Beware: Book Covers Ahead! Part 2 

During the early 1960s, there was a dramatic sea change in the creative scene in London, the bright young things were taking over. Virtually every area of creativity was making waves: Mary Quant and Barbara Hulanicki in fashion, Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton in modelling, David Bailey and Terence Donovan in photography, David Hockney and Bridget Riley in painting, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones in music, Lindsay Anderson and John Schlesinger in film, Albert Finney and Julie Christie in acting, and Harold Pinter and John Osborne in theatre.

Town magazine, art directed by Tom Wolsey.  All conspired to help create the term ‘London, The Swinging City', coined by Time magazine in 1966. For the first time, weekend colour supplements dropped onto our doormats, and Town magazine, under Tom Wolsey’s art directorship, was making waves. At long last, Britain seemed to be surfacing from the gloomy, rationed, post-war years of the 1950s.

Many young graphic designers were hatching out from the various design and art schools. They moved into advertising, television and film, with some setting up their own small design groups and others even forming pop groups. In graphics, most were echoing the work they had been inspired by from America and Switzerland. Clean graphics and modernist typography were displacing the well-trodden English polite approach to design that hadn’t much changed in the previous four decades, and the term ‘graphic designer’ was beginning to replace the more commonly used ‘commercial artist’. Fletcher/Forbes/Gill opened their studio, as did Derek Birdsall with BDMW Associates. A new order was being established.

 In 1962, the US film To Kill a Mockingbird was released. The opening title sequence was to have a big impact on graphic designers. It was designed and directed by Stephen Frankfurt using inanimate objects shot with macro lenses. To my mind, to this very day, it remains one of the most beautiful and timeless pieces of work ever produced.

The above three covers are by Raymond Hawkey form 1963 and 1964. The Ipcress File (left) In particular, was loathed by the publishers, but Deighton dug his heels in and went against the sales department. It was an enormous success and spawned many imitations. The cover on the right is by Larry Carter in 1963 for Macmillan, and below four of Derek Birdsall’s covers  in collaboration with photographer Harry Peccinotti for the Penguin Somerset Maugham series in the 1970s.

In 1960, Tony Godwin joined Penguin as an editor. He formerly ran Better Books, and the City Bookshop. Because of this, he had a coalface view of selling to the public. His view of cover design differed from that of Penguin’s founder, Sir Allen Lane. Within a year, Godwin had hired Germano Facetti, a sophisticated young Italian, to oversee the design of their covers. He was gifted with an inspired knowledge of art and photographic history, something he would put to good use. Facetti’s impact on Penguin was to revolutionise the look of crime fiction covers. He commissioned Romek Marber to create a new ‘house style’ (the term ‘brand’ hadn’t yet entered the vernacular) to replace the long-standing vertical green bar styling created by Jan Tschichold, introduced back in 1951.

Romek Marber came up with a uniform typographic structure that occupied the top quarter of the cover, leaving the remaining three-quarters free for an image. It was a simple idea, but a brilliant one. The system brought order and instant recognition to Penguin’s growing list, while giving designers and illustrators plenty of room to make their mark. More importantly, it gave Penguin a distinctive modernist personality that perfectly matched the spirit of the 1960s and helped transform the look of British publishing.

Germano Facetti had a supreme knowledge of art history, and the ability to know just the right image to grace the covers of Penguin Classics. I remember my old business partner Ken Carroll, who had assisted Facetti for a short while in the 1960s, having Facetti insist that Ken crop ever closer into an image to give it a “cinematic quality”. He was right of course.

Facetti attracted the very best emerging designers and illustrators around to produce a design for a fee of £30 (around £900 today). He had no shortage of takers, including Peter Blake, Alan Fletcher, Derek Birdsall, David Gentleman, Mel Calman, Paul Hogarth, George Mayhew, Larry Carter, Quentin Blake and André François. In fact, virtually anyone he wanted. The introduction of Marber’s distinctive cover styling was again leading the way in cover design, reflecting the literary cachet that Penguin had – it was a publisher you could trust and one that cared about the look and production of its books, with an institutional mission akin to Lord Reith’s BBC.

In a masterstroke, Germano Facetti commissioned David Gentleman to design and wood-engrave the covers for the Penguin Shakespeare series.

All was running smoothly and ever upwards until Penguin became a public company in 1961. It expanded and many new people came in to help run it. Allen Lane continued as managing director but slowly became disenchanted with how the company was changing.

Tony Godwin eventually took on the mantle of Penguin’s chief editor. At this time, he felt that Facetti’s stark two-colour-line cover house style was too restrictive and sophisticated. In 1965, he hired the  up-and-coming designer/illustrator Alan Aldridge, who had, in fact, not only been commissioned by Facetti a few times but was also his friend. Godwin made Aldridge fiction art director and, over Facetti’s head, hatched a plot with Aldridge to change the carefully orchestrated covers art directed by Facetti. Now in a cosseted position under the protection of Godwin, Aldridge immediately dispensed with Marber’s grid, liberating the whole cover and, importantly for him, showing off his talent. Street-smart Aldridge was beginning to make a reputation and Penguin, for him, was an opportunity to shine.

In this new position, Aldridge was very cavalier in his approach: everything was up for grabs on the little rectangle canvas, even the Penguin logo appeared haphazardly in different sizes. In a very short space of time, all of the work so painstakingly instigated by Facetti had disappeared. But within two years Tony Godwin would run into a brick wall in the shape of Penguins founder Sir Allen Lane.

Allen Lane became increasingly unhappy with Tony Godwin and was horrified when in 1967 he published the English edition of French cartoonist Siné’s periodical ‘Massacre’. It contained anti-clerical cartoons, and many bookstores refused to stock it. Lane became so enraged that in the dead of night, had all remaining copies Massacre burned. In a subsequent disagreement with Godwin, Lane fired him.

Meanwhile Aldridge’s star was rising and his work was being featured everywhere, and The Beatles were rather taken with his wild, colourful, psychedelic imaginings. Needless to say with Aldridge’s major ally gone he didn’t stay long after that: he was now a sought-after image maker and left to join the glitterati, spending quite a lot of his time painting on young, naked female bodies, as was the norm in those LSD-fuelled years. Germano Facetti continued at Penguin, working on non-fiction and classic fiction covers. But the damage to Penguin’s image had been done. Apparently Facetti never spoke to Aldridge again.

From the mid-1950s, Push Pin Studio published The Push Pin Graphic. It was filled with exuberant experimental work that blew everyone's minds in the UK when their travelling exhibition was shown in central London in the late1960s. It was like a big top circus had come to town. It triggered a major change to the British design scene, mostly concentrated in London back then. It had a great impact on me, and loosened the stranglehold that Muller-Brockman held over me.

Push Pin Studios was simply streets ahead. And Alan Aldridge was clearly influenced by them and the great Twen magazine art directed by Willy Fleckhaus and his main illustrator Heinz Edelmann.

Simultaneously, in the 1960s another great influence for so many young graphic designers and illustrators. We clamoured to get our monthly copy of Twen even though it was expensive and all in German. Its most regular contributor was the illustrator Heinz Edelmann, who would go on to create the Beatles film, Yellow Submarine. Twen ran from the late 1950s to 1970, becoming ever more adventurous under its brilliant Art Director Willy Fleckhaus, who was also a prolific cover designer. Twen had a major influence on both Town and Nova magazines.

Willy Fleckhaus' rainbow colour series (top right), and much copied, was published by Edition Suhrkamp, in 1963. Above are two more of Willy Fleckhaus' book covers from the 60s. And as art director of Twen magazine, he made it constantly inventive and graphically fabulous.

At the same time, a less flamboyant group of American cover designers were producing highly individual work, much of which would go on to become classic. Featured here are two covers by Ivan Chermayeff, followed by work from Muriel Cooper, Rudolph de Harak, Tony Palladino, Paul Rand and Roy Kuhlman.

What united many of these designers was not a common style but a determination to find their own visual voice. Some were driven by ideas and conceptual thinking, while others relied more on a distinctive personal style or graphic fingerprint. Together they demonstrated just how many different ways there were to solve the same problem, giving American book design a richness and diversity that remains influential today.

Back in the 1950s and 1960s, however, few designers in the UK would have seen any of this work unless they bought expensive American design annuals or attended one of the better art and design colleges with a substantial reference library. For most of us, such glimpses of the wider design world were rare and treasured discoveries. How different it is today, when we can see what is happening on the other side of the globe in seconds at the click of a button.

Suddenly, the Swiss discipline was out, as were the fashions of the time. Hey presto: skirts got shorter, bras were dispensed with, men grew Zapata moustaches and shoulder-length hair, and floral shirts and flares became sartorial must-haves. The late 1960s and early ’70s went psychedelic. Move over Helvetica; hello Art Nouveau and Art Deco – love and peace are all around you.

Nicholas Thirkell, art director of Macmillan Publishers in the 60s and 70s, and I, who at the same period was art director of William Heinemann, became friendly rivals, always trying to trump each other in producing the best hardback covers. He went on to set up NTA studio with another talented bunch of creative talent. More of which in part 3.

For those of us in the publishing industry during the late 1960s and 1970s, Penguin was always the publisher to watch for innovative work on covers. But after the hiatus created by Godwin and Aldridge, things at Penguin became a little directionless. Without an art director, it caused them some grief with the direction of their cover presentation; after a year, they found what would become the perfect candidate, David Pelham. Both he and his work were a perfect fit to get things creatively back on track for Penguin. He came from a background in magazines: Studio International and Harper’s Bazaar. He was not only cultured but a highly creative talent in his own right, as he would demonstrate during his 11-year stint at Penguin. Above is just a small sampling of David Pelham's own work. 

One of David Pelham’s early commissions after joining Penguin in 1968 was the Shakespeare series. During Germano Facetti’s tenure, the covers had been beautiful wood cut illustrations by David Gentleman, a hard act to follow.

Undaunted, Pelham turned to the wonderful illustrator Paul Hogarth, whose work complemented Gentleman’s in an entirely different way. The collaboration proved a lasting one, with Hogarth continuing to illustrate for Pelham for well over a decade.

There is no doubt that Derek Birdsall enjoyed a long and important relationship with Penguin Books. He was admired by both Germano Facetti and David Pelham and, over many years, contributed to some of the publisher's most memorable cover programmes.

Working under the name of his design company, Omnific, Derek created the distinctive cover styling for the original Pelican Education series. The system was deceptively simple, providing a strong and consistent framework while allowing each title its own character. To achieve this, Derek commissioned around thirty designers and illustrators to create images that worked within his carefully considered formula. Among them was Michael Foreman and, as shown earlier, Harry Peccinotti, whose photography brought a striking visual presence to the Penguin Somerset Maugham series.

What distinguished Derek's work was his ability to combine rigorous structure with conceptual clarity. He understood that a book cover had to do more than attract attention; it had to communicate an idea. That balance of discipline and imagination became a hallmark of his work and helped shape the visual identity of Penguin during one of its most influential periods.

David Pelham was a remarkable talent spotter. Shown above is just a fraction of the exceptional work he commissioned during his years at Penguin.

Among those he championed was John McConnell, who would later go on to revolutionise the look of Faber & Faber during his time there.

There will be more on John McConnell’s highly individual way of creating a brand for a publishing house and the extraordinary stable of talent he injected into his transition of Faber & Faber in part 3 of Beware: Book Covers Ahead!

The cover, designed and illustrated by John Gorham (l above left) sends up the age-old approach to 'selly' covers in a delightful and witty way. But in an ironic twist of fate, David Pelham actually found himself having to produce that very thing, minus the delight. The cover shown (right) was the result. Being in the publishing industry at the time, I knew the writing was on the wall. I couldn't see how David Pelham would endure having to produce this kind of thing for long.

Peter was there to turn the company around and sell more ‘units’, as books came to be known. Mayer had a liking for the unsophisticated and downright obvious clichéd covers. Pelham initially went along with this, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it and, in 1979, left. It was a sad loss. Blockbusters started to be included on the list and, over a short period, Penguin’s essence, which had always been made visible by caring designers like Jan Tschichold, Hans Schmoller, Tony Richardson, Germano Facetti, Romek Marber and David Pelham, ebbed away. Along with many staff cuts in a major restructuring of Penguin, which eventually led to a healthy profit, but sadly a loss of their visual cachet.

There is one long-serving Penguin stalwart I must mention here, and that's Gerald Cinamon, whose connection with Penguin began in 1961 when, looking for freelance work, he was commissioned by Puffin Books editor Kay Webb to work on the interior layouts of a number of titles in those analogue, Cow Gum days.

In 1963 Gerald began receiving freelance work from Penguin's recently arrived Art Director, Germano Facetti. The commissions steadily increased and, alongside typographic layouts for the interiors, Gerald was also entrusted with designing non-fiction covers using imagery sourced by Facetti.

A year later, Tony Richardson joined Penguin as Art Editor, and Gerald had enormous respect for both the man and his approach to design. Eventually Gerald joined Penguin full-time, with responsibility for many of the non-fiction areas, including the prodigious Pelican imprint, covering subjects such as art history, architecture and the social sciences. He also worked on Penguin Poetry.

Over the years Gerald witnessed a remarkable procession of talented people come and go, some willingly, others less so. Facetti, Richardson, Pelham and many others passed through the Penguin doors, each leaving their mark on the company. Yet Gerald remained a reassuring constant, quietly helping to shape the look of Penguin's non-fiction publishing through some of its most distinguished years.

Then came the digital revolution. For some it opened exciting new possibilities, but for others it marked the end of an era. Gerald had grown up in a world of hot metal, drawing boards, Cow Gum and typographic craft, and in 1985, after a remarkable twenty-four-year association with Penguin, he finally took his leave, just before the digital tide began to wash away much of the world he had known.

While revisiting this original blog post from 2011, I realised there was very little evidence of my own years in publishing, whether through modesty, oversight, or perhaps a reluctance to look back.

To put that right, I’ve included above examples from my freelance work in the early 1960s, followed by my five years as Art Director at William Heinemann in the late 1960s. The five years I spent as Art Director at Fontana Books during the 1970s that will be posted in part 3 of this series.

All in all I was involved in creating thousands of book covers as art director, designer, illustrator, and, on the odd occasion, author. It may help explain my enduring enthusiasm for cover design, a fascination that has remained undiminished for more than sixty years.

Above: Covers from my freelance days in the very early 1960s, a time when I would often design, illustrate and photograph a book myself, as fees were so modest back then.

Below: Covers produced during my time as Art Director at William Heinemann, a period that became my art school, my university and much more besides. It was there that I learned the craft of publishing from the inside and began to understand the remarkable relationship between words, images and ideas.

I have to admit that, at this stage in my story of the book cover, there is a tendency to lean rather heavily towards Penguin Books. But for many of us who worked in publishing, and that includes my own decade as an art director in both hardback and paperback houses, Penguin was always something special. Sadly, not quite so much today.

Back in the 1960s and 70s, however, there was plenty of good work being produced elsewhere. As some of the examples shown above demonstrate, amidst the heavy commercial blockbusters there were still thoughtful and imaginative covers seeing the light of day.

I particularly admired the work of the rarely-mentioned John Piper, art director of Corgi Books in the early 1960s. His cover for J. P. Donleavy's The Ginger Man is a small masterpiece. Donleavy insisted on typographic covers only, and Piper responded with the little gem shown here, which was featured in the very first D&AD Annual.

Alongside Piper, art directors such as Steven Abis at Panther and Paladin Books, and David Larkin at Pan and Picador, were also producing work of a consistently high standard.

Left: was designed by Nicholas Thirkell for Macmillan in 1967. For which he enlarged a train ticket for the jacket, with a die-cut punched hole, allowing the author and title to be seen on the binding case.  59 years later it’s still brilliant. And on the right: it was by the long-forgotten ex-Royal College of Art design group Churchill/Holmes/Kitley, for William Heinemann in 1965. The red lips image was a plastic lenticular with the mouth provocatively opening and closing depending on which way you looked at it. They were attached to each jacket. Unlikely that a publisher would do it today.

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You can see individual posts on the work of Bentley/Farrell/Burnett, John Gorham, Tony Meeuwissen, Raymond Hawkey, Alan Fletcher, and Mike Dempsey by going to Topics on the left and clicking Designers.

Copyright © Mike Dempsey 2026.

IN PART 3 NEXT MONTH

In part 3: We move on into the 1980s, and feature John McConnell's striking facelift of Faber & Faber. The arrival of the digital disruptor, a new breed of illustrators and looking across the pond to view the US publishing scene.

Part 1

A few years ago I read a piece in The Guardian by Danuta Kean on book cover design and was struck by this quote from Jason Arthur, a publishing director at Penguin Random House:

“I used to think British book design was the best in the world and that the Americans were 20 years behind... But that has changed in the last two or three years, especially with fiction from the US that put our designs to shame.”

As anyone who has followed this blog over the years will know, I have more than a passing interest in book covers. It might be a little too much for some. My fascination goes back to my teens and later became the source of freelance work for many of London's independent publishers during the 1960s. From 1968, I spent a wonderful decade in publishing, first as Art Director at William Heinemann and later at William Collins (Fontana Books).

Fast-forward sixty years and I still find it difficult to pass a bookshop without being magnetically drawn inside. It is a world that has always fascinated me, and one where many great designers and illustrators cut their creative teeth. It was, and probably still is, an area with little financial reward but a reasonable amount of creative freedom, provided there was an enlightened art editor or art director prepared to fight your corner.

"I've always loved a healthy debate on design. But I'd clearly crossed the line with this group..."

Why am I telling you all this? Because something rather odd happened in 2018.

For some time I had been commenting, mostly on Facebook, about what I felt was an increasing decline in the standards of British book cover design. My observations came from regular visits to bookshops, particularly Waterstones, where new titles are displayed face-up on tables. My main criticism centred on the growing similarity of many covers: oversized typography occupying three-quarters of the available space, often rendered in a deliberately naïve hand-drawn style.

My comments sparked a debate on Facebook that eventually migrated to the rather more combative world of Twitter, where various people, most of them unknown to me, began adding their views.

All fine by me, as I've always loved a healthy debate on design. But I'd clearly crossed the line with this group when I featured the cover of a recently purchased book and remarked: "Shame about the cover, another missed opportunity."

Little did I know that I had wandered into an encampment of what I assume were younger designers, who quickly informed me that I had criticised not merely a designer but, according to one respondent, "the greatest book cover designer in the world." High praise indeed.

What followed was a steady stream of criticism, sarcasm and the inevitable ageist jibes. Over the course of a week I was systematically dismantled for daring to question the work of a hero. Trying to explain my position within Twitter's character restrictions proved hopeless. I spent more time editing my responses than writing them. Eventually I apologised and withdrew, leaving them to continue the argument without me.

So here I am on my own turf, where I can explain more calmly, and hopefully more clearly, my views on the state of British book cover design and perhaps generate a broader and more balanced discussion than the one I encountered online.

As for the abuse, my youngest and wisest daughter offered a succinct verdict: "You probably deserved it."

She may be right. I leave that for you to decide.

Some Historical Background

The book cover, or more accurately the dust wrapper, began life as a means of protecting the highly decorated cloth bindings of the mid-nineteenth century. By the early twentieth century these wrappers had started to carry decorative designs of their own, becoming a form of advertising for the books they enclosed.

The First World War interrupted that development, but during the 1920s the wrapper evolved into the modern dust jacket and increasingly became the public face of the book. The decoration on the binding itself gradually receded while the jacket moved centre stage.

This new creative territory quickly attracted distinguished artists and designers. Styles of the day were reflected on these small paper canvases and an impressive list of contributors emerged, including Picasso, Matisse, Edward McKnight Kauffer, Stanley Morison, Barnett Freedman, Vanessa Bell and Taylor Lee-Elliott. Their names often appeared prominently on the jackets themselves.Many people assume Jan Tschichold's wonderful King Penguin series, launched in 1939, was entirely original. In reality, its look and feel owed a considerable debt to the Insel-Bücherei series produced by the Leipzig publisher Insel Verlag from 1912 onwards.

As you can see, very little is truly new in the book cover design world.

The three landscape-format covers below, for Chatto & Windus's Zodiac imprint, feature repeat-pattern line illustrations designed by Enid Marx RDI in 1950.

Nicholas Thirkell beautifully re-energised the formula for the V&A Colour Books series in 1986, a project that won him a D&AD Gold Award and sparked of a wider use of the discipline.

This well-trodden approach has since become a standard formula for publishers looking to revitalise their backlists for the gift market.

Today the style has even migrated into luxury packaging and products such as Ridley's Games. If only Insel Verlag had thought to copyright the idea.

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As the book jacket evolved, publishers and authors began taking it more seriously. Some of the larger publishing houses even employed art editors. In post-war Britain, however, there were relatively few specialists in these roles. More often than not they were pipe-smoking, corduroy-jacketed editors who commissioned jackets in between editing manuscripts.

The resulting designs often possessed a handmade quality rooted in commercial art traditions that had changed little since the 1930s.

Typographical and hand-lettered covers were the staple diet of many publishers. At Faber & Faber, Berthold Wolpe RDI effectively established the house style. Meanwhile at The Bodley Head, Michael Harvey was producing equally distinctive work.

As with many things during this period, America was ahead of the game. Designers such as Alvin Lustig, Paul Rand, Bradbury Thompson and Saul Bass were already exerting a profound influence on younger British designers.

By the mid-1950s a number of young British designers had progressed from the Central School, where they had studied under the influential typographer Antony Froshaug, to postgraduate studies at the Royal College of Art. What they found there was not what they had expected, and many became determined to change it.

Alan Fletcher's cover for Ark No.13 stripped away the prevailing Victorian revival style and replaced it with a cleaner, more modern sensibility, much to the horror of some RCA tutors.

Using the black marker, I would ask her to suggest a character, animal or object for me to draw. Once I had the idea, the drawing would take no more than a minute. I would then hand it over for her to colour in. When she had finished, we would cut the image out and stick it to a blank wall using Blu Tack.

I should explain that by then I was divorced, and my children moved freely between our two homes, which were only ten minutes apart. Over time, that wall became covered with a growing cast of handmade characters. As new drawings appeared, others were replaced, and for years the wall evolved into a colourful record of our time together.

Eventually, some of the drawings had fallen off, and the room was ready for decorating. It seemed the right moment to paint over the wall and start afresh.

A few days later, my daughter, now a teenager, arrived and discovered what I had done.

She was horrified.

To me, it was just a wall. To her, it was a scrapbook of memories. She became quite emotional, telling me how much she had loved those afternoons and how every drawing reminded her of a moment we had shared together.

I felt dreadful.

The following day, I searched under chairs and in bins and drawers, rescuing as many of the surviving cut-outs as I could find. I scanned them all and assembled them into an A3 poster, which I gave to her as a keepsake. You can see the result here.

As a footnote, that little girl who sat beside me colouring in those drawings went on to gain a First Class Honours degree from the Slade School of Fine Art.

So perhaps drawing with your children can lead to great things, but even if it doesn’t, the memories certainly will.

In 2013 the designer and writer Adrian Shaughnessy who was producing a book celebrating to the progress of graphic design at the Royal College of Art over their then fifty years as a creative discipline. He commissioned me to write about life and the development of the RCA from 1948 to 1963. I need to point out here that I never went to a university, art school or the mecca of creativity the RCA. But he was aware that I knew many of the elderly or sadly dead designers of the period he wanted me to cover. So here it is resurrected from it’s publishing date of 2014, with many images and captions that where not in the original book.

Beginnings

The roll call of graphic designers who attended the Royal College of Art during the 15-year period between 1948 and 1963 is very significant, and includes Margaret Calvert, David Gentleman, Dennis Bailey, Raymond Hawkey, Len Deighton, Alan Fletcher, June Fraser, Romek Marber, Neil Godfrey, Ridley Scott and John Sewell, to name just a fraction of the talent that passed through the hallowed Huxley Gate. Collectively, they went on to help shape the very foundation of post-war contemporary British graphics and advertising.

But first, let's rewind, back to those early days when the term 'graphic design' was unknown in the UK.

London in 1948 was a sad, drab place: large areas had been decimated by the Blitz, when 31,000 bombs were dropped over eight short months, killing 22,000 people. The devastation continued right up to 1945, with the dreaded doodlebugs and V2 rockets, whose engines would cut out over central London to fall silently towards their targets. Miraculously, none hit the RCA, which at the time was located at the back of the V&A Museum through the Huxley Gate, opposite the Science Museum.

Life at the RCA resumed after the war, with many tutors and students returning to 'Civvy Street' following National Service. Some had received ex-service or local council financial grants to enable them to attend the College, but many came from wealthier backgrounds and could afford to pay the fees. Although there was a general sense of optimism in the air there was still little in the shops, due to continuing rationing and general shortages. Fashion was very limited: many students would favour cheap, surplus-store clothing, the duffel coat being the order of the day. Radio was still in post-war 'variety hall' mode, and television was confined to the middle classes, with dull programmes to match their conservatism.

London was undergoing major rebuilding, and the reliance on the burning of coal created a spectacular winter smog that often brought London to a standstill. RCA students coming to London for the first time would find cheap digs in unfashionable areas like Lavender Hill, Bayswater, Westbourne Grove or Notting Hill, the latter populated with large mansion properties converted into a myriad of bedsits offered at 30 shillings a week (around £71 a week today). There was little for students to do apart from go to the pub or cinema, smoke and drink frothy coffee out of clear Pyrex cups in dreary cafés. In the evenings they might party in each other's digs, listening to traditional jazz records while downing bottles of stout. For many the College was the most exciting place to be, and at least it was warm in the often-bitter winters.

The Olympic Games arrived in London, along with the introduction of the National Health Service (brought about by Labour's Clement Attlee) and the formation of British Rail. They all coincided with the arrival of Robert Vere ('Robin') Darwin at the RCA in 1948 as its newly appointed Principal.

Robin Darwin, great-grandson of Charles Darwin and an Old Etonian (also educated at the Slade School of Art), surfaced as an accomplished painter and a quintessential eighteenth-century clubman with a visionary view of creative education. He set out this view in a report for the Council of Industrial Design, The Training of the Industrial Designer, published in 1946, which included proposed structural changes to the teaching at the RCA. It was this report that led to his appointment as Principal, a position he was to hold until 1967, when the College attained University status; he was then Rector until his retirement in 1971.

Darwin was keen not only to re-equip the College but also to build a strong connection with both industry and government in order to raise the College's profile and create an industry pathway for graduating students. Those early days, and indeed most of his time at the College, reflected Darwin's very personal view of the world of art and design; he tended to favour a polite kind of traditional Englishness leaning towards nineteenth-century classicism and Victoriana, with an emphasis on drawing, engraving, fine typography, bookbinding and printmaking. Much of the College's output would find its way into limited editions published by the College's Lion and Unicorn Press. Photography did not feature in Darwin's view of design, and was seen as a rather vulgar pursuit.

Richard Guyatt was appointed professor in the School of Publicity Design (immediately afterwards, at the suggestion of Guyatt, renamed Graphic Design), and Edward Bawden was appointed Head of the Design department. They perfectly encapsulated Darwin's teaching ethos, along with visiting tutors John Nash, Abram Games and Charles Mahoney.

Much of the design work to emerge from the College over the next decade completely ignored the growing influence of European modernism, which was heavily embraced by Jesse Collins (Principal at the Central School of Arts and Crafts) and by modernist designers/ teachers such as Herbert Spencer, Anthony Froshaug and Edward Wright, who actively encouraged typographical experimentation.

In 1950, David Gentleman, after returning from National Service, arrived at the RCA under the new Darwin regime. He slotted perfectly into the ensuing discipline of Bawden, whose work Gentleman greatly admired. He embraced life classes, where he rubbed shoulders with students from the Painting School, among them John Bratby, Leon Kossoff, Frank Auerbach and Peter Blake. It was this exciting cross-pollination, encouraged by Darwin and fondly remembered by many alumni of the period, that made life at the College so stimulating. Gentleman was encouraged to try his hand at engraving. This proved successful and was to become part of Gentleman's considerable creative armoury. He was awarded a travel bursary and opted for Italy. On his return, he started work on his first paid job: the illustrations for the cookery book Plat du Jour by Patience Gray, who had been Guyatt's secretary at the College.

After graduating in 1953, Gentleman became a junior tutor at the College - something he later said he would never do again. Gentlemen went on to produce many illustrated books, and was instrumental in shaping the early design direction of the Post Office's special-issue stamps, and, along with a number of ex-RCA designers and artists, including June Fraser and Eduardo Paolozzi, he produced large-scale station murals for the London Underground.

A contemporary of Gentleman's was Dennis Bailey, another 1948 arrival at the College. One of his fondest memories was being present in the Senior Common Room (SCR) - an innovation of Darwin's; he invited many established working artists and poets to mingle with the tutors and (occasionally) students. Bailey, like so many students at the time, was a Rizla roll-up man, until he spied one of Darwin's distinguished guests removing a cigarette from a distinctive blue package. Bailey went straight down to Soho to purchase his first pack of Gauloises, a brand that became ubiquitous with students at the College.

Bailey had started off on the Illustration course that shared the same space, tutors and often the same projects as the Graphic Design department, with which he became more intrigued. After his first year he transferred to that department, where he came into contact with a number of fellow students who wanted to breathe new life into the staid teaching at the college, among them Len Deighton and Raymond Hawkey. On graduation, Bailey went on to art-direct many magazines, including the iconic Town.

The SCR was Darwin's brainchild: he wanted it to be an inspiring place where fine wine, good food and intelligent conversation took place along the lines of Oxford and Cambridge, with its High Beginnings Table complete with white-gloved serving staff. Many who visited found it outrageously pompous. Artists Francis Bacon (who was a tutor at the College in 1950), Lucian Freud and John Minton would often hold court there. The ever-inventive Darwin had it in mind to build up a collection of paintings from students, visiting tutors and artists to decorate the SCR walls. He kick-started the collection by personally donating several works, including pieces by Stanley Spencer and Walter Sickert. Over the years, he acquired works by important Painting students such as David Hockney and Peter Blake, while friends of the College donated works by Lucian Freud, William Scott, and others. The collection continues to this day.

The year 1951 gave RCA Graphic Design students the opportunity to shine when they were involved, under the beady eye of Guyatt, in working on the Lion and Unicorn Pavilion at the Festival of Britain. But instead of a new broom in the world of RCA Graphic Design it was more of the same, with whimsical representations of Englishness expressed through Victorian typefaces like Egyptian Expanded, Doric Italic and Thorne and Figgins Shaded. The whole place was filled with tweed jackets, handmade brogues, briar pipes, walking canes and images of country life, all reinforcing a nostalgic view of a bygone era and completely ignoring any acknowledgement of modernism.

As the 1950s progressed, a radically new concept in comedy surfaced: the surrealistic Goon Show was a particular hit with students. There was appreciation for modern jazz imported from the United States, with its free-form, abstract quality. It wove its influence on the creative scene at the RCA. Students began to rebel more openly against the traditional barriers of conservatism still preached by the College hierarchy.

Alan Fletcher, who had won the first RCA/Yale student exchange scholarship, returned to the College full of enthusiasm from his experience of meeting US designers and artists, including Robert Brownjohn, Ivan Chermayeff, Tom Geismar, Paul Rand, Saul Bass, Bradbury Thompson and Josef Albers. Fletcher became the art editor of ARK in 1955 and immediately broke the classical typographical stranglehold of the magazine by using sans-serif typography on its cover. Fletcher remembers that the keeper of the RCA print room held all the sans-serif type under lock and key like cocaine.

As the 1950s progressed, fashion, film and new forms of art fuelled the imaginations of the Graphic Design students. Many from the Painting School added a graphic dimension to their work, especially Peter Blake, Eduardo Paolozzi and Robyn Denny, the latter producing a wonderful typographical mural for the Austin Reed men's fashion department in 1959, against which The Beatles posed in 1963. Another student from the Painting School was Keith Cunningham, who ended up being a significant graphic designer in the 1960s and 1970s. During this time the relationship between staff and students at the College became increasingly at odds, with the students tending to learn and be inspired by one another rather than their tutors.

Like Fletcher, many saw the United States as the leading light in graphics, illustration and advertising, with high-quality finishes and supreme wit and humour. Swiss modernist typography was also admired, but there were no jokes in that. Len Deighton was a passionate lover of US creativity, especially its advertising (also unpopular among the staff), and was determined to introduce it into ARK when he was its editor. By this time Deighton and Hawkey had become friends, and often collaborated to disrupt the status quo. It was Hawkey who went on to design the book jacket of Deighton's first novel, The Ipcress File, in 1962, with a beautifully stark, one-colour, photographic cover. The publisher hated it, but Deighton insisted. The book sold out immediately, and a bit of graphic design history was born. Hawkey became a significant editorial designer throughout the 1960s and 1970S.

John Sewell, another Graphic Design student with a love of surrealism, made some bizarre short films and produced a great deal of original collage work that he later used to great effect with his graphic identities for the independent (London) bookshops Better Books and the City Bookshop, both long gone.

What is clear from the 1950s is the continual fruitful connection made between graphic designers and fine artists, with the former often producing posters and catalogues and the latter giving a different visual take on the world, fuelling the minds of the graphic designers.

In 1960, a group of former RCA students (Alan Fletcher, Romek Marber, John Sewell, Dennis Bailey and David Collins) were part of an exhibition called Twelve Graphic Designers. It was staged at the Time & Life Building, off Bond Street, and was the first time that a new British sensibility in graphics had been seriously exhibited. It was the catalyst for what was to become D&AD a couple of years later.

By 1961, Guyatt had relaxed his tight grip on the selection of tutors and had sanctioned the appointment of FHK Henrion, Anthony Froshaug, the younger George Daulby and Larry Carter, among others, who brought with them a modernist approach to graphics. By this time, even Darwin's pet hate, photography, had been embraced, with Geoffrey Ireland heading up a new department. There was also a Television and Film Design course, run by George Haslam.

Darwin's collection of friends within the industry meant that many students were often snapped up on graduation, or found commissions. Ex-RCA students found their way into the BBC (John Sewell was the first graphic designer to be employed by the BBC to take charge of on-screen graphics, followed by Bernard Lodge and Douglas Merritt). Another port of call for RCA graduates was Shell's Jack Beddington, who was in charge of commissioning advertisements and posters. He was part of Darwin's clan and another Tory anti-modernist. He regularly drew on the talents of John Betjeman and Nikolaus Pevsner, both dedicated lovers of Victoriana and thus proponents of Darwin's view of the world. But Beddington was a good prospect for both students and graduates to earn money, as was Penguin Books. An astonishing number of 1960s RCA graphic designers and illustrators were commissioned by Penguin Books: David Gentleman, Dennis Bailey, Alan Fletcher, Quentin Blake, Len Deighton, John Sewell, Peter Blake, Ken Sequin, Larry Carter, Michael Foreman and Romek Marber.

Outside of ARK, there were many sought-after posters to design for the various RCA clubs, like the Theatre Club, the Film Society and the Jazz Society. In addition, there were lectures and exhibitions to be publicised. It is through these posters that one can get a real sense of the stylistic struggles that permeated the College throughout the 1950s. But designers Gordon Moore, Michael Foreman, Stephen Abis, Ken Sequin, Freire Wright, Neil Godfrey, Brian Denyer, John Fenton Brown, Brian Haynes, Billy Apple and Wendy Coates-Smith demonstrated their prowess in projecting the College in a more modernist light, often with a perfect fusion of American style and Swiss typographical crispness.

By 1960, the old stranglehold had been broken: Britain was changing, and many ex-RCA students were now spreading to the outside world of advertising, magazines and television. Through graphics they were expressing the beginnings of what was to become the Swinging Sixties. By 1963, graphic design in London was becoming so good that the impact of ARK magazine was subsiding, where it had led the way a little earlier. Darwin commented on the magazine, towards the end of his reign: 'What is significant is that the more generally unintelligible ARK becomes... the better it sells. Vitality is indeed an attraction in itself!’

The last batch of students to enter the RCA in 1963 had a significant impact on the newly formed graphic design scene, represented by the growing influence of D&AD. In 1966, when those last students graduated, 11 pieces of work appeared in the first three very slim and monotone D&AD Annuals. Among the RCA alumni were John Fenton Brown, Barrington Smith, Geoff Fowle, Derek Coutts, Charles Riddell, Robert McAulay, Freire Wright, John Tomlinson, David Chaston, Stephen Abis and Derek Holmes.

I would single out three design collectives that were formed after their members left the College at this time. Abis/Stribley/Sida produced some wonderfully clean and inventive graphic work very much on a par with Fletcher/Forbes/Gill, but they split within a year. Stephen Abis joined Panther Books as its art director, where he had a considerable impact on the publishing scene, commissioning masses of the very best British creative talent. Derek Holmes formed Churchill/Holmes/Kitley, another highly creative design group that lasted only a few years but in that time produced some stunningly original work, especially in the publishing arena. Lastly, George Daulby (who was a tutor at the College in 1959/60), along with Derek Birdsall, George Mayhew and Peter Wildbur, formed BDMW Associates. This was another short-lived but wonderful design collective that was responsible for some sublimely timeless work.

Born in Germany, Wolsey came to England in 1936.  After working at Crawfords Advertising Agency, he joined Town magazine (originally Man About Town), transforming what had begun as a conventional men’s fashion publication into one of Britain’s most visually adventurous magazines through its innovative use of photography, illustration and bold typography.  It was often described as Britain’s answer to Willy Fleckhaus’s legendary German magazine twen.

Wolsey edited Town for three years before handing it over in 1964 to Dennis Bailey, whom he had frequently commissioned, along with Romek Marber.  Together, they became part of the remarkable creative revolution taking place in London during the 1960s.

By 1963, the Swinging Sixties had arrived, along with music from the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Kinks and the Who. Young documentary-style photographers David Bailey, Brian Duffy and Terence Donovan surfaced (proving Darwin wrong in his assessment of the power of photography). The leading models were Jean Shrimpton, Twiggy, Pattie Boyd and Celia Hammond. Fashionistas Mary Quant and Ossie Clark and tonsorial supremo Vidal Sassoon were having a great impact. Pirate radio challenged the BBC's airwaves; satire mocked political circles, with Gerald Scarfe viciously scratching his wicked caricatures at Private Eye. Pop and Op art were led by ex-RCA students Peter Blake, David Hockney, Robyn Denny, Richard Smith, Bridget Riley and Allen Jones, and there was an explosion in creative British advertising and graphics. The design scene in London had transformed into brilliant Technicolor. A great deal of this transformation was down to the many RCA students who doggedly pushed against the status quo during the 1950s to create a new graphic landscape that has endured ever since.

Copyright © Mike Dempsey 2026

This is my opportunity to preach a little to parents about the simple pleasure of drawing with their children.  Drawing is a magical skill because it is a universal language that anyone can learn.

As most of us remember from our earliest school days, there was never any inhibition about splashing paint across a sheet of paper or making marks with a pencil.  Sadly, many children eventually become self-conscious about what they draw or paint and simply stop. In doing so, they lose one of the most rewarding forms of visual expression.

So please draw with your children instead of automatically placing them in front of a television or tablet.          

Try this: sit opposite one another at a table with an A4 sheet of paper and a pencil or pen, then draw each other’s portrait.  It doesn’t matter whether the drawings are good or bad. You’ll laugh a lot, discover how closely you really observe one another, and, most importantly, spend time together creating something by hand.

In the late 90s I wrote a series of feature articles for Design Week. The overarching title was' Heroes' because well, all the featured designers were heroes of mine at various stages of my professional life. Little did I know that the feature you are about to read, written 25 years ago for Design Week on a forgotten, long-retired graphic designer and tutor, would become the most amazing story sparked by my natural curiosity.  So, prepare yourselves, it’s quite a ride.

It’s 1964. The Beatles have released A Hard Days Night, there are only two channels on TV, both in glorious black and white and the pirate station Radio Caroline has begun broadcasting, anchored off the coast of Essex. 

Meanwhile, I have just made my weekly visit to the local library, where I quietly removed book jackets from their hardback covers to add to my growing collection. This was not an activity that I was particularly proud of, but I had convinced myself that I was liberating these jackets from their inevitable disintegration. I knew very little about graphic design at the time and this illicit activity made me feel closer to this world. 

 Why am I telling you all this? Because on that particular day I came across a book jacket that made an immediate impact on me, a cover for Marquis de Sade's Quartet. The simple design structure was unlike anything I had seen before. On the flap was printed ‘Jacket designed by Keith Cunningham’. Over the ensuing years, I noticed more of Cunningham’s work, all with the same economical approach. Nearly 40 years on, I wondered whether this man was still working and set about tracking him down. It was remarkably easy — I simply phoned Peter Owen, the publisher that Cunningham had designed that original book jacket for.

I met Cunningham at his flat, where he has lived for over 40 years with his wife Bobby Hillson — the woman who introduced the first masters’ degree fashion course to Central St Martins School of Art and Design. The flat is full of 1960s decor, with white walls, a paper lantern, a stainless steel and marble coffee table and Marcel Breuer chairs. 

Cunningham was bemused that anyone would want to talk about work he had produced almost 40 years ago. I quickly became aware that he is a very guarded and cautious man, punctuating answers to questions with qualifiers such as, ‘I don't want that on record’ or ‘please don't write that down’. During this slightly uncomfortable start, I noticed something else. There were lots of paintings stacked in groups, all facing the wall. Others on display had been carefully covered with sheets of paper. Intrigued, I asked him for an explanation. He said that he understood our interview would center on his graphic work and didn't want to visually confuse matters. 

Cunningham was born in Sydney in 1929. He left school at 15, with the ability to draw and very little else. He found a job as a general assistant in the ad department of Sydney's largest retailer, David Jones, where he prepared artwork and kept supplies stocked up. One of the frequent visitors to the department was the eminent Australian designer Gordon Andrews Hon RDI. Cunningham was in awe of this glamorous, impressive individual and the professional world he inhabited. He eventually plucked up the courage to speak to him and from that point on Andrews took a keen interest in him, providing books on design and suggesting that he attend evening classes at the East Sydney Technical College. Cunningham had dreams of escaping from an unhappy home life where his father, a violent and unpredictable man when fuelled by alcohol, created an unbearable atmosphere. He became Andrews' assistant, preparing work for the two days a week when Andrews came to the ad department. Cunningham absorbed everything he could from the experience and avidly devoured any book relating to design. 

Eventually, he felt that a better design education was vital to his progress. He set his sights on New York, but Andrews suggested that London would be better for him. At the age of 17, and with a pitiful sum of money, he set sail for London, working his passage by waiting tables. 

London in 1949 was a grim place with much bomb damage. Cunningham had only one contact address in London, the buyers’ office of the David Jones store in Regent Street. He misguidedly believed that they would be able to secure him a place at Central St Martins and headed straight for their offices. They simply drew him a map, pointed him in the right direction and said ‘good luck’. 

Next day, equipped with a portfolio of work, he presented himself, unannounced, at Central St Martins’ reception. Taking pity on him they called Jessie Collins, one of the principals, who interviewed him in the corridor. He was impressed with Cunningham’s work, which he felt showed promise and professionalism. 

He was offered a place there and then, but his great hope for a better design education started to fade: the projects he was set were uninspiring compared to the real world he had been exposed to with Andrews. 

 To supplement his meagre living he worked in the evenings, washing dishes at local restaurants. Either luck or fate was on his side — Gordon Andrews had arrived from Australia and was working as a consultant at the Design Research Unit, famously headed by Sir Misha Black RDI. Andrews was in need of an assistant, so he looked Cunningham up and suggested he take time off to help on some new projects. Cunningham jumped at the chance, and what he thought would be a few weeks work turned into a year. During this time he worked on major exhibition designs, including the Festival of Britain exhibit at the Science Museum. Eventually he was called back to Central St Martins to complete his course, which he did reluctantly, finishing with a thesis on architecture.

He graduated in 1952 and, still yearning for a deeper creative education, he decided to take up a place at the Royal College of Art. At the suggestion of Abram Games RDI, he went to see Rodrigo Moynihan, then the head of painting. Moynihan offered him a place on the fine art course. Here Cunningham worked alongside fellow students Jo Tilson, Frank Auerbach and David Methuen. At last he felt that his heart and mind were being fully engaged. 

During this time his paintings came to the attention of Sir Roger de Grey, Carol Weight and John Minton. They all agreed that Cunningham’s work showed originality and innovation. In 1956, he left the RCA clutching an impressive first, along with a travelling and continuation scholarship. This latter bonus would enable him to devote himself totally to painting without the pressure of money worries. 

He used his travel bursary to explore Spain but returned to London to complete his continuation scholarship. During this time he exhibited at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, the Beaux Arts Gallery and later with the prestigious London Group show for two consecutive years. This culminated in Cunningham being asked to submit work for full membership to the group — he declined. He then made the even more extraordinary decision to withdraw completely from any further public exhibition of his paintings. However, there are examples of his work in the Olinda Museum in Brazil, the North West Trust Collection in Northern Ireland and the private collection of Elsbeth Juda. 

For me, this was a special period for Cunningham’s graphic work. The designs were mostly produced in only two colours due to financial constraints. 

Rather than hampering the design outcome, Cunningham created covers of great simplicity and effectiveness. Using found imagery or photograms that he would create; he produced a stream of graphic covers with utter economy. His clear and simple approach eventually succumbed to the pressures of change in the marketplace and his style changed. He continued with Peter Owen and took on work from The Economist, designing covers, an identity for the National Book League and the design and production of a series of Art and Design books for Thomas Nelson Publishers. He also continued with his weekly two-day slot at The London College of Printing. 

During the 40-odd years he was there, students such as John Hegarty, Michael Peters, David King, Fernando Gutiérrez and Vince Frost passed through his hands. Few knew much about this Australian, who would crit, their work, underline the importance of understanding the print process and enthuse about the creative coupling of design and photography. Or perhaps simply help point them in the right direction, just as Andrews had done for him all those years ago.

By our second meeting, I was becoming more intrigued by the hidden canvases. Dismissing my curiosity, he turned the subject back to his graphic work. I continued to chip away until he finally agreed to show me his paintings. A week later we strolled to a large, brooding industrial building, originally a laundry, but now converted into a center for small businesses.

Cunningham has rented a studio here for 17 years and I was the 17th ‘invited’ visitor during that time. This was not a building converted to the trendy workspace standards of London's Shoreditch. It had simply been let out with its new inhabitants left to adapt the spaces to suit their particular needs. Cunningham’s space was small, with most of its windows covered to frustrate prying eyes. The room was full to bursting with paintings, neatly covered and stacked to protect them from dust. The windows were sealed shut and the lack of air, combined with an extremely hot evening, made me feel faint. I was allowed to leave the studio door open for some air, only to have it hastily closed by Cunningham when he heard footsteps, saying, ‘I don't want any of those people snooping in here’. But I did have the pleasure of seeing the lifetime work of a man clearly obsessed and driven to paint, something he does every day. 

We returned to his flat and, over a chilled bottle of white wine, we talked further as he showed me more recent work. These were drawings and watercolours, all meticulously placed in cellophane bags and housed in individual folders. There were hundreds, if not thousands of these neatly stacked drawings and paintings, all signed, dated and often containing background notes on subject matter. He showed me a series of 20-odd skyscapes he’d painted from his balcony. These beautifully executed watercolours, each recording the subtle changes of light and movement, were captured like the images from a motor drive camera. 

I left Cunningham on that balmy summer evening, leaving him to gather up the many drawings and watercolours that he had shown me. Driving home, I pondered on the notion that this man had carefully balanced his life, using his design and teaching work to fund his private passion for painting. He had created pieces of work so personal to him that he finds it difficult to share it with others — for fear that they may lose something? Their integrity perhaps? 

Maybe one day there will be an opportunity for more people to see the work of this very private man, whose book jacket design inspired me nearly 40 years ago. 

Copyright © 2001 Mike Dempsey 2001.

Grab yourself a coffee before we move on to the really amazing happenings in part 2.

That original Design Week feature from 2001 attracted attention to Keith's graphic work and a series of interesting things began to happen.

Peter Owen, the publisher for whom Keith had designed book jackets for more than twenty years, staged an exhibition of his cover designs. It was fitting recognition for work that had quietly helped sustain his parallel life as a painter, alongside his two-day-a-week teaching commitment at the London College of Printing.

In 2004, the Barbican exhibition Independent Graphic Design Since the Sixties featured several of Keith's book covers, both in the exhibition and the accompanying publication. Later, the University of Brighton Design Archives acquired examples of his work. At last, Keith was receiving recognition for his contribution to mid-century British graphic design. Then, in 2005, Uscha Pohi, editor of the international art and fashion magazine, Very, reprinted an article about Keith and included part of my Design Week feature, illustrating it with some of Keith's delicate watercolour sky studies.

Nine years passed.

Keith died in 2014 at the age of 85.

Two years later, in early 2016, I received an unexpected phone call from Stephen Rothholz. I quickly discovered that he was the son of HA Rothholz, the highly respected graphic artist responsible for many of the information posters produced for the Post Office and the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents between the 1940s and 1960s.

Stephen had studied graphic design at the London College of Printing. Keith's wife, Bobby Hillson, had been discussing the possibility of staging a small exhibition of Keith's oil paintings from the 1950s and suggested that Stephen contact me.

He was keen for me to see the paintings.

What happened next was one of those strange coincidences that seem too neat to be true.

The works were being stored in the basement of a warehouse in Bowling Green Lane, Clerkenwell — the very street I was living in at the time.

We met one morning in the dark basement, where Stephen began showing me Keith's surviving paintings from his post-war years at the Royal College of Art. Fortunately, we got on immediately. Then another coincidence emerged: Stephen lived only a short walk from me.

The story was becoming stranger by the minute.

Over the following weeks we met regularly at Stephen's wonderfully eccentric house, which reflected his own connections with the world of outsider art and his collaborations with Paul Smith.

Together we formulated a plan.

We were determined, one-way or another, to get Keith's paintings shown publicly.

Money was scarce. I agreed to write and design the catalogue and produce any promotional material we needed. Stephen had located a semi-derelict former post office in Hoxton that was occasionally used as a gallery space and which, with a little care and attention, could host the exhibition. He also organised the cleaning, framing and photography of the nineteen paintings we selected.

Meanwhile, I approached the online creative platform It's Nice That, who agreed to support the exhibition with a feature. I also set up a rudimentary crowd funding campaign, long before Kickstarter and Crowdfunder became household names.

I contacted as many former London College of Printing students as I could trace from Keith's forty years of teaching. Many responded with donations and warm memories of their former tutor. It became clear that Keith had left a lasting impression on a great many people.

Somehow, in remarkably little time, we pulled everything together.

On the evening of 30 September 2016, Keith Cunningham: Unseen Paintings 1954–1960 opened at the Hoxton Gallery.

It was a memorable night, particularly for Bobby, who was able to see her late husband's paintings professionally framed and hanging on gallery walls for the first time.

Among the visitors was Frank Auerbach, who, together with Leon Kossoff, had painted alongside Keith when they were students at the Royal College of Art in the 1950s.

I left that balmy autumn evening with a sense of relief and quiet satisfaction. In some small way, I felt I had repaid a debt to the man whose simple two-colour book jacket had first awakened my interest in design and suggested a possible future.

Before moving on, I should briefly mention Keith's wife of sixty-five years, Bobby Hillson.

Life with Keith cannot always have been easy. His difficult childhood, leaving home at seventeen and a lifetime spent guarding both himself and his work, left him reluctant to talk about either. Yet throughout their long marriage Bobby never wavered in her belief in him or his talent.

After Keith's death in 2014, that belief became a determination to see his work finally receive the audience it deserved. As you have already read, that ambition was eventually realised.

Then came a pleasing twist. It was Bobby's turn to be celebrated.

This is Bobby Hillson, who during her time at Vogue magazine was a sort after fashion illustrator.

In March 2018 she was honoured for her role as the founder and former head of the influential MA Fashion course at Central Saint Martins. The hall was packed with students, graduates and figures from across the fashion world. Looking as elegant as ever, Bobby took to the stage to be interviewed by Ike Rust, one of her former students.

During the evening she recalled many of the designers who had passed through the course, among them John Galliano, John Flett, Simon Foxton, Fiona Dealey, John McKitterick, Nick Coleman, Sonja Nuttall and Alexander McQueen.

In another curious twist to this increasingly improbable story, the documentary McQueen was released that same year. It was Bobby who appeared at both the beginning and the end of the film, sharing her memories of the late designer with cinema audiences around the world.

Time for another coffee.

Back to the main story, a month or so after the exhibition closed, Stephen telephoned. Some people, he explained, wanted to see the rest of Keith's work, still stored in that Clerkenwell warehouse basement.

"They're very interested," he said.

Over the following months there were numerous visits. Stephen remained discreet about who was coming and why. Then, sometime later, he called again.

The mysterious visitors had purchased virtually everything.

Thousands of watercolour sky studies, paintings, drawings, and sketchbooks — it seemed that almost every surviving piece of work Keith had produced had been acquired.

The identity of the buyer remained secret for another six years.

Then, in February 2022, Keith Cunningham's forgotten work was reintroduced to the art world in The Cloud of Witness at Newport Street Gallery. More than seventy works were exhibited alongside a beautifully produced publication.

The mystery was solved.

Damien Hirst, whose enthusiasm for post-war British art is well known, had acquired the collection. Something in Keith's work had clearly struck a chord.

Keith’s daily obsession of creating sky studies, which amounted to over four thousand show at the HENI gallery exhibition in London.

In 2024 I was interviewed and appeared in the documentary film, Keith Cunningham: The Lost Master made by HENI’s production company. Which you can see here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Usq12Z7znmc

Another exhibition followed in June 2025 at HENI Gallery in Soho: Keith Cunningham: The Lost Master. This time the focus was on the extraordinary sky studies produced between 1984 and 2002, accompanied by a series of beautifully published books exploring different aspects of Keith's life and work.

more books

Three from six beautifully curated books from publishers HENI.

There was one final and extraordinary twist.

This painting was up for sale at the auction house Bonhams in London.

Not bad for an artist who had spent most of his life hiding his work from view.

Wherever Keith may now be in the universe, I suspect he would be astonished that the interview he agreed to back in 2001 helped set in motion a chain of events that eventually led to this remarkable resurrection.

Copyright © Mike Dempsey 2026.

The purpose of this Pen & Ink series is to encourage you, yes you, to draw (and believe me, everyone can), but primarily to get you also to think about how drawing is beneficial to children; for communication, memory, and learning - and how they express themselves creatively.

We live in an age when fewer graphic designers have a clearly defined visual identity, preferring instead to be all things to all clients, along with the buzzword so often heard today: “collaboration.” But there was a time when you could recognise a designer’s work from twenty paces. One such designer was David King, whose design work was unapologetically in your face: bold juxtapositions of image and type, vibrant colour, and a visual language that drew heavily on the traditions of Russian Constructivism of the 1910s and 1920s.

Back in 2001, I interviewed David for my Heroes series in Design Week. With a little brushing up, here it is again.

Just a few days before this interview took place I was slumped in front of my TV set, idly switching channels, when I hit what appeared to be a scene from a medieval battle film. My vision sharpened with the aid of my glasses and it became clear that this was no re-enactment, but the present day streets of Bradford.

Under a torrent of bricks and petrol bombs, an army of riot police was in retreat. Amidst this onslaught, flashes of yellow, red and black could be seen. They made up the familiar logo of the Anti-Nazi League. Against this dramatic back- drop I'd like to introduce my next hero, whose life, politics and profession are inextricably linked. He is David King.

If you mention Islington these days, Tony Blair comes to mind, along with wine bars, the Almeida Theatre and the buzz of trendy north London. So I was surprised to learn that King lives in this pocket of affluence. In fact, he has lived here for 35 years, long before the Volvo set moved in. But King stayed, and here I was standing outside his Victorian terraced house, amused by its red painted front door, which, as you will discover, is highly appropriate.

King was born in Isleworth in 1943 into a middle class family. His father worked in banking and they lived a pleasant, quiet and uneventful life. As a young boy, King spent a lot of his time with a maiden aunt, who had a more creative outlook to life than he was used to. An avid collector of china and porcelain, she would often take her nephew on outings to museums and art galleries. There was also an uncle who was a committed socialist. King was drawn to this and fascinated by the stories his uncle would tell of Russia and the iron curtain, which sounded ominous but exciting.

At 17 his Soviet and creative interests had matured. He was torn between pursuing Russian Studies or opting for a more artistic pursuit. He chose the latter and took a place at the London College of Printing. King remembers the first two years as a hopeless mess. He couldn't find a direction and was faltering. Three very sympathetic tutors came to the rescue, Robin Fior, Richard Hollis and Keith Cunningham. They helped him find a voice in his final year.

In particular, he remembers Cunningham suggesting that he look at the films of the great Russian director Sergei Eisenstein. King followed up on this and was overwhelmed by what he saw. Eisenstein's unique use of montage and dramatic framing was to stay with King and have a direct influence on his work.

He left LCP and joined Queen magazine as an assistant to the great editorial designer Tom Wolsey responsible for the now legendary Town magazine. Wolsey left Queen to start his own advertising agency and invited King to join him. This was a short-lived excursion as King found the work dull in comparison to the glamour and buzz of the magazine world. He briefly took up a design post with The Observer, working alongside Raymond Hawkey and Roger Law - the man who later went on to create Spitting Image.

Then, in 1965, he was approached by Michael Rand to join The Sunday Times Magazine. This was to be the making of King. He enjoyed the collaboration with highly talented. photographers and writers, becoming great friends with Bruce Chatwin and the photojournalist Don McCullin. He quickly graduated to art editor and, as well as commissioning illustration and photography, he began to generate ideas for features. He recalls wanting to be self-sufficient when going on an assignment. He asked McCullin to give him some pointers on using a camera and McCullin went one better. He not only told him what camera, lenses and film stock to use, but also took him out and gave him a three-hour crash-course in taking pictures. At the end of this, McCullin said, 'That's all you'll ever need to know, David.' King still uses the same camera - a manual Nikon F3. During his ten-year period at the magazine he, along with Rand, clocked up a staggering rate of D&AD Gold and Silver awards. It was a rich period in 20th century history with the Vietnam war, manned space flight, the first heart transplant, the Six day war, Watergate and many high-profile assassinations, providing dramatic stories and images for King's design talent.

At that time the magazine was highly influential in the creative field and employed the best writers, illustrators, photographers and designers. King recalls the adrenaline rush he got from the environment, with its tobacco-laden air and the manic noise generated by journalists hammering away at their typewriters. This is in stark contrast to a visit King made to the magazine's offices recently, where staff were peering at PC screens, typing in an eerie silence and breathing in a smoke-free zone.

It was at The Sunday Times Magazine that King was given his first opportunity to visit Russia for a pictorial feature on the October Revolution. He found out that the authorities had manipulated history by eradicating major political figures from official photographs. The absence of Trotsky particularly fascinated King, prompting him to go in search of original, uncensored material. This was to be the beginning of a lifelong passion.

During his time at The Sunday Times Magazine King would take on the occasional out- side job. One notorious project came about in 1968 when Chris Stamp - brother of Terence - asked him to design some album covers for his label, Track Records. King was given 36 hours to come up with a concept and finished artwork for the new Jimi Hendrix album Electric Ladyland. For reasons that he cannot now quite recall, he decided to have David Montgomery photograph 20 naked women for its double cover. What King does recall is that he wanted to create an image that was an antidote to the glamourised Playboy fantasy of women. He wanted these women to look real. They did, and many a spotty teenage boy spent an unhealthy amount of time ogling over the anatomical differences. The American market found the image too startling and promptly banned it.

He was given six weeks' access to Muhammad Ali during his preparation for the Joe Frazier fight. Using the trusty Nikon F3 he photographed him during his intense training regime. King contrasted this with Ali's more intimate family moments. The result was a unique photo feature and an approach by Penguin Books. This led to the publication of I am King, a large format pictorial biography on Ali, which went on to sell 150 000 copies. Many more opportunities and awards would come King's way.

By 1975 The Sunday Times Magazine had undergone several changes of editor. King had reduced his working week to three days, allowing him time to pursue other interests. When Hunter Davies arrived to take up the editorship, King decided it was time to quit and move on. He was keen to devote more of his time to political causes. But there was to be a more dramatic fate waiting to befall him. While he was out driving, just a short distance from his home, he was hit broadside by a car. The force of the blow fractured his skull and he was hospitalised and out of circulation for almost a year. The effect of his injury disoriented him so much that he was unable to deal with more than one person at a time. Eventually he recovered, started picking up the pieces and began looking for work. Interest came from David Pelham at Penguin Books, art director during the 1970s. Pelham tapped into King's historical and political interests and gave him a constant flow of book covers to design. This was the ideal opportunity for King to draw from his now substantial photographic archive.

Settling into a freelance rhythm, he rented a studio in London's Clerkenwell, again long before the location was on the estate agent's hit list. He fulfilled his wish to become a political designer by donating his creative energies to the ANL, the Anti-Apartheid movement, a leftist Trotskyite faction and many other political activists that he found sympathy with. King was very much out on a limb in donating so much of his time to these causes. He told me that he couldn't bear to see so much amateurishly designed print material being pushed out by these small political groups. He wanted to demonstrate that through well thought out and effectively designed material, their messages would stand a far better chance of getting through. He was amused when he heard that the police had questioned some members of the ANL, asking which advertising agency had been responsible for its print material.

His work is uncompromisingly direct, often employing wood block type, primary colours and a dynamic juxtaposition of type to image. It hits you like a 'Wanted' poster. He makes no secret of his love of the work of the Russian Revolutionary designer Gustav Klutsis and the German Dadaist and political collagist John Heartfield. He met Heartfield before his death in 1968 and subsequently became great friends with his widow, who often stayed with King when she was visiting London. Eisenstein also had a profound effect on him thanks to Keith Cunningham; King uses cinematic terms (close up, wide shot), to describe his own work.

A re-entry into magazines came in 1983. Around this time, there was a lot of unrest in the journalistic world. There had been problems at the London listings magazine Time Out, culminating in a breakaway group which set up in direct competition with its former employer. City Limits was the result of this new collective. King was called in to design the covers, which he did for over a year. The title eventually failed, along with another similar listings magazine, Event, funded by Richard Branson, leaving Time Out as the victor.

King took over the art directorship of Crafts in 1985. His strong graphic presence often over- whelmed the more delicate items featured in the magazine. King remembers the excursion as simply a vehicle to fund other activities.

The most significant turning point for King and his unique collection came in 1985, with the arrival of Gorbachev on the Russian political stage. With him came a new mantra of Glasnost (openness) and Perestroika (restructuring). This newfound freedom unleashed an immediate world interest in all things Russian. The country's chequered political history became a central theme for magazine features, books and television documentaries. They all needed authentic, uncensored visual material.

All those years King spent unearthing Stalinist suppressed material, plus posters, books and graphics collected from all over the Soviet Union and many other parts of the world, had finally paid off. This renewed interest enabled him to produce the books, such as Trotsky, and The Great Purges. His latest is The Commissar Vanishes - a book of photographic falsifications which features censored photographs adjacent to their untampered originals.

This year saw a revival of King's powerful 1974 black-and-white photographs of Muhammad Ali in an exhibition at Fior Photo - run by the son of Fior, one of the trio of LCP tutors who helped guide King over 40 years earlier. Later this year there will be an exhibition of revolutionary posters from King's collection at Tate Modern at Bankside. He also has three new books on the go.

As a graphic designer, King has always been an outsider, shunning the security of a design consultancy or the world of advertising, opting instead to follow his heart and mind. He learned from the many friendships made at The Sunday Times Magazine that it was possible to keep beavering away to uncover a truth. Through his painstakingly pieced together, self- funded collection he can now share this truth with the world. As a graphic designer he has been exceptionally generous in donating his time to enable many small political organisations to have a powerful visual voice.

Towards the end of our meeting King showed me some of his favourite pieces from his archive. He spoke of these with an infectious enthusiasm, pointing out particular areas of typography and image that he admired. As I watched him, I imagined that elderly aunt back in the 1950s, pointing into a dusty museum cabinet, with the young King in tow, saying, 'Look at that David, it's history.'

First published in 2021. © Mike Dempsey 2026.

David King’s Russian collection grew to over 250,000 items, which have formed the basis for a series of exhibitions and a special gallery in the Tate Modern.  Stephen F. Cohen, a professor of Russian studies, described King’s work as “a one-man archaeological expedition into the lost world, the destroyed world of the original Soviet leadership. He was determined to unearth everything that Stalin had buried so deeply and so bloodily.”

David King died of a heart attack at his London home in May 2016.

Advertising copywriting has always had a place in my heart. At its best it demonstrates the art of economy and eloquence. One of Britain’s most brilliant exponents of this craft was David Abbott. During his time he was at the very pinnacle of creativity in the pen-wielding department (he always used a pen). I interviewed him for my 'Heroes' series in Design Week back in 2002 at his immaculate home in London.

Here it is with small additions and postscripts.

David Abbott: Man of Letters

If you mention the name David Abbott in advertising circles, there is an immediate rush to genuflect. Mention the name to a group of designers, however, and at most there is a look of vague recognition. Over the course of this feature, I hope to change that.

“Let's start at the beginning,” wrote Abbott in a 1968 essay on copywriting. 

“You are looking at the copywriter’s toolbox. With these 26 little marks on paper we have to persuade people to buy our clients’ products, ideas or services. If we jumble them one way, we can sell with a laugh. Mix them up another way and we're provocative. Another, and we're sympathetic. It beats Scrabble. And we get paid for it.”

I was so taken by the charm and simple elegance of these words that I photocopied the pages and kept them in my briefcase. Abbott made me aware of the sheer craft involved in advertising copywriting.

And over the years I followed his work with a great deal of pleasure and deep admiration. 
Sitting in the drawing room of his elegant home in a leafy London crescent, a stone's throw from Michelin building in Chelsea,

Abbott, a graceful figure with a shock of grey hair and a reassuring voice that could easily narrate the many commercials he has written, reflects on his life.

He was born in London's Hammersmith in 1938. During World War II, the family was bombed out during the Blitz and moved out to the slightly safer climes of Pinner. His father was a retailer and owned three Walk-Around stores, which stocked a disparate range of products from lino to shoes, fabrics to underwear. 

The frontages of these outlets were key selling areas, and as an eight-year-old, Abbott would help his father to set out the display on a series of trestle tables to attract passers-by, an act he would replicate in a far more sophisticated way many years later. In the process he earned himself pocket money, which he mostly spent on books and comics. He remembers loving the world of boarding schools conjured up in The Wizard with tales of tuck shops and midnight feasts. He finally managed to persuade his parents to send him away to school, but it wasn't the rip-roaring fun it was perceived to be in the comics. So he ended up attending a local prep school as a day-boy, along with his two younger brothers.

Academically he did well and at the age of 18 he won a scholarship to Oxford University to read history.

But life in the city of dreaming spires was to be short lived. With only two terms under his belt, Abbott was summoned home by his mother with news that his father was dying of lung cancer. As the eldest, it fell to him to help run the family business. His father became weaker and unable to work and eventually died. There was now no hope of returning to Oxford and Abbott struggled for two years trying to make a success of managing the stores. But they were woefully old fashioned and had been superseded by a new style of retailing. 

Abbott found himself presiding over the demise of his father's life's work. At 21, without a job and with few prospects, he toured the employment agencies in search of direction. While in one of his favourite haunts, a bookshop, he found the book Madison Avenue by Martin Mayer. It described life in the world of advertising and Abbott liked the sound of it. A few months later, in 1959, he had secured a job at the industrial division of Kodak. Here he learned the art of writing trade ads. It was here too that he met his wife Eve. He was a fast learner and soon became aware that the kind of work he wanted to get his teeth into was to be found in the serious London ad agencies.

But getting a foot in the door was difficult. He recalls one interview he attended. Clutching a small folio of trade ads, he was sitting in a rather low chair in front of a man who continued writing for several minutes before raising his head in Abbott's direction. He then asked Abbott, “Is there anything you desperately want to show me?” The insensitivity and pomposity of this individual made Abbott vow that if he ever found himself in a position of power he would always treat people with dignity and respect. Eventually, he was given an opportunity to sit a copy-writing test at Mather & Crowther. He failed. But somehow he persuaded them to give him another chance. This time he passed. At last he was with an agency of repute.

The early 1960s was still a period when copywriters worked in a pool separated from the creative department. At Mather & Crowther the most junior writer sat by the door with the most senior having the luxury of a window. Copy was collected from out-trays. That would be the last you'd see of it until an ad appeared in the press. Abbott remembers being responsible for a commercial script that went on to win an award. He was never told or credited. Even the first British Design & Art Directors' D&AD Annual did not credit copywriters.

This was a world where, for many, the act of copywriting was to support more lofty literary pursuits. The novelist Fay Weldon, a colleague of Abbott's at the time and famous for her copy line 'Go to work on an egg', spent her free time trying to hatch a novel. Abbott was a keen reader of the New Yorker magazine and loved its renowned writers, Dorothy Parker, James Thurber and Nathaniel Benchley for their collective humour and rapier wit. But he was also noticing the magazine's press ads and was deeply impressed by their originality in presentation and writing.

  It was Bill Bernbach’s (founder of Doyle Dane Bernbach) magic touch that impressed David most. DDB had opened up a London office and David set about systematically aping the DDB style in order to get a job there. It worked. At the agency, Abbott found himself working closely with art directors for the first time, which he found exhilarating. He blossomed and was soon singled out as being special. 

In 1966 he was sent to the New York office to be groomed for greater things and in the process, breathed the same air as Bernbach. Eight months later he returned to London to find that there had been an exodus from DDB with many of his former colleagues now at other agencies. He inherited the mantle of copy chief and then became creative director. David set about working on the cream of British advertising accounts: Volkswagen, Avis, Gillette and Uniroyal Tyres. With his persuasive prose the products and services sold and awards came tumbling through the door. David had 26 pieces in the 1969 D&AD Annual. 

From that point he became a force to be reckoned with. Inter-agency rivalry generated some of the best advertising in the world and, from then on, David's star was in the ascendant. He left DDB - much to its regret and a little bitterness - to start French Gold Abbott. This agency eventually metamorphosed into Abbott Mead Vickers, which he founded in 1978.

And before he knew it, David had clocked up a 40-year career and in the process left a legacy of some of the finest copywriting in British advertising history. 

Some of David's best work was created during his 30 years at AMV, where he became synonymous with four brands: he convinced us Volvo was safer than a tank, engaged audiences to decode messages for The Economist, he made our mouths water with his sumptuous descriptions of Sainsbury's food...

And finally, shocked with his brutal RSPCA campaign in which he showed the UK it was not the nation of animal lovers it professes to be.

Over the years, David has picked up just about every award going on both sides of the Atlantic. He was given the great honour of being inaugurated into the New York Art Directors Club Hall of Fame. The only other British writer to receive this honour was David Ogilvy. And if you don't know who he is, shame on you. I'm sure that David wouldn't forgive me if I didn't single out two of the many art directors he has worked with over the years. During his early period it was Neil Godfrey. And at AMV it was his long-term collaborator Ron Brown. Both men were supreme perfectionists.

Retirement has not kept him idle, however. He serves as a non-executive director at a small breakaway agency, has an interest in publishing house, Harvill Press, and sits on the editorial board of Gardens Illustrated - gardening is a passion with him. 

But his main task these days is to take a short trip each day from his home in Kensington to his office in the shadows of Peter Jones department store in Chelsea. Here he sits in quiet isolation to write. But this time not to persuade us to buy cars, shoes or food, but to write a novel that has been locked inside his head for some time. Giving birth to it is another matter.

Two and a half years in and he has only completed 100 neatly typed pages. He admits that not having the pressure of a deadline is an odd sensation, but he is enjoying the adventure. As he sits there, surrounded by the carefully chosen pieces of furniture, paintings and artefacts, echoes of his earlier life must punctuate his concentration. The small boy helping his father to set up the store, the faces of each of his four children as they open their eyes for the first time, the solid marriage, the fame of his agency and the many accolades and successes he has received over the years.

As Clarence said to George Bailey in the eponymous film: 'You've had a wonderful life'.
 

First published in 2002. © Mike Dempsey 2026.

Post Script 2008. David has (more or less) finished that novel. He is yet to give it to a publisher. He said. 'I figure very few publishers will be interested in a 70 year old first time novelist who takes ten years to write a book. (Not what you’d call a good long-term bet.).' 

He is also enjoying making gardens, renovating two houses and playing with his growing brood of grandchildren. He also shares his wisdom with a small agency, and like me ponders on the question, where the hell did all that time go? 

Post Script 2010. David's book, The Upright Piano Player was published in March 2010. And very good it is too. I was flattered that he asked me to design its cover. And as he spent a lot of his early years writing this book in a favoured Chelsea coffee shop, this painting by Denis Frémond was the perfect choice for the cover.

Post Script 2014. Just a month or two ago Michael Wolff and I met with David Abbott to discuss a joint project.

David being David took us to his favourite Italian restaurant, where they knew him well and made sure he had his favourite corner table with no overhead lighting (something that he hated).

He was witty, charming and as elegant as ever, immaculately turned out right down to his shiny brogue shoes.

That’s how we will both remember him.

He died suddenly on May 17, 2014 during a heart operation at Brompton Hostpital. Shortly before having just completed his second novel.

A few more illustrators I hold dear, some gone, others still at their desks, getting on with it, line by line.  In an age saturated with pixels, the scratch of pen on paper feels almost radical.

Draw with your children, if you can. It stretches the imagination in ways screens never will. Drawing is thought made visible, a universal language, and one of the simplest, richest tools we possess.