic novel
I write all over the book, in the margins. I always believe
in the very initial response to something. Even though
sometimes one goes off on a tangent, it’s the most revealing
process. When I work with students I try to encourage
them to do that intuitive, immediate response to what
they’re reading because it often works. In your mind’s eye
you see a face or a situation, a landscape or room.
So illustrating is a process of accessing something instinctive?
Yes, an instinctive, intuitive approach works best. And
if I’m working on my own books, my own scenarios, then
I try to create a situation where I can work in a stream-
of-consciousness way. Not analysing, just producing,
producing, producing... I always think an illustrator or
graphic artist is a kind of transmitter of ideas. You receive
a lot, then you filter it, and then you render it.
When using a stream-of-consciousness approach, do your
ideas always emerge visually? Yes, with me everything
is visual. Even though I might write down a scene
sometimes, very often I will make a picture of a scene and
then work from that. I think visual situations inspire me
a lot. But I like it when things are in the shadows, so the
reader or spectator has to fill it in themselves.
Are there symbols that repeat themselves in your work?
I wouldn’t read them myself as symbols but I do notice
that certain things reappear a lot and I don’t know why.
Like staircases, there are always a lot of staircases in my
stories. Maybe its because I live on the second floor and
I climb stairs all the time. I suppose that they are also a
linking space between scenes.
So there can be autobiographical references in your imagery?
A bit, yes. In some stories I’ve done, the camera plays an
important role simply because I used to use a camera a lot
(most of my early work is photomontage and collage).
In one of my books [The Secret] the protagonist is
a pin-hole camera.
'
That threshold between two realities,
I’ve always been interested in that.'
At the moment I’m working with my wife [Danusia
Schejbal] on a semi-autobiographical graphic novel about
us when we were young students in Warsaw. We stayed in
Warsaw for a long time... it was the Communist period,
a different reality. Communist systems are very surreal,
they were very unnatural. They had their ideals but it was
corrupt and it was crazy. Distribution of goods was crazy
— you couldn’t buy anything, you had to improvise. So the
book is going to be quite funny. There is a whole generation
now who missed that period, so it’s become like fiction.
The Polish tradition for film and theatre posters is strong
compared with the UK. It’s had its day now, but it certainly
was very strong and linked with all the other arts. That’s
what I liked about working in Poland. The whole cultural
ambience... I felt at home. For instance, I used to design
book covers for a specific publisher in the centre of
Warsaw, they had their own canteen in the basement and
you could meet all the writers, film directors, artists,
poets, theatre directors, one big family. The borders
were very porous between the disciplines. So if you were
friends with a theatre director he’d ask you to do the
poster for his stuff. I suppose it exists to a certain extent
in London but London is so huge and diverse, and quite
often design groups do everything — I sometimes had this
feeling that the design of a theatre programme would be
treated in exactly the same way as the design for a bank
brochure. Drama, theatre, spectacle needs a different
approach altogether.
That sense of drama and theatre is very clear in your work...
Definitely. I still do posters for the theatre in Poland but
it is the book — literature — that I began to concentrate
on here. I worked a lot via Pentagram with Faber & Faber.
John McConnell at Pentagram looked after the whole look
of Fabers and he commissioned illustrators to do book
covers. Very often an illustrator became identified with
a certain writer. It was wonderful working with Pentagram
in the 1980s and 1990s. I did all the covers for the Milan
Kundera, Mario Vargas Llosa, Kazuo Ishiguro and Harold
Pinter — I did about 20 covers for him. We became
friends. His approach attracted me because his drama was
very pared down, no excess baggage, very minimal.
Do you find that you try to convey some of the writer’s style
visually? Yes I do. Sometimes I take on a job that doesn’t
really suit me, just because I don’t want to fall into a trap
of just being a surreal, dark, dramatic type of person. I
took on a commission with Everyman when they were
going to publish all of PG Woodhouse’s novels. It’s typical
English humour, playful language, ridiculous situations,
farce — this was not the stuff I usually did. But I thought
I’d love to do it and I’ve done now over 70 covers.
Do you think there’s a natural inclination to the darker side
of things in your work? I suppose that is what happens but I
don’t set out to do dark things. But I like the colour black,
for instance. And I do a lot of printing, working with lino
cut, because it’s so simple and yet tricky because you have
to reduce everything to black and white —no inbetweens
(although you can generate certain half-tone effects)... In
the darkness things are hidden and you can read things
in the shadows.
When I’m doing black-and-white lino cuts, in quite
a lot of the scenes you don’t know if they’re happening at
night or in the middle of the day — the sky can be black
but you see a cloud in it. The light falls on characters,
objects, buildings in a way that suggests sunlight. So
there’s a kind of ambiguity... an unsettling twilight world,
a contradiction. That, I have always liked. Since I was
young I have been under the spell of dusk or dawn, when
colours fade. It generates a certain melancholy mood.
That sense of uncertainty and doubt seems to fit perfectly
with the Grabinski story. Yes, there was a natural attraction
Andrzej Klimowski
143
'
Since I was young I have been under
the spell of dusk or dawn, when colours fade.
It generates a certain melancholy mood.’
there for me. He is a strange writer. There are a few other
writers who can do that, where reality slips, even from
one epoch to another. There’s an Argentinian writer Julio
Cortázar whom I like very much. His narrative slips like
dreams slide from one reality to another... That threshold
between two realities, I’ve always been interested in that.
Do you think there’s something about drawing in particular
that unlocks the ability to access fantasy, slip between worlds?
Yes, I think it can do that. With drawing you rely on
the imagination. If you’re working with found material
or you have specially set up photographs for an image
[photomontage or collage works] it’s really very physical,
whereas a drawing is complete invention. Of course one
can draw from reality and I keep a notebook always —
if I am interested in a chair I’ll draw it, or a character
who is not aware I am observing him — because it’s
interesting to observe the way people sit or behave.
But really drawing is complete invention, the closest to
your imagination, it’s all coming completely from the
mind. Like writing. Then, of course, the medium has a
resistance — it doesn’t come out as you want it to come
out, it misbehaves. Or one just can’t do it in terms of
one’s craft or draughtsmanship and ability — one is
limited. So you have to compensate for that and the effort
of compensation and improvisation, I like that too. Like
a musician might play a wrong note and then go off into a
new direction; like writing, you use a wrong word but it
might take you in an unexpected direction — that’s the
joy of creative work in general.
When you’re illustrating text, do you see the illustrations
as additions to the written word or can they be autonomous?
I think they can be automonous because afterwards they
could hang on the wall as a series, or portfolio of prints.
Perhaps looking at them on their own you can figure out
a narrative that is different from the text. But the trick is
not to destroy the enjoyment of the reader. If a reader has
built up a very specific world then just to turn a page and
suddenly see this character that has nothing to do with
their imagination, it interferes and can be disappointing.
So you don’t want to be too explicit, you lurk in the
shadows, the detail is unspecific... It’s a bit like the
theatre — suggestive rather than real.
What is the appeal of illustrated books? It’s a good
moment in time to look at and commission illustrated
books given the fact that we have ebooks and Kindles, so
printed books have become beautiful objects and there’s
an emphasis on that. People will always want to collect
books. And the thing about illustrated books — even if
you don’t sympathise with the treatment because your
imagination or interpretation is very different — you
will still treasure a book with pictures in it because it’s
something to return to. People can rarely afford to buy
paintings, but a book is accessible.
What does it take for an illustrator to be a great
storyteller? Any practitioner takes it for granted they
can tell a story, but it’s difficult. You can lose people. To
develop that ability, that objective distance between the
work and yourself is very difficult. We’re so subjectively
involved in the work that we know exactly what it’s about
but you have to think of the audience. They haven’t had
the same experiences or seen the same things so you have
to leave signposts. You have to leave enough clues but not
too many. I’m not a great admirer of Spielberg because,
although he’s a real professional and he knows how to tell
a story, it is always spelt out, it’s sentimental, it leads the
audience in a very specific way. For me, being part of
the audience, it’s best when I have to work hard at making
connections... Working hard as a viewer gives you a
great deal of satisfaction. You become a participant
in the work. 
 S Z A M O TA’ S

MISTRESS
[ P A G E S F R O M A D I S C O V E R E D D I A RY ]

Stefan Grabinski

Illustrated by
Andrzej Klimowski
And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman,
and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my
bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was
taken out of Man. Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother,
and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.
Genesis 2:22-24

I
have been intoxicated with joy for six days now
and can hardly believe my good fortune. Six days
ago I entered a new phase of life, one so markedly
different than what preceded, that it seems I am
living through a great cataclysm.
I received a letter from her.
Since her departure abroad a year ago to an unknown
destination – this first wonderful sign from her… I cannot, I
truly cannot believe it! I will faint from joy!
A letter from her to me! To me, someone completely
unknown to her, a humble, distant admirer with whom
no friendly relations had existed before, not even a fleet-
ing acquaintanceship. But the letter is genuine. I carry
it continually with me, I do not part with it even for one
second. The name on the address is clear, without a doubt:
Jerzy Szamota. It is I, after all. Not believing my own eyes,
I showed the envelope to several acquaintances; everyone
looked at me with some amazement, then smiled and con-
firmed that the address is legible and bears my name.
So she is returning home, returning in just a couple of
days, and the first person who will greet her at her door will
be I – I, whose adoring eyes barely dared to look up at her
during chance sightings on the street, on some park lane, in
the theatre, at a concert…
If I could have to my credit at least one glance, or a
brief smile from her proud lips - but no! She seemed to have
been completely unaware of me. Until this letter, I had
been certain she did not even know of my existence. Surely
she hadn’t noticed me all those years while I trailed after
her like a distant, timid shadow? I was so discreet, such a
far-removed, delicate ray. Yet she must have sensed this.
With a sensitive woman’s instinct, she sensed my love and
my meek, boundless adoration. It seems that the invisible
bonds of attraction that existed between us all these years
grew more powerful during our distant separation, and now
they draw her to me.
My best wishes, my most beautiful one! At this
evening hour, the day bows before me in bright, cheerful
flashes, and with a raised head I hum a song in praise of your
magnificence – my most wonderful Lady!
It is already Thursday. The day after tomorrow, at this
time, I will see her. Not until then. Such is her expressed
wish. I take her letter in my hand, that priceless lilac sheet
from which escapes a subtle fragrance of heliotrope, and I
read for the hundredth time:
Dear! Call at the house on 8 Green Street on
Saturday, the 26th, at six in the evening. You will
find the garden gate open. I will be waiting for
you. Let the yearning of many years be fulfilled.
Yours, Jadwiga Kalergis
The house on Green Street! Her villa, The Lindens! A
splendid, medieval-styled little mansion in the midst of a
grand park, separated from the street by woods and a thick
wire fence; the aim of nearly all my daily walks. How many
times during the evening had I sneaked up to this quiet
spot, searching with a racing heart for her shadow on the
windowpanes!
Impatient with waiting for the anticipated Saturday,

Stefan Grabinski ‘Szamota's Mistress’ 149

I was already at her house several times attempting to
gain entry; but I always found the garden gate closed –
the handle yielded, but the lock did not spring open. She
still had not returned. I should be patient and wait, but
I am so unbearably excited. I do not eat, I cannot sleep; I
only count the hours, the minutes. So much time remains!
Forty-eight hours!…Tomorrow I will spend the entire day
on the river by her park. I will rent a boat and circle near
her villa. Saturday I will spend the morning and part of the
afternoon at the railway station. I have to welcome her, at
least from afar. I know from her neighbours, who have not
seen her for a year, that she has not returned. She has defi-
nitely postponed her arrival until the 26th of September
– that is, on the day of my visit. In truth, I fear I won’t
come at an opportune time; after such a journey she will be
extremely tired.

Saturday morning – that is, yester-
day – I did not see her among the
abundant crowds at the station. I
waited until four in the afternoon
for the second train, with the same
result. Maybe she hadn’t arrived?
Or maybe she had come on the
morning train and was already at
home? In either case, I had to go to
her villa and ascertain the truth.
Those two hours that sepa-
rated us became an unbearable tor-
ment whose end I could hardly wait
for. Entering a café, I drank a large
amount of black coffee, smoked lots
of cigarettes, and unable to sit still,
I rushed back outside. Passing by a
flower stall, I remembered the flow-
ers I had ordered for today.
How absentminded of me! I
would have completely forgotten!
I went and collected a bouquet of crimson roses and
azaleas. The freshly-cut flowers, their fragrant buds emerg-
ing from a circle of ferns, shook gently in the evening
breeze. The clocks of the city were approaching a quarter
to six.
I wrapped the bouquet in paper and quickly left in the
direction of the river. In several minutes I was already on
the other side of the bridge. With a nervous step I neared
the villa. My heart beat wildly, my legs trembled. Finally
I reached the gate and pressed down on the handle: it
gave way. Dazed by happiness. I rested for several minutes
against the park fence, unable to contain my emotions. So,
she had returned!
My wandering gaze travelled along the rows of linden
trees, which, arranged on opposite sides of the pathway,
stretched in long lanes to the portal. Somewhere to the left,
behind mulberry and dogwood shrubs, appeared the skel-
eton of an autumnal vine-covered arbour; red leaves drifted
down a chaotic trellis containing already-withered ivies.
Flower-beds held the blossoms of autumn: chrysan-
themums and asters. Yellow chestnut and brick-red maple
leaves drizzled with quiet sadness on paths overgrown with
grass and weeds. Dahlias bled under a dried-up marble cis-
tern; large glass containers alternated rainbow colours….
In the midst of a privet, on a stone bench covered with a
carpet of conifer needles, two finches twittered a song of
flight. Deep within the alleys, in the darkening sunset light,
spiders spun out their silky, silver threads….
With both hands I pushed open the heavy front door,
and after ascending some winding stairs, I found myself
on the first floor. I was struck by the absence of life. The
mansion looked deserted; no one met me, nowhere was
there a sign of servants or any members of the household.
Scattered large electric lamps illuminated, with their blind-
ingly bright beams, empty halls and galleries.
In the antechamber, opened hospitably for my arrival,
unoccupied coat-racks presented a lonely sight. Their
smooth metallic knobs glittered
with the cold reflection of polished
copper. I removed my coat. At that
moment the sound of the city’s
clocks flowed in through a large,
open Gothic window: they tolled
the sixth hour…
I knocked on the door in front
of me. There was no response from
within. I became anxious. What
should I do? Enter without permis-
sion? Maybe, fatigued by travel, she
was fast asleep?
Suddenly the door opened,
and she stood on the threshold. Her
piercing, proud yet sweet eyes gazed
at me from under the regal diadem
of her chestnut hair. Her classical
head, worthy of Polykleitos’s chisel,
was crowned by an emerald-inlaid
tiara. A soft, snow-white robe,
flowing in harmonious waves to
sixteenth-century footwear, enveloped her statuesque fig-
ure. Juno stolata!
I bowed before her majesty. And she, withdrawing
inside, let me pass with a gesture of her hand into a palatial
apartment. It was a magnificent bedroom decorated exqui-
sitely in the fashions of former times.
In silence, she sat inside a deep niche on a giallo antico bed.
I knelt on the carpet by her feet, laying my head on
her knees. She embraced it in a warm, maternal movement
and started to tenderly comb my hair with her fingers. We
gazed into each other’s eyes, unable to sate ourselves with
what we saw. We were silent. Thus far not one word had
fallen between us – as if we feared scaring away with a reck-
less sound the angel of bewitchment that fettered and united
our souls.
Suddenly she leaned over and kissed me on the lips.
Blood pounded in my head, the world turned round drunk-
enly – and my passion unleashed itself. I grabbed her roughly
and, not sensing any resistance, threw her on the bed. With
a quick, elusive movement, she unclasped the amber fibula
on her shoulder, exposing before me her divine body. So I
possessed her in boundless suffering and longing, my senses
intoxicated and my heart enraptured, my soul frenzied and
my blood burning.
Hours passed with the speed of lightning, short as its
flashes and potent with happiness; racing moments few by
like the winds of the steppe – moments precious like rare
pearls. Wearied by pleasure, we drifted off to exquisite
dreams that were like the groves of paradise, like magical
fairy-tales – only to awaken to day-dreams even more won-
derful, more beautiful…
When I finally opened my heavy eyelids near six in the
morning and glanced around, fully conscious, Jadwiga was no
longer at my side.
I dressed quickly. After waiting for her in vain for an
entire hour, I returned home…
I feel giddy, there’s fire in my veins. I must have a fever
because my lips are swollen and
there’s a strange bitter taste in my
mouth. Walking about, I stagger and
stumble against the furniture…
I look at the world as if
through a mist or a delightful veil of
entrancement…

The following day, after my return
from the newspaper office, I found a
letter from Jadwiga on my desk, in
which she designated our next meet-
ing. It was to take place at her villa
and again on a Saturday evening.
The date seemed too distant for me:
I went to The Lindens on Tuesday
afternoon. But the gate was closed.
Irritated, I walked around the lit-
tle mansion a few times in the hope
of spotting her in one of the park
alleys. But the paths were empty – the autumn wind alone
was there, raising batches of withered leaves and mercilessly
driving them into lengthy, sad rows. Even though it soon
became completely dark, I did not glimpse any lights through
the windows. The house was silent and dead, as if there were
no one living in it. So it seems she spends her evenings in one
of the rooms with a northern exposure – that is, on the side
least accessible to passerby’s eye. Discouraged, I left.
Similar attempts on the following days met with the
same result, and so I had to submit to her wish and wait until
Saturday. Nevertheless it surprised me that during that entire
week I did not see her, even once, in town, not at the theatre,
nor on the tram. Apparently a dramatic change has occurred
in her life-style. Jadwiga Kalergis, once the daily object of
admiration by the city’s dandies and Don Juans, the queen of
parties, concerts and social events, now lives like a nun.
In truth, I am happy and proud because of this. I do
not possess the vain ambition of those who like to irritate
others with a glimpse of their own happiness. I do not
desire to flaunt her before the world. On the contrary – this
secrecy, this furtive element in our relationship, has an inex-
pressible charm. Odi profanum vulgus….

Finally Saturday arrived. Throughout the morning I paced
about aimlessly. My friends at the office laughed at me,
maintaining that most surely I was in love.
‘That Szamota is really crazy,’ muttered the theatre
reporter. ‘For some time he’s been completely mad. One
can’t speak to him.’
‘A skirt! Cherchez la femme!’ explained a very old
reporter. ‘Nothing else. Believe me.’
Punctually at six in the evening I entered her bedroom
through the half-open door. Jadwiga was not yet present.
On a splendidly laid-out table there was a cup of hot choco-
late; a pyramid of pastries rose beside the cup, and a green
liqueur glittered nearby.
I sat down facing the adjoining
room and reached for a trabuco cigar
from a chrysolite box. Suddenly my
glance fell on a piece of paper placed
between the cigars. I recognized her
handwriting; it was meant for me.
Dear! Excuse my lateness. I went
to town and will return in half-an-
hour. Till then!
I kissed the note and concealed
it near my bosom; then I drank
the fragrant chocolate. After my
first glass of liqueur, I felt some-
what drowsy. I lit up a new cigar,
mechanically fixing my eyes on the
wall opposite me, where a brilliant
Greek shield, with Medusa at its
centre, hung. The shield’s shimmer-
ing chest had something strangely
magnetic about it that arrested the eyes, fettered the will.
Soon my attention was completely focused on one
bright spot, on the snake-haired Gorgon’s blazing eye.
I couldn’t draw myself away from the hypnotic centre.
Gradually, I drifted into a peculiar state. My surround-
ings retreated to a never-ending distant background, to be
replaced by gorgeously rich colours, an exotic fairyland,
a tropical fata morgana…
Suddenly I felt a pair of warm, soft arms about my neck
and a sweet, lingering kiss on my lips. I roused myself from
my absorption. Next to me stood Jadwiga, smiling seduc-
tively. I took her by the waist, pressing her to my chest.
‘Forgive me,’ I explained, ‘I didn’t hear you come in.
That shield holds one’s attention most strangely.’
She responded with a silent smile of indulgence.
Today she was even more beautiful. Her statuesque
loveliness, framed in Greek attire, exuded marvellous
enchantment. Under wonderful brows looked out proud
black eyes, smouldering with the flame of desire. Oh, what a
Stefan Grabinski ‘Szamota's Mistress’ 151
joy to move those marble breasts with a wave of passion, to
chisel out of the face a haughty Juno her cool serenity!
Leaning her against my arm, I cast a hungry look at
her, sating for a long moment my thirsty eyes on the vast-
ness of her beauty.
‘Oh, how beautiful you are, my sweetheart, oh, how
beautiful! But where are your tresses, your violet-scented
tresses?’ I demanded passionately, attempting to push away
from her forehead the soft, immaculately white veil that cov-
ered her head tightly today. ‘I want to stroke your hair, just
like that first time – remember? I want to spread out that
ambrosial mantle over your shoulders, and kiss you forever.
You didn’t deny me on that first evening. Remove this wrap.’
She held back my hand gently, but firmly. On her lips
blossomed a mysterious smile, and she shook her head.
‘Not today? Why?’
Again silence and that same prohibitive head
movement.
‘Why are you silent? Do
you know that so far you haven’t
exchanged a word with me? Say some-
thing! I want to hear your voice – it
has to be sweet and resonant like the
sound of expensive crystal.’
Jadwiga said nothing. A
deep sadness had spread over her
entire face, chilling the entrancing
moment. Was she speechless?
So I stopped insisting, and
in silence I was already taking in
her divine body. Today she was
even more passionate than at our
last meeting. Every so often a lust-
ful spasm seized her – her eyes
misted over with swooning, her
face turned a deathly pale, her deli-
cate, silky skin twitched, her pearly
teeth grated painfully. Then, ter-
rified, I would let her go and try to
revive her. But all of his was just a
momentary occurrence; her paroxysm would pass quickly,
and a new wave of passion – young, impulsive, totally unre-
strained – would plunge us into the depths of frenzy….
We parted company late at night, at about one. Upon
our farewell, she pinned a small bouquet of violets to my
person. I raised her hand to my lips:
‘Again in a week?’
She nodded her head.
‘Let it be so. Good-bye, Carissima!’
I went out.
While putting on my coat in the antechamber, I
remembered the cigarette case I had placed on the console
table. I immediately returned to the room to retrieve it.
‘Excuse me,’ I began, turning to where I had left
Jadwiga a moment ago.
But the phrase died on my lips. Jadwiga was not in the
bedroom. Had she already gone to the adjoining room? Yet
this did not seem possible, for I had not heard the sound of a
door opening.
‘Hmm, peculiar,’ I muttered, putting away my ciga-
rette case, ‘most peculiar…’
And slowly, lost in thought, I went down the steps and
out onto the street.

My relationship with Jadwiga Kalergis has now gone on for
several months, still wrapped in complete secrecy before
the world. No one imagines that I am the lover of the most
beautiful girl in town. So far no one has seen us together
in public. I would even suppose that people know nothing
of her return. At least that’s the impression I’ve received
from chance conversations with my circle of acquaintances.
This is a little strange, but it seems Jadwiga had returned
stealthily, not desiring that it be known at all. Perhaps she
has some hidden reason, which she does not wish to reveal
to me. I do not press her on this matter and know how to
behave discreetly.
In general, my mistress is a
strange woman, and she likes to sur-
round herself in mystery. I still have
to get used to her whimsicality and
accommodate her eccentric hab-
its; I continually find in her behav-
iour something incomprehensible.
Though we have been with each
other for half a year, as yet I haven’t
heard her voice. In the first few weeks
I repeatedly insisted on a reason for
this. In answer came letters the day
after our meetings requesting that I
do not ask her about it, that I stop
unnecessarily tormenting her, and so
on. Finally I gave up. Maybe she had
suffered some injury and has really
lost the ability to speak? Now it’s an
embarrassment to her, and instead of
acknowledging her disability, maybe
she prefers to leave me in doubt as to
its cause?
We still see each other only once a week and always on
a Saturday – she doesn’t receive me on any other day. Here I
must mention the strange beginning of every such visit.
When I enter the bedroom, I do not always find her
there. Sometimes I have to wait a long time before she comes
out to greet me. And she always does this so unnoticeably,
so quietly, that I never know when and from where she
emerges. Usually she stops right behind me and kisses me
on the neck. Her kiss is delightful, sweet – but terrible as
well. Besides, I have a feeling that I am never in a completely
normal state at that moment. What type of state it is, I am
not able to say – maybe some light reverie or entrancement?
In any event, whenever Jadwiga keeps me waiting a
long time, I feel an overpowering urge to gaze at the Greek
shield. A thought comes to me, from where I do not know,
that the shield was placed there deliberately to draw atten-
tion to itself and fix one’s eyes on its brilliant circles. Who
knows whether it is or not, in fact, the cause of that strange
state into which I sometimes fall?
Later, after this prelude, everything proceeds along nor-
mally: we are eager for each other, we caress each other. But the
beginning is always as I have described it – a little strange….
One other circumstance doesn’t completely satisfy me
– actually something quite minor, yet unwelcome. Jadwiga
likes covering her head to excess with a type of Greek veil of
a dazzling white, close-knit fabric. I detest this veil! If she
would merely cover her hair and the back of her head – but,
besides this, she repeatedly covers her alabaster forehead,
she jealously hides a portion of her face, conceals her lips,
her eyes…
When I want to remove this milky veil, she seems to get
angry and escapes to the far corner of the room. What obsti-
nacy! But it is said that beautiful woman are like chimeras.
One has to know how to accommodate them. Yet sometimes
I cannot control myself. Irritated the last time by this rather
eastern custom, reminiscent of a masquerade, I grabbed her
as she tried to slip away. My move-
ment was rough and clumsy: I tore
her costly snow-white robe, of which
a large section remained in my hand.
I put it away for a memento and
always carry it with me.

The other day, on Saturday, I made a
strange observation. As usual when
I entered the villa in the evening I
did not find Jadwiga in the bedroom.
I avoided glancing at the Medusa on
the shield and went to the niche
separated from the rest of the room
by a long white curtain hanging
down from a brass rod. Suddenly I
noticed that the curtain bore signs
of being torn; near the middle was
a semi-circular gap, I mechani-
cally took the material in my hand
and began to pass it through my fingers. The fabric’s soft-
ness and silkiness were somehow familiar. Involuntarily I
reached into my pocket and took out the peplos fragment
I had concealed as a memento. I compared its shape to the
outline created by the torn-off portion of the curtain. A
strange thought occurred to me: they seemed identical. I
placed the section in my hand to the curtain’s torn edges.
Most interesting! The fragment filled the gap exactly! As if
it were not torn from the dress but from the curtain, or as
if the peplos and the curtain were one and the same.
Greeting Jadwiga a half hour later, I paid close atten-
tion to her dress. Any signs of it having been torn were
gone; the garment fell to her feet in immaculate folds,
untainted by the slightest flaw. She evidently noticed my
observation because she smiled half-playfully, half-mys-
teriously. I then raised the torn robe piece and led her to
the niche to show her what I had seen. A strange thing,
however! The curtain was not there! A funny thought sug-
gested itself: Had she ‘borrowed’ it for her robe?
Meanwhile, instead of the curtain, the arms of a
sheltered recess opened up invitingly before us. I glanced
at Jadwiga. She responded with a smile of bewitching
encouragement…

Not long ago I made an interesting discovery. Jadwiga has
birthmarks that are exactly identical to my own. A funny
coincidence! The more amusing in that these marks even
appear in the same places. A dark-red one, shaped like a
bunch of grapes and the size of a nut on the right shoulder-
blade, and the second one, a mole high up on the left groin.
The chance resemblance of these physical details intrigues
me, the more so as these marks do not have typical features
– on the contrary, they have a strongly individualized char-
acter. Peculiar, isn’t it?
I have noticed something else. Her skin, particularly
on the chest and shoulders, has a
dark tinge, as if from repeated sun
tanning. The same is true of me.
I acquired this epidermal feature
through many summers of sun-
bathing. Can one explain it in the
same way for her? I doubt it. As far
as I know she avoids the sun and
pulls down the blinds in her man-
sion to bar its rays. I, on the other
hand, like the sunlight immensely,
and allow it to pass through my
window as much as possible.

Jadwiga’s eccentricities definitely
exceed all limits. For several weeks
she has been receiving me in a half-
lit, sometimes dim room and forces
me to wait for hours. When she
finally emerges from some dark cor-
ner, she is completely wrapped in those loathsome veils, so
that at times she creates the impression of an apparition.
Last week she gazed at me from behind these coverings as
if through a narrow slit.
Yet at the same time, her passion has increased. That
woman is going mad! She has wound herself up in a vicious
sexual circle, and she rolls about licentiously, writhing
in lustful convulsions. There are moments when I can-
not keep up with her satanic pace, and I am left behind
dazed, exhausted, breathless. Damn! I hadn’t really known
Jadwiga Kalergis!
On the other hand, I have observed in her figure
something quite unique, something that one might define
as ‘elusiveness.’ Whether it’s due to those white coverings
in which she now carefully wraps herself, or whether it’s
a consequence of the inadequate lighting – at moments
her figure evades my sight. Interesting illusions and opti-
cal surprises arise from this. At times I see her doubly, at
other times as if strangely diminished – then again, as if
Stefan Grabinski ‘Szamota's Mistress’ 153
from a distance. Absolutely like a ‘dance of the seven veils’
or a cubist painting. Frequently she looks like a statue not
completely carved, in some enigmatic stage of formation – a
sort of half-finished project.
And that ‘elusiveness’ also crosses over into the tactile
sphere. Particularly as it concerns the upper portion of her
body. Several times I have ascertained with dismay that her
shoulders and chest, not long ago so compact and limber,
are now strangely limp. Under the pressure of my hand, her
dress recedes somewhere inside, and I am unable to feel the
former resilience of her body.
One night, intensely irritated by this and seized by an
overwhelming urge, I suddenly decided to prick her. I slowly
drew out an opal pin from my cravat and plunged it into her
naked leg. Blood squirted out, and a cry was heard – but
from my lips: at that moment I felt a sharp pain in my leg.
Jadwiga was looking with a peculiar smile at the blood drip-
ping from her wound in large ruby drops. Not a word of com-
plaint came from her lips.
Returning home late that
night, I had to change my clothing,
for it was stained in blood. To this
day I carry a mark on my leg from
that pin prick.

I will not go there anymore! After
what happened at The Lindens
on the last Saturday of August, a
month ago, life has lost its attrac-
tion for me. My hair has turned
white overnight. My acquaintances
cannot recognize me when they see
me on the street. Apparently I was
laid up senseless for a week, raving
as if in a fever. Today I went out for
the first time. I wobble like an old
man and support myself on a walk-
ing stick. A horrible end!…
It happened on August 28th, not quite a year since the
start of that ill-fated relationship.
That evening I was late. Some pressing review or liter-
ary article occupied me two extra hours: I arrived at eight.
The bedroom was dark. I stumbled against the furni-
ture a few times, and a little irritated by this, I said loudly:
‘Good evening, Jadwiga! Why haven’t you put on the
lights? One can break one’s neck in this darkness!’
I received no answer. Not the slightest movement
betrayed her presence. Nervously, I started to look for some
matches. Apparently my intention did not please her, for
suddenly I felt something cool brush my cheek, as if from a
hand, and I heard a soft, barely perceptible whisper:
‘Don’t put on the lights. Come to me, Jerzy! I am in
the niche.’
I shuddered, perturbed by an odd sensation. For the
first time since we had been together I heard her voice
– in truth, her whisper. Groping, I advanced toward the
bed. The whisper died and did not return. I did not see
her face, for the darkness was almost complete; only some
indistinct whiteness was visible. She must have been
already in her underclothing. I stretched out my hand
to clasp her and encountered her naked hips. A thrill ran
through my body, and my blood seethed. In a moment I
was already taking in the sweetness of her womanhood.
She was insane. The giddy scent of her body intoxicated
my senses and incited a craving to possess her completely.
The passionate rhythm of her divine hips inflamed my
blood and drove me wild. But I sought her lips without
success, I tried to enclose her in my arms to no avail. I
began to pass my trembling hands about the pillow, to
slide them along the length of her body. I met only wraps,
veils. She had, as it were, completely enclosed herself in
the fire of her sex, withdrawing everything except that.
Finally I lost all patience. Feelings of wounded pride, low-
ered dignity, rose in fervent opposition. I had to have her
lips at all costs. Why was she denying me them? Didn’t I
have a right to them?
Suddenly I remembered that
nearby on the wall was an elec-
tric switch. Kneeling on the bed,
I found the lever with my fingers
and flipped it up. The light gushed,
illuminating the room. I looked
down and, propelled by boundless
terror, jumped out of bed.
Before me, in a turmoil of
lace and satin, lay the bare, shame-
lessly spread-out body of a woman
– a body without breast, without
shoulders, without a head…
With a cry of dread, I rushed
out of the bedroom; leapt like a
madman down the stairs and found
myself in the street. In the quiet
night, I hurried along the bridge…
In the morning, I was found
unconscious on a garden bench.

Two months later, passing The Lindens by chance,
I noticed workmen in the park. Roses were being wrapped
in straw coverings for the winter. An elegantly dressed
man was emerging from an alley, speaking to someone.
Seized by an irresistible urge, I approached him,
tipping my hat:
‘Excuse me. Is this the house of Jadwiga Kalergis?’
‘At one time it was her’s,’ came the answer. ‘A week ago
her family took possession of their inheritance.’
I felt a strange tightness in my throat.
‘Inheritance?’ I asked, straining for an indifferent tone.
‘Why, yes. Jadwiga Kalergis has been dead for two
years. She was killed in a hiking accident in the Alps. Sir,
what’s wrong? You’ve turned pale.’
‘Nothing – nothing at all. Sorry to have bothered you.
Thank you for the information.’
Tottering, I went along the shore to the city…
Yuko Shimizu 157
Natalie Ratkovski 159
(Illusion is the first of all pleasures).
Oscar Wilde

Deanne Cheuk (opposite), Yuko Michishita (above) 161

Dan Hillier 163
Deanne Cheuk 165
 She had already allowed her delectable lover
to pluck that flower which, so different from the rose
to which it is nevertheless sometimes compared,
has not the same faculty of being reborn each spring.
Marquis de Sade
Daisy Fletcher 167
Kelly Thompson (opposite), Makiko Sugawa (above) 169
Daisy Fletcher 171
Deanne Cheuk (opposite), Soey Milk (above) 173
 I N T E RV I E W

Martine Johanna
'It stirs irrational emotions like intense longing and obsession,
which are extremely good for the creative process — it makes your work
infused with under-the-belly butterflies.'

You have illustrated an extract of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy from

Ulysses by James Joyce. What was your initial response to the
words? I adore the total surrender and seduction of it... the
last sentence of the book is so appealing, because it leaves
so much room for interpretation, as you unravel the ‘whats’
and ‘whys’ of the ordinary life of two ordinary people.
The words stir emotions of wanting and lust. The
‘as well him, as another’ is to me a fracture in that
emotion, it seems too careless and unconvincing. So when
I started drawing I intentionally erased those words in
my mind. Molly /Penelope in the novel has a big libido,
but remains untouched by her husband after losing their
firstborn. She’s creative, not a linear thinker, and therefore
is not taken seriously. I’m happy that nowadays that’s less
the case than in the 1920s.
Which images from the text appeal most to you? Most
of all, the references to the Moorish wall, flower of the
mountain and the seed cake. It’s a very visually gripping
way of portraying a fresh, young seductive love. You start
to long for late spring and falling in love without the cares
and considerations of daily life. It’s something that appeals
immensely to the imagination. There are those affairs
or the beginning of romances that completely leave you
breathless, it stirs irrational emotions like intense longing
and obsession, which are extremely good for the creative
process — it makes your work infused with under-the-
belly butterflies.
What do you think your illustrations add to the reader’s
experience that they would not get from the text alone?
It’s not up to me to decide what someone takes from
my drawings — I truly like it when each individual
'
Women are a fantasy, seductive, sensual,
mystic, curved, erratic and erotic. I love men,
but I don’t get how their brains work, which
makes them very appealing and appalling
at the same time.'
viewer has a different point-of-view. What I’ve done is
work through and enlarge a fraction of an emotion or
emotional dispute within the soul of a woman that deals
with temptation. Dark and light, pain and happiness are
part of us, and makes us human and being at peace with
those contradictions makes you a stronger person. In one
drawing you can see the duality — passion versus virtue,
chastity versus nature, longing versus loneliness. The
skull stands for the reason that she is unloved — the death
of a child — but also for the lack of physical love she is
given, and not being able to fulfill her bloomed femininity.
Sensuality, fantasy and the erotic seem to play an important
role in your work — why do these themes appeal to you?
Sexuality is, first and foremost, the most natural thing in
the world. It’s raw, passionate, pure and, when straight
from the heart, a wondrous experience. My mind is over-
imaginative, even as a child I played out all kinds of stories
and intrigues in my head. I’ve also experienced the darker
side of lust when I was young — I think that side is also
still in my work. It’s that duality that brings a certain kind
of tension in art. The dark and light as I mentioned before,
are part of one story, like all things in life.
You work in a range of media, could you say what is
particular about drawing in relation to exploring fantasy and
sensuality? It’s like a story unfolding on paper, slowly
but surely. I can get truly obsessed with a drawing until
the very last pencil stroke. The best thing is creating
something entirely new, something that did not exist
before, only in my mind. I feel truly connected with
my ‘girls’, they are part of me — seductress, innocent,
passionate lover, sorceress — all parts of one otherworldly
personality, with the other world being my mind.
Is it possible to consider drawing as an erotic act? I do
‘get off ’ on a really well-made and gripping piece. But the
process is too hypnotic and introverted to be exactly erotic.
I go on for hours until my hand cramps up. When I paint,
however, I’m much more ‘turned on’ and active. It makes the
blood pump, I feel more of a rush and sexy when painting.
How much do you draw from life and how much
from imagination? Almost all my drawing is from my
imagination, although sometimes I do need anatomical
references. I either use myself or a friend as a model, or
browse through photographs until I find a nice angle of
a hand or foot. You can’t do without references. When I
started out I used none, but at a certain points it showed.
It’s just like any other craft — research and practice makes
for better work.
The female form is central to your work, what attracts you
to this subject? As far back as I can remember I’ve always
been very conscious of my femininity. Even as a child, I
was the girl that stole my mother’s high-heeled shoes and
make-up. At the same time I had some tomboy in me too,
climbing trees and playing Star Trek or dinosaurs with
my brother. On the other hand, I had a huge curiosity
towards the physical — my niece and I let our Barbie dolls
have ‘sex’ with a male action figure. I drew pubic hair and
nipples on my Barbie with a pen. In short, I am a woman,
full-on. Women are a fantasy, seductive, sensual, mystic,
curved, erratic and erotic. I love men, but I don’t get how
their brains work, which makes them very appealing and
appalling at the same time. I only draw a few men, and
only when I’m really intrigued.
Martine Johanna 179
'
The biggest influences on my work, however,
are probably sex, love, nature and music.'
What other symbols and images do you return to in your
work and why? Sometimes shapes just fall into place,
sometimes by coincidence, sometimes intentionally.
I have used a circle divided into four parts, in some
works to stand for life, the seasons and the eternal and
ongoing circle of life. It’s inspired by an embossing stamp
I have, with the text ‘omnia in aeternum’, which means
‘everything forever’, so, not ending with an afterlife,
but on-going, as energy into energy. Snakes also appear
often, as a symbol of temptation, obsession and
the male opponent.
Is there is difference in the way you approach the depiction
of men and women in your work? There rarely are men in my
work. If there are, they mostly stay anonymous. If they’re
not anonymous they are often portraits of men I know
personally and find intriguing or remarkable. I’ll make
some of them blush by writing this. How I depict them is
far less sexual than with my females. I choose to leave out
men entirely in these illustrations, and leave it more open
for the viewer to put themselves in the equation.
What makes a good visual story-teller? Just lots of
imagination and unique skills. I love so many different
kinds of styles and types of art that I couldn’t single out
any specific ones. I’m not a big fan of digital art, standard
comic-style or manga-inspired art, because it doesn’t
touch my heart as much as the hand-made does.
What cultural references inspire your work, from the worlds
of art, fashion, literature, film, music, etc? My first obsessions
were music, high fashion, folk culture, ethnic clothing and
couture throughout the years. I studied art and fashion at
the academy and was a fashion designer before I became an
illustrator. I still love fashion — I have a vintage collection
with special statement pieces. The biggest influences on
my work however, are probably sex, love, nature and music
(at least, music is a huge catalyst for making work). At
the moment I listen to Peaking Lights, High Wolf, Zola
Jesus, Austra, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Connan Mockasin,
Jack Colwell & the Owls, Glasser, Bob Dylan, Tallest Man
on Earth, Blaudzun and Half Way Station. I watch a lot of
movies while drawing, mostly horror movies with haunted
houses and other supernatural topics. I could go on for
hours about movies, I watch three to ten a week,
while working.
I’m reading several books between working, including
The Modern Utopian by Richard Fairfield and The New Black
by Darian Leader. The latter is about how we deal with
death, loss and mourning in this day and age when there
is no time and understanding for the mourning process.
We turn to alternative, quick placebos in the form of
medication, which in its turn does not have the same
healing effect as enduring the natural process. Creativity
comes from suffering pain more than happiness.
Some of the contemporary artists I admire are Nigel
Peake, Louis Reith, Guillaume Soulages, Vania Zouravliov,
Jenny Morgan, Sam Weber, Leif Podhajsky and Ellen Rogers.
Do you have a muse? One of my muses of the moment
is a friend of mine, her name is Iris. She’s beautiful,
open, creative, vulnerable, a bit self-destructive and has
something almost childlike and boundless in her actions.
It makes me want to save her from all evil in the world.
She’s the subject of a few new paintings for an exhibition
coming up. 
Martine Johanna 181
U LYS S E S
[ E X T R AC T ]

James Joyce

Illustrated by
Martine Johanna
… I love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming
in roses God of heaven theres nothing like nature the
wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then
the beautiful country with fields of oats and wheat and
all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that
would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers
all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even
out of the ditches primroses and violets nature it is as for
them saying theres no God I wouldnt give a snap of my two
fingers for all their learning why dont they go and create
something I often asked him atheists or whatever they
call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves
first then they go howling for the priest and they dying
and why why because theyre afraid of hell on account of
their bad conscience ah yes I know them well who was the
first person in the universe before there was anybody that
made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so
there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from
rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we
were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in
the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to
propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out
of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago
my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he
said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all
a womans body yes that was the one true thing he said in
his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I
liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman
is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him
all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to
say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the
sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt
know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father

James Joyce Ulysses 185

and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly
and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the
pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with
the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted
and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall
combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the
jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all
the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market
all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys
slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks
asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the
carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old
yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like
kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and
Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a
lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops
half open at night and the castanets and the night we
missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about
serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent
O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the
glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens
yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and
yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and
geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was
a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair
like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and
how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought
well as well him as another and then I asked him with my
eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to
say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around
him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my
breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad
and yes I said yes I will Yes.
James Joyce Ulysses 187
Soey Milk (opposite), Martine Johanna (above) 191
I can barely conceive
OF A TYPE OF

Beauty
IN WHICH THERE IS NO

Melancholy
Charles Baudelaire
Soey Milk 193
Tran Nguyen 195
Conrad Roset 197
 The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love
lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women
know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.
Charles Baudelaire
Ëlodie Nadreau 199
Fin de Siècle

Tim Hon Hung Lee (opposite), Cho Kyuhyung (above) 201

Yukari Terakado 203
Megan Pearce 205
Yukari Terakado 207
 BIOGRAPHIES
Pages 132–33
Jesse Auersalo
Jesse Auersalo is an illustrator, visual
artist and founding member of
Project 999 design studio. His images
are often dark and intimidating
but the attention to detail and
meticulous rendering contrast to
create strong iconic imagery that
can shock and fascinate in equal
measure. Jesse compares his work
to cooking a sweet and sour dish or
discovering salt liquorice in a bag full
of marshmallows. It’s the dynamic
that gives the bitter or sweet its
potency. He’s fascinated by redefining
the mundane and finds continual
inspiration in the disposable things
he surrounds himself with.
Commercially, he has collaborated
with Colette, Sony Music, Microsoft,
Converse, 3M, Nokia and Playboy
and has exhibited in museums and
galleries in New York, London, Paris,
Shanghai, Berlin and Tokyo.
From the series Mind Fuck, 2008
Digital media
21 x 29.7 cm
been exhibited around the world,
most recently in Los Angeles,
New York and Oslo.
From the series Mind Fuck, 2008
Digital media
21 x 29.7 cm
Pages 4, 48–49, 160, 172 Untitled, 2006
Watercolour and mixed media
Deanne Cheuk 16 x 21 cm
Deanne Cheuk is a New York-based
art director, illustrator and artist
from Perth, Western Australia. She
got her first job as a magazine art
director at the age of 19 — the year
she graduated in graphic design
from Curtin University. Since then,
Cheuk has art directed or designed
numerous publications, including The View Up Here 01, 2010
Tokion magazine. Her art direction is Charcoal on paper
heavily influenced by her illustrative 55.88 x 76.2 cm
work and she is renowned for her
illustrative typography. She has been
commissioned by top international
companies, including American
Express, Dell, Lane Crawford, Levi’s,
Microsoft, Nickelodeon, Nokia,
Nike, Converse, Olay, Sprint, Swatch,
Target, MTV, Gap, Real Simple, The
Guardian, T Magazine and The New
York Times Magazine. She has worked The View Up Here 02, 2010
with David Carson, Doug Aitken and Charcoal on paper
Conan O’Brien. Cheuk’s artwork has 55.88 x 76.2 cm
 Regular pictograph font was created
with the idea that nature has its own
language. The body of text becomes
an image of a garden with characters
that are able to tell different stories
according to their placement.
www.kyuhyungcho.com

Untitled (Falls), 2010 Bird World, 2007

Charcoal on paper Graphite and coloured pencils
60.96 x 45.72 cm 29.7 x 42 cm

Fin de Siècle in Garden Regular Font, 2012

Paper
35 x 26 cm

Unititled, 2007 Pages 50–51, 166–167, 170–171 Insect Birds, 2007

Photocollage Pencils, pen and ink
76.2 x 60.96 cm Daisy Fletcher 29.7 x 42 cm

Daisy studied Illustration at the

at the Royal College of Art. She enjoys
attracts and her projects have included
Red Cap Girl Series Part 02, 2005
Oil on canvas
38.1 x 38.1 cm
Page 201
Cho Kyuhyung
influenced by a text or narrative) then
Cho Kyuhyung is a storyteller who
uses typefaces and illustration to
weave his story. He completed his
MFA at Konstfack in Sweden in 2011
and is now based in Stockholm and
Seoul, working on both commercial
and personal projects. He is interested
in creating a process or an open source
rather than the result. He tries to
involve an unwitting collaborator
in this process to make something
unpredictable happen because he
believes the unexpected and mistakes
are part of life and more natural than a
perfect result. Recently he has created
his own pictograph fonts, which are
less readable than normal fonts but
have a fresh aesthetic and can be used
in many different ways. The Garden
University of Brighton and then an
MA in Communication Art & Design
the eclectic mix of clients her work
designs for a book cover for Penguin,
creating packaging for iced tea that is
distributed across China, a Visa card Flower 2 (We, Cruel Girls series), 2002
design in Finland, CD cover designs Graphite and coloured pencils
for Sony Japan and creating a drawing 59.4 x 84.1cm
for Christian Dior to celebrate the
work of René Gruau in an exhibition
at Somerset House. She loves
observational drawing (sometimes
playing with scale and composition
to create slightly unusual worlds –
celebrating quirky girls, birds,
flowers, sequins, feathers and
all things feminine. Pony and Boy, 2007
Pencils, pen and ink
29.7 x 42 cm
Lots of Legs, 2007 Red Legs, 2010
Graphite and coloured pencils Pencils, pen and ink
29.7 x 42 cm 29.7 x 42 cm
 Page 131

Jasper Goodall
Jasper Goodall is an artist, illustrator
and educator. His career began
in the early 1990s when his work
helped shape and influence the huge
resurgence and re-evaluation of Landscape, 2008 Untitled (263), 2012
illustration, the effects of which Mixed media on scratch board Ink on paper
continue to the present day. Goodall’s 50 x 60 cm 24 x 30 cm
work primarily deals with desire and
sexuality, often employing symbolism
as a narrative device to lead the
viewer into evocative imagined
worlds of fantasy, mysticism and
magic. Although a much imitated,
pioneering exponent of new image-
making technology, his emphasis on
strong traditional drawing skills and
constantly evolving creative vision, Untitled 1, 2009 Untitled (259), 2012
have meant his output has remained Pastel and ink on paper Ink on paper
diverse, varied and darkly seductive. 40 x 50 cm 24 x 30 cm

Pages 92–95, 163

Unfinished Vampires, 2007
Pencil and Photoshop
Pages 82, 84–85, 88–89, 128–29
Amelie Hegardt
Amelie Hegardt’s work is a balance
between explicit emotion and
style. She works with a variety of
clients such as Vogue Japan, Mac
Cosmetics, Sephora and Harrods. Her
primary interest is in how subjects
confront, and are confronted by,
their surroundings, and her work
simultaneously invokes feelings of
intimacy and suspicion. Shapes,
which at first seem appealing, then
appear to dissolve or somehow eerily
fragment. They are analogous to the
physical nature of her work – shapes
bleed into the paper, plastic is crudely
attached onto sketches. Amelie is
originally from Sweden, and today
based in London and Stockholm.
Dan Hillier
Dan was born in 1973 in Oxford and
studied Illustration and Graphic
Arts at Anglia Ruskin University in
Cambridge. Since 2006 he has been
Untitled 3, 2009 selling his own work in self-promoted
Pastel and ink on paper shows and via his own website,
40 x 50 cm as well as through solo and group
shows in various galleries and spaces
such as Saatchi Gallery, MuTate
Britain, Victor Wynd Fine Arts,
Glastonbury Festival, the Institute of
Contemporary Arts, London, and
Les Musée des Arts Décoratifs,
Paris. Dan lives and works in Stoke
Newington, London.
Untitled (Principle), 2012
Collage on paper
38 x 48 cm
Untitled (Strings), 2012 Woodsman, 2011
Collage on paper Screen print
38 x 48 cm 75 x 55 cm

211

Lyra, 2011
Screen print
75 x 55 cm
Forest, 2010
Screen print
75 x 55 cm
Unmasked, 2009
Screen print
75 x 55 cm
Pages 57, 86, 200
Tim Hon HungLee
Of Chinese descent, Tim Hon
Hung Lee draws in his work on the
stories and memories of his family
and ancestors, establishing a visual
harmony between his Eastern heritage
and Western upbringing. Executed
in Chinese ink on rice paper, Lee’s
drawings combine the philosophies,
techniques and media from these
two spheres of influence. The
compositions and rhythms of classical
Asian art are realized with a Western
perspective and realist depiction
of subjects. Lee explains, ‘my work
operates as a series of projected
nostalgias and exaggerated narratives
that create a vivid sense
of the past – a historical tale
or a lyrical dream’.
her work is built up from a mixture
of materials – water-based paint,
graphite, ink on wood or canvas,
sometimes just a paper and pencil
is enough.
Sophie’s Soul, 2011
Ink on rice paper
50 x 50 cm
Wanderlust, 2009
Graphite on paper
20 x 40 cm
How Heaven Seems Too Small For
You Nanjing, 2010, Ink and charcoal on
rice paper, 60 x 56 cm
Grow #2, 2009
Graphite on paper
20 x 30 cm
The Eternal Miseries of Love, 2011
Ink on rice paper
45 x 45 cm
Pages 177–80, 183–88, 191 Jack Colwell (portrait), 2011
Graphite drawing and paper collage
Martine Johanna 30 x 30 cm
Artist Martine Johanna was born
and raised in the green heart of the
Netherlands, and now lives and works
in Amsterdam. From a young age,
music, high fashion, folk culture,
nature, odd movies and storytelling
have been major influences in her
life. At the age of 19 she enrolled to
study art and fashion at the ArtEZ Natasha Khan (Bat for Lashes), 2010
Institute of the Arts, Arnhem. After Graphite and metal bells on paper
graduation, she gained a masters 160 x 130 cm
degree and then became a fashion
designer. In 2008 she changed
direction entirely, moving towards
painting and drawing – sometimes on
the streets but mostly just wherever
possible. In her prints and paintings
she tries to use biodegradable
materials whenever possible. Most of
 Viktor & Rolf, 2012
Graphite and digital colouring on
paper, 25 x 35 cm
drawn and vectorized images contain
Black Heart, 2011
Graphite and coloured pencil on paper
35 x 30 cm
Vannie, 2009
Graphite on paper
20 x 30 cm
Forest, 2011
Graphite on paper
30 x 30 cm
Pages 101–4, 107–14, 117
Jules Julien
A squirrel gun. A spider-like hair
surrounding a face with cubist
proportions. Whether subtle or
grotesque, the shift operated in the
work of Jules Julien questions the
reality of the world that surrounds
it, thus making the concept of
truth solid from the general to the
individual. By both associating
with familiar figures and objects
and subverting them, he presents
a universe where the symbol is
married to the story and where
strangeness hides behind a palette
of exaggeratedly vivid colours. The
smooth appearance of his sharply
much more complex layers
of meaning than is first apparent.
His is an underground world where
the superheroes would be called
Eros and Thanatos and where
tensions give birth to dreams as
tempting as they are poisonous.
Cadavres Exquis, 2009
Digital pigment print on paper
100 x 150 cm
Cadavres Exquis, 2009
Digital pigment print on paper
100 x 150 cm
Cadavres Exquis, 2009
Digital pigment print on paper
100 x 150 cm
Cadavres Exquis, 2009
Digital pigment print on paper
100 x 150 cm
CD cover, 2012
Digital drawing
Various dimensions
CD cover, 2012
Digital drawing
Various dimensions
Plaisir, 2010
Digital drawing, editorial illustration
Various dimensions
Release, 2009
Silkscreen
60 x 80 cm
Pages 139–45, 147–54
Andrzej Klimowski
Andrzej is a graphic artist and a
designer of theatre, opera and film
posters. He is also an international
illustrator of book covers and press
and magazine illustrations and
an author of graphic novels. His
research interests are in narrative
213
 and investigating new relationships
between text and image. From 1968 to
1972 Andrzej studied sculpture and
painting at St Martins School of Art
and from 1973 to 1980 he lived and
worked in Warsaw, where he studied
poster design and film animation
at the Warsaw Academy of Fine
Arts. He has designed many posters
for cultural institutions in Poland
and collaborated with leading book
publishers. On returning to the UK,
he worked freelance for Faber & Faber,
Penguin Books and The Guardian and is
Professor of Illustration in the Visual
Communications Programme at the
RCA. His many international prizes,
include: The Hollywood Reporter Key
Art Awards for best film posters (Los
Angeles 1977 and 1978), DA&D Silver
Award for a Royal Mail Millennium
stamp (London 1999), V&A
illustration Award for the graphic
novel Horace Dorlan (2nd prize 2008).
Angela (from Horace Dorlan), 2006
Linocut
29.8 x 20.1 cm
Untitled (Lubock 8, Leipzig), 2009
Linocut
29.5 x 21 cm
Untitled (Lubock 8, Leipzig), 2009
Linocut
29.5 x 21 cm
Dancers (Lubock 8, Leipzig), 2009 Wideshut, 2003
Linocut Collage
29.5 x 21 cm 24.4 x 37.3 cm
Pages 60–61, 90–91, 116
Izzie Klingels
Izzie studied Fine Art at Chelsea
School of Art in London. She has
worked commercially as an illustrator
since 2001, for clients including Vogue,
Book of Laughter and Forgetting, 1983 Topshop, Volvo, Absolut, Random
Collage House and Italian Marie Claire. She
30 x 25.7 cm has recently begun to focus equally on
non-commercial projects, exhibiting in
Los Angeles, London and Seattle. Her
work often explores representations
of gender, appropriating ‘feminine’
attributes such as sparkle, shimmer
and delicacy. She currently lives and
works in Seattle, where she finds
inspiration in the damp lushness of
the city and the dark mystery of the
Niche, 1981 old-growth forests and mountains
Collage that surround it.
32 x 28 cm www.izzieklingels.com
Spring Awakening, 2008 The Wind Tells the Tale of Valdemar Daee
Collage and His Daughters, 2005
32 x 28 cm Ink, paper, 59.4 x 42 cm
The Secret, 2001 Suburban Bliss, 2008
Ink on paper Ink, paper
24 x 32.8 cm 29.7 x 21 cm

Portrait of Wendy Bevan with Snake,
2010, Ink, paper
16.8 x 15.7 cm
Hey Ladies, 2003
Ink, paper
29.7 x 21 cm
Cells, 2012
Ink, paper
41.9 x 29.7 cm
Pages 20–22, 25–38, 42–44
Laura Laine
Laura Laine is an artist and
illustrator. Her beautiful hand-drawn
characters live in a dreamy borderline
world of fashion, illustration and art.
It is the vulnerability and the ability
to capture fluid movement in her
work, characterized by its precision
and vision, that makes it so special.
Laura works independently but also
collaborates with photographers,
stylists and art directors.
Jolly Roger, 2010 Iben Høj, 2008
Pencil on paper Pencil on paper
42 x 29.7 cm 42 x 29.7 cm
Masquerade, 2009 Horoscopes, 2008
Pencil on paper Pencil on paper
42 x 29.7 cm 59.4 x 42 cm
Wunder 2, 2009
Pencil on paper
42 x 29.7 cm
Personal work, 2007
Pencil on paper
42 x 29.7 cm
Pages 45, 161
Personal work, 2009
Yuko Michishita
Pencil on paper Yuko Michishita is a Japanese
42 x 29.7 cm illustrator currently based in
Melbourne. She completed a BA
in Illustration at the University
of Brighton and started her career
as an illustrator in 2009. Her
inspiration comes from organic
forms, historical scientific diagrams
and the playfulness of Modernist
typography. Ernst Haeckel’s work is
a major influence, as is the detailed
Burlesque, 2010 photography of Karl Blossfeldt.
Pencil and markers on paper Both artists focus on the intricate
42 x 29.7 cm nature of real and unreal life-forms,
and continue to be a great inspiration.
Most of Yuko’s illustrations are
originally drawn with pencil on
paper – a traditional form of image
making that she cherishes dearly.
She markets her work through the
online shop Pilcrow & Co.
www.pilcrowandco.com
215

Le Cadavre Exquis (Exquisite Corpse),
2010, Pencil on paper,
42 x 59.4 cm
Illusion Is The First of All Pleasures, 2012
Pencil on paper
29.7 x 42 cm
Pages 124–25, 173, 190, 193
Soey Milk
Soey Milk is a Seoul-born artist
based in Los Angeles. She depicts
lone women in a romantic style,
showing them together with symbols
of pleasure and agony. Her heroines
embrace tiny skulls and polished
fruits. Soey presents the viewer with
highly detailed portraits that beg
for interpretation and comment.
They are often enriched with
a subtle oddity or darkness, her
delicate works tell stories of tender
and sensitive shared encounters.
She is in love with lily specialists.
Apple Tree, 2012
Pen on paper
19 x 26.7 cm
Dressup, 2010
Pen on paper
12.7 x 17.8 cm
Velouette and Julian, 2009
Graphite on paper
20.3 x 25.4 cm
Forest Noir, 2009
Graphite on paper
12.7 x 20.3 cm
Chach’s Angel, 2012
Oil on wood
22.9 x 30.5 cm
Pages 198–99
Ëlodie Nadreau
Working as a freelance illustrator
since 2010, Ëlodie has developed her
own realistic and poetic style.
Although she prefers using traditional
techniques, she enjoys experimenting
with new ones regularly to try
and inject more soul into her
illustrations. Ëlodie is fascinated
by fashion and is also inspired
by the nostalgic universe of
her childhood.
Agape, 2010
Inks, paper and digital media
90 x 60 cm
Pages 52–53, 194–95
Tran Nguyen
Tran Nguyen is a Georgia-based
artist. Born in Vietnam and raised
in the US, she received a BFA in
Illustration from Savannah College
of Art and Design. Having a deep
interest in therapeutic imagery, her
work frequently depicts milieux of
adversity and universal emotions
of everyday living. She is fascinated
by creating visuals that can be used
as a psycho-therapeutic support
vehicle, treading the mind’s surreal
dreamscape. Tran has exhibited with
galleries in New York, Los Angeles,
Miami, London and Barcelona.
Treading Through an Untrimmed
Memory, 2011
Acrylic and colour pencil, 53 x 44 cm
Drawing in a Sea of Uncertainties, 2010
Acrylic and colour pencil
30.5 x 30.5 cm

As I Lay There, Dying, 2009
Acrylic and colour pencil
20.32 x 25.4 cm
When You Leave Behind a Fragmented
Memory, 2010, Acrylic and coloured
pencil on paper 30.48 x 40.64 cm
How Cloudy Is an Overcast Psyche, 2010
Acrylic and graphite
20.32 x 25.4 cm
Pages 204–5
Megan Pearce
Megan is a freelance illustrator
currently living and working in
Brighton. She studied Illustration at
the University of Brighton and
during this time was involved with
projects such as a large collaborative
mural near the Brighton seafront.
Her work is now predominantly
detailed ink drawing and has strong
themes of religion and erotica.
She enjoys producing anything
ornate – from hand-drawn pieces to
digital print design and her thorough
research methods lead to illustrations
containing subtle symbolism and
historical references. She was recently
featured as the editor’s choice in
Temp magazine, has exhibited
in group exhibitions in Brighton
and London and was involved
with a project that showed
in Lisbon in 2012.
Freya, 2010
Fine liners, ink washes
59.4 x 42 cm
Great Gods Cannot Ride Little Horses, 2011
Fineliners, digital media
82 x 75 cm
Pages 158–59
Natalie Ratkovski
Natalie Ratkovski was born in
1977 in the Caucasus Mountains
region of Russia to a German family
and studied at Taganrog Technical
University in Russia. After studying
at the university, she emigrated
with her family to Germany. She found
the experience difficult and as
a result decided to begin a new life
by realising a childhood dream –
studying at the prestigious University
of Applied Sciences and Arts in
Dortmund, Germany to become
an illustrator and a graphic
designer. She now pursues her
passion for illustration and
works freelance for
well-known magazines.
Untitled, 2005
Ink liner, pencil and pastels on paper
24 x 34 cm
Untitled, 2005
Ink liner, pencil and pastels on paper
24 x 34 cm
Pages 54–55, 196–97
Conrad Roset
Conrad Roset is a freelance
illustrator from Barcelona, Spain.
He currently works on a range of
projects for advertisement agencies,
design studios, magazines, fashion
brands and editorials. Some of
Conrad’s most important clients
include: Adidas, Coca-Cola, Custo,
FC Barcelona, Mango, Bwin, Skoda
and Zara. He also works as a professor
at BAU School of Design in Barcelona.
On a more personal level he has
exhibited in various cities around
the world, including London,
Oporto, San Francisco, Madrid and
Barcelona. Norma Editorial
is currently preparing a book
about his work.
Muse 402, 2012
Anilines and Chinese ink on paper
30 x 30 cm
217
 Blanco, 2010 She has recently moved to Tokyo.
Acrylic on paper The main theme of her work is
50 x 50 cm woman’s reality and it expresses the
sexuality of a woman seen from the
perspective of that woman. Her work
appears in advertising, magazines and
book illustration. Collections of her
work were published in 2006
P Trees, 2002 and 2008, and a new book in 2012.
Ink and digital media She also had a solo show in Rome
Personal work and Tokyo that year.

Muse 468, 2012

Chinese ink on paper
70 x 70 cm

Tsunami, 2005 Lotus, 2008

Ink and digital media Pen drawing
client: Playboy 21 x 29.7 cm

Muse 470, 2012

Chinese ink on paper
70 x 70 cm

Pages 134–35, 156–57

Yuko Shimizu
Yuko Shimizu is an illustrator and Flogfolio, 2007 Paper Doll, 2007
instructor at the School of Visual Ink and digital media Pen drawing
Arts, New York. Yuko chose art as client: Dellas Graphics 21 x 29.7 cm
her second career. After receiving a
diploma from the School of Commerce
at Waseda University, Tokyo and
working in a corporate PR job in
Japan for 11 years, she had an early
mid-life crisis and moved to New
York to enrol at the School of Visual
Arts. Drawing had been her passion
since childhood. She received a MFA
in Illustration in 2003 and has been Chasers, 2008 Magic, 2009
illustrating ever since. Clients include: Ink and digital media Pen drawing
TIME, The New York Times, Microsoft, client: PLANSPONSOR 21 x 29.7 cm
Gap, Pepsi, VISA and MTV; awards
include: Yellow Pencil from D&AD, Pages 122–23, 169
gold and silver medals from Society
of Illustrators, silver medal from
Association of Illustrators, Art
Makiko Sugawa
Directors Club and American Makiko Sugawa grew up in
Illustration. In 2009 Yuko was chosen Wakayama, Japan and graduated
as one of Newsweek Japan’s ‘100 from Kyoto University of Art and
Japanese People the World Respects’. Design. She worked for a design office
Her first monograph was published for ten years in Osaka.The inspiration Catwomen and Girl, 2009
in 2011 by Gestalten. PS: this Yuko for a lot of her work came to her Mixed media
Shimizu did NOT design Hello Kitty. while working in this design office. 21 x 29.7 cm
 Pages 118, 202–203, 206–207

Yukari Terakado
Yukari Terakado is a graphic
designer and illustrator based in
Tokyo, Japan. Her world of drawn
lines transmits a sense of transparency.
Education, 2008 Lace Queen, 2006 Most of her models are adolescent
Pen drawing Pen drawing girls because she is drawn to the
21 x 29.7 cm 25.7 x 36.4 cm sensibility and the dangerousness
of teenager girls. She creates
artworks for CD covers and
magazines, basing them on fashion
graphics. She is very fond of music,
and often takes inspiration from lyrics
too. Her clients include: Sony Japan,
T-shirts Store (Sweden), Ribbed
Magazine and Computer
Arts Projects (UK), Vogue
Secret Talk, 2011 Party, 2005 Girl (Korea).
Pen drawing Pen drawing
29.7 x 42 cm 25 x 29.7 cm

Get Dress, 2005 Mouse Look, 2011 Doll Collection 1, 2010

Pen drawing Pen drawing Paper, pen
25.7 x 36.4 cm 25.7 x 36.4 cm 36.4 x 51.5 cm

Rabitto Girl, 2011 Melting, 2006 Girl – 14, 2009

Pen drawing Pen drawing Paper, pen
25.7 x 36.4 cm 21 x 29.7 cm 29.7 x 42 cm

Mushroom, 2010 Humpty Dumpty, 2008 Girl – 24, 2012

Pen drawing Pen drawing Paper, pen
25.7 x 36.4 cm 25.7 x 36.4 cm 29.7 x 42 cm

219
 Lady Bird 2, 2012
Pastel and pencil on paper
56 x 76 cm

The Doll That Doesn’t Sleep, 2010 Bright Eyes, 2010

Paper, pen Coloured pencil on recycled card,
36.4 x 51.5 cm digital media, 76 x 59 cm

Pages 46–47, 120–21 Bunnylover 2

Pastel and pencil on paper
Miss Van 70 x 50 cm

Miss Van was born in Toulouse,

France and has been drawing
characters and animals since she
was young. Her images of dolls were
Girl – 30, 2012 initially self-portraits but affirming
Paper, pen her own identity became less
29.7 x 42 cm important as her work progressed,
the sense of transgression is still core:
Page 168 ‘My dolls convey a provocative image, Bailarinas
sometimes a bit erotic. I want them Pastel and pencil on paper
Kelly Thompson to disturb and provoke fantasies. I
want them to make the viewer react,
70 x 50 cm

Kelly Thompson may be from New no matter the reaction. I would like
Zealand but for the last few years them to make people forget their daily
numerous international magazines lives’. These characters have become
and blogs have claimed her as their icons in their own right. In her move
own. Her distinctive, seductive from acrylics to drawings on paper
illustrations and penchant for she tries to ‘keep the movement,
beautiful girls have caught the eye the lightness of the lines, the
of the art and fashion community spontaneity’. Miss Van has had solo
and launched her career. shows in Barcelona, London, Paris, Wild at Heart 18
Internationally, she is one of Mexico City, Shanghai and across the Charcoal and pastel on paper
New Zealand’s most popular and US. She now lives and works in Spain. 75 x 56 cm
recognised illustrators. Kelly is now
based in Melbourne; after working
for over a year as a producer and
account manager at The Jacky Winter
Group she is now freelance and
focused on her personal work and
client commissions. Her personal
work is often inspired by models she
has photographed, her subjects are
confident, seductive and intriguing Lady Bird 1, 2011 Muses 8, 2011,
without giving too much away. Pastel and pencil on paper Pencil on paper
Sometimes people are offended by 76 x 56 cm 112 x 75 cm
the subject matter, suggesting that
it is a bit risqué, but that makes it
more intriguing for Kelly. The whole
idea of beauty and sexuality is so
scrutinised; sometimes something is
simply beautiful, and beauty doesn’t
last forever so why don’t we just
let it have its moment?
 Wild at Heart 1, 2012
Pencil and pastel on paper
70 x 50 cm
Bailarina 10
Pencil and paper
70 x 50 cm
Wild at Heart 16, 2012
Pencil and charcoal on paper
76 x 56 cm
Pages 96–97, 126–27
Sam Wolfe Connelly
Sam Wolfe Connelly was born and
raised in Northern Virginia, US. After
spending four years in the sweltering
heat of Savannah, Georgia, Sam
moved up to New York City in 2011
to live out his dreams of being an
artist. He enjoys drawing strangers
on the subway, exploring haunted
houses, and expanding his knowledge
of all types of honey. Sam tends to
draw his inspiration from the most
crushing relationships in his life
and copes with his problems best
by making pictures.
www.samwolfeconnelly.com
Opera, National Geographic, Random
House and Stella McCartney. He has
Sepulchre, 2011
Graphite
27.9 x 43.1 cm
Harvest, 2012 Smoke
Graphite Ink and gouache on paper
27.9 x 43.1 cm Client: Ici d’ailleurs
Luster II, 2011 Autumnal and Translucent
Graphite Ink and gouache on paper
38.1 x 50.8 cm Personal work
Backfill, 2011 Casanova Costume
Graphite Ink and gouache on paper
43.1 x 27.9 cm Client: So Prosecco
Pages 2, 6, 65–68, 71–76, 80–81, 87, 223
Vania Zouravliov
Vania Zouravliov was born in
Vladimir, Russia. He studied in
Edinburgh and subsequently moved
to London. Vania uses traditional
techniques for his graphic drawings Ghost
and describes his style as a ‘modern Ink and gouache on paper
take on romanticism’. He divides Personal work
his time between personal and
commercial work. Vania has worked
for clients such as English National
won several awards for his album
sleeve and advertising designs
including D&AD Yellow Pencil
and Le Club des Directeurs
Artistiques awards. Lion
www.vaniazouravliov.com Ink and gouache on paper
Personal work
221
 PICTURE CREDITS

Laurence King Publishing Ltd, the author and the

picture researcher wish to thank the institutions
and individuals who have kindly provided
photographic material for use in this book. While
every effort has been made to trace the present
copyright holders we apologize in advance for
Bearskin 2 Bearskin any unintentional omission or error and
Ink and gouache on paper Ink and gouache on paper will be pleased to insert the appropriate
Personal work Personal work acknowledgement in any subsequent edition.
BAL = The Bridgeman Art Library

Page 10
Max Ernst - © ADAGP, Paris and
DACS, London 2012.

Page 11
Private Collection / The Stapleton
Collection / BAL
Bearskin 3 Perrault 2
Ink and gouache on paper Ink and gouache on paper Page 12
Personal work Personal work Private Collection / Photo © Peter
Nahum at The Leicester Galleries,
London / BAL

Page 13
Private Collection / The Stapleton
Collection / BAL

Page 14
Private Collection / BAL
Columbina Soft Park
Ink and gouache on paper Ink and gouache on paper Page 15
Personal work Personal work Victoria & Albert Museum, London,
UK / BAL

Page 16
British Library, London, UK /
© British Library Board. All Rights
Reserved / BAL

Page 17
The Israel Museum, Jerusalem, Israel /
Kitsune Kingdom Vera & Arturo Schwarz Collection of
Ink and gouache on paper Pencil and gouache on paper Dada and Surrealist Art / BAL.
Personal work Personal work © ADAGP, Paris and DACS,
London 2012.

Na pogoste White Rooster

Ink and gouache on paper Ink and gouache on paper
Personal work Personal work
 Angus Hyland would like to thank: at Laurence King,
Peter Jones, Jo Lightfoot, Felicity Awdry and, of course,
Laurence King himself; Masumi Briozzo for her excellent
taste and hard work on the layout and typography;
Simon Waterfall for suggesting a bigger and better format;
and Caroline Roberts for putting forward the perfect
co-author in Angharad.

Angharad Lewis would like to thank Angus Hyland for

the opportunity to share in his brainchild (and Caroline for
a generous recommendation), everyone at Laurence King –
especially Peter Jones for picking up extra threads during my
maternity leave, all the artists who have contributed their
work, Harriet Warden for the book loans and Reuben Briggs
for his support throughout.

Published in 2013 by
Laurence King Publishing
361–373 City Road, London,
EC1V 1LR, United Kingdom
T +44 20 7841 6900
F +44 20 7841 6910
enquiries@laurenceking.com
www.laurenceking.com

© text 2013 Laurence King Publishing Ltd

Extract from Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille, translated

by Joachim Neugroschal © Penguin Books Ltd 2012.
Extract from ‘Szamota’s Mistress’ from the collection
The Dark Domain by Stefan Grabinski, translated by
Miroslaw Lipinski © Dedalus Ltd 1993.
Extract from Ulysses from the 1922 Paris edition.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,
or any information storage or retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from

the British Library.

ISBN: 978 1 78067 125 3

Design and Art Direction: Angus Hyland, Pentagram

Book Design: Masumi Briozzo
Senior Editor: Peter Jones
Printed in China