Thursday, 5 July 2012

I'm Moving...

So I'm afraid this is farewell, fair Blogspotters, for I am making the move to tumblr. It seems many fellow illustrators have made the move already, and it seems fit for me to follow. Any of you followers who also have tumblr accounts, please do follow me at 

I should think I will be checking back on people I follow regularly or delving into the seemingly complicated world of rss feeds, since there are quite a few blogspotters that I still want to follow.

And so, I bid thee adieu - it has been nice but there comes a time in any girl's life where she must travel, handkerchief-on-stick, to strangers tides.

Friday, 18 May 2012

The Bright Agency

SO... Finally, after lots of working, waiting, and tearing out of hair, the fruits of the Undiscovered Voices launch party have borne and I am now represented by the utterly lovely and very supportive Emma Smith at The Bright Agency! My greetings card work is up as of today on the Bright Art Licensing website and features almost entirely new work, which should go some way to explaining why I have been so quiet recently: Take a look!

Eventually my children's book work will be up there too but it needs a little bit of nurturing first before it is ready to fly the nest.

Monday, 12 March 2012

The Death of Chatterton

A couple of weeks ago I took a trip to Bristol and ended up wandering lost in a failed effort to find actual Bristol from the station (this is more difficult than it sounds). As it transpires, however, ending up somewhat off the usual route can be a blessing in disguise, and I found myself, through fate or idiocy, stumbling upon this unfortunate looking property curiously marooned between two very busy roads. The house, as a little oval plaque helpfully informed me, in which 18th Century poet Thomas Chatterton was born. Chatterton was something of a child prodigy - an extremely gifted young poet who took to forgery in an attempt to have his work respected, convincing many that he had discovered a collection of songs written by a fictional medieval monk called Thomas Rowley. He later commited suicide having moved to London and failed to make a living from his work.

I am not a particular fan of Thomas Chatterton - his poetry contains altogether far too many e's for my liking:

The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte,
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys broughte.

I am, however, a big fan of Henry Wallis' painting 'The Death of Chatterton' - in fact it has always been one of my favourite paintings without my really knowing why.

I think now, having happened upon this curious house in the way I did, it has become clearer - both painting and house seem to exude an air of hopelessness and abandon. Chatterton, in this painting, a great and later to be widely renowned poet, is presented as a desperate young boy having torn up his manuscripts and swallowed the arsenic that ended his life. On looking at it, it is as if we have discovered the lost shell of something that was once great and is now empty - and this is how it felt to see the house. Boarded up, falling apart; the last house standing where many once stood, and now surrounded by busy, oblivious traffic.

The house looked as ghostly and lost as the child in the painting - both exist now as material objects that have travelled from a time where they made sense to now, in a modern setting - a busy street, an art gallery - and every so often somebody like me will come along, read the plaque, think a while, and then pass and continue with their modern lives. The difference is, the painting is in a frame on a wall behind a velvet rope, and the building, having fairly recently been occupied by squatters (English Literature students apparantly attempting to renovate the property), has now been boarded up and protected by the somewhat less glamorous 'velvet rope' of Sitexorbis empty property security company.

Wednesday, 18 January 2012

Some additions to my portfolio

On the 9th of February I will be at the launch party of the Undiscovered Voices anthology that features my viking illustration. There will be lots of agents and art directors present (as well as the illustration chair, Nick Sharratt!) so I have been very busy recently preparing my children's illustration portfolio to be shown at the event. Here are some of the recent additions!

Wednesday, 30 November 2011

A little sketch to reassure you I'm not dead/my hands haven't fallen off

So the other day I went to see my favourite sea birds Guillemots at Koko in Camden, and the journey home involved an hour wait at Paddington for a train that was to take ANOTHER hour to get me back to Reading. I was, therefore, upon this occasion, the happiest I believe I have ever been to have my trusty Moleskine by my side, and this is the result of my boredom. This is Mr Dangerfield.

Sunday, 13 November 2011

This Year's Christmas Cards

I realise this pretty much spoils the surprise for anyone receiving Christmas cards from me or any of my relative that buy cards off my this year. Having said that, since I am so incurably lazy, most of you probably won't be anyway so that shouldn't be a problem.

I have been playing with felting and knitting and enjoying it so expect to see more of this soon!

You can buy a pack of all four of these cards for £6 over on my SHOP!

Saturday, 22 October 2011

When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be...

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I may never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of Unreflecting Love! - Then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
- Keats