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.

I was first introduced to Raymond Hawkey's work at an evening class on a November evening in 1961. Our teacher - who during the day worked in the design department of the Daily Express - showed us examples of work produced there. This was a series of illustrated banner heads, an innovation that had been pioneered by Hawkey. These mini graphic triggers helped to direct readers towards a particular feature. They were produced using a simple photographic line technique, ideal for crude letterpress printing. They looked startling within the context of the paper's conventional layout.

Fast-forward 40 years, and I am heading for the lift in an 18-floor, 1960s tower block that looms over London's fashionable Notting Hill. This is where Hawkey has lived for over 30 years and I am about to meet him for the first time. As he welcomes me into his flat, I am taken aback by the view from its panoramic window. It is quite breathtaking to see London looking magical on this particularly clear night with a stream of jewel-like twinkling lights from the constantly moving traffic below.

The first thing I notice about Hawkey is that he is immaculately turned out, as can be seen in the above photo. So much so that I became a little self-conscious about the state of my rather scuffed boat shoes and crumpled corduroy jacket. This attention to his appearance was just as evident in the presentation of his home. It reflected his vision and farsightedness in selecting Charles and Ray Eames, Eero Saarinen and Hille furniture when he first took on the flat. All looked remarkably current and orderly in this classic late 1960s setting.

Most of the walls were taken up with Hawkey's passion for all things nautical; a ship's wheel, compass, figurehead, prints, photographs and paintings of tall ships, all beautifully arranged. As a boy Hawkey had lived by the sea, which he loved. I suspect this was his way of keeping that connection going in the heart of a throbbing city

Hawkey was born in Plymouth in 1930, an only child. His father worked as a commercial traveller. Neither of Hawkey's parents had any creative leanings. Indeed, his father had decided that he wanted his son to become an accountant, something he himself had hankered after. But the young Hawkey developed a natural gift for drawing, which must have been a genetic throwback to a creative ancestor. He was happiest with a pencil and paper, escaping into a fantasy world drawn from his fertile imagination.

Hawkey was a bright boy and won a scholarship to grammar school. 

It was here that he was singled out by the headmaster - a man with artistic interests himself - who recognised Hawkey's creative ability. He greatly encouraged the young Hawkey and directed him towards a course in general arts at the Plymouth School of Art. From the ages of 16 to 20, Hawkey immersed himself in what had become an all-consuming passion. He achieved a National Diploma in Design and won a scholarship to the Royal College of Art to study illustration.

But Hawkey found the RCA illustration course in 1950 very dull, punctuated with endless life drawing classes and a distinctly nostalgic approach to the craft. He managed to persuade his tutor to let him switch to the graphics course.

He quickly secured a post on the RCA magazine ARK as assistant art director. A little later he became its art director. He saw this as an opportunity to push the visual presentation of the magazine forward, which, until that point, had a rather classical dusty feel. He outraged the rector Robin Darwin by introducing illustration and photography to ARK's covers. To supplement his small grant, he took on illustration commissions from the Central Office of Information. He also helped out the picture editor of The Sunday Graphic - a long since defunct title.

Towards the end of his time at the RCA he was increasingly moving in publishing and editorial circles. One evening when helping out at a literary launch party, a colleague noticed that a young man had gatecrashed the proceedings and he asked Hawkey to politely, but firmly show him the door. Hawkey, however, struck up a conversation with this eager young man - who as it turned out was also attending the RCA, was also studying design, was also an Aquarian, had the same fanatical love of detail, shared the same dry sense of humour and also the contempt for a lot of the pomposity evident at the RCA. A rare meeting of hearts and minds had taken place and there, amid the clinking wine glasses and literary banter, a life-long friendship was formed. 

As it turned out, this literary backdrop was going to have a dramatic effect on both of their lives. In particular the young gatecrasher. His name was Len Deighton.

Prior to graduating from the RCA, Hawkey entered a design talent competition organised by Vogue magazine. He not only won, but was offered a job by the magazine's parent company Conde Nast. Here he became art director of magazine promotion and he quickly familiarised himself with the editorial world. He spent three happy years there. There was a short period with the ad agency Colman Prentis and Varley as an art director. In 1959 he was offered a position with Beaverbrook Newspapers to art direct a new magazine that was set to rival the great American title Fortune. Alas, it never saw the light of day, but Hawkey's talents had not gone unnoticed and he was made design director of the Daily Express. It was here that he quickly introduced graphic devices into the editorial pages. He trail-blazed the use of diagrams to help demystify complex news items. He often teamed up with a reporter and went on assignments to crime scenes. It was in this context that his work contributed to the arrest of a rapist and murderer through his accurate reconstruction of the attacker's likeness as described by a witness, before identikit pictures were the norm. Hawkey's graphic use of banner heads revolutionised the look of newspaper features and very quickly other major papers followed suit

While Hawkey was at The Daily Express, Deighton had established a career in advertising as an art director. This was a love/hate relationship for him as he found the profession overrun by ex-public school types, whom he found tiresome. However, he redirected this irritation into writing. Hawkey remembers being handed a draft manuscript by Deighton in 1960. It was called The lpcress File. On reading it, Hawkey realised that Deighton could afford to turn his back on the advertising world. Because, there on the page was Harry Palmer the bespectacled sophisticated working class antihero who enjoyed cooking and worked as an intelligence officer.

Although very capable himself, Deighton asked Hawkey to design the cover of The lpcress File.

What Hawkey did with it was one of the key moments in British design history. It is important to view this work in the context of the period. Hawkey's photographic use of inanimate objects to give a narrative dimension to the cover was startlingly new and made a dramatic impact on the publishing scene, which at the time tended to favour illustration as in the work of Richard Chopping for the long-running Ian Fleming James Bond series, which latter in their Pan paperback form Hawkey would have had a major hand in.

Coincidentally, in the very same year, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, the US film To Kill a Mockingbird was released, featuring a wonderful opening title sequence by the American designer Stephen Frankfurt. I have often wondered whether this was serendipitous or whether Hawkey and Frankfurt had ever met or were aware of each other's work. Seven years later, to my mind, Hawkey produced his masterpiece when he worked with film director Richard Attenborough on Oh! What a Lovely War.

But all was not plain sailing for Hawkey’s work. When publisher Hodder was first shown the cover of The lpcress File, they were not happy at all and found the design too spartan, with its black-and-white photography, plain background, and small, undifferentiated typography, but both Deighton and Hawkey held firm. They were right because, upon publication in 1962, The lpcress File sold out within 24 hours. A classic example of the blinker publishing sales departments that are always firmly rooted in the status quo.

One of the most sort after Hawkey covers is for Billion Dollar Brain printed onto silver foil silver foil surface with a white, pictoral, dotted with a computer code strip, reflecting the novel's thematic focus on computer-driven intelligence.

A few years later, Michael Caine was to make Harry Palmer his own in the film version of the book. 

In 1964, Hawkey became presentation director of the Observer and its colour magazine, concentrating on enhancing layout and improving the quality of the magazine's covers. In parallel with this, he became a much sought-after book cover designer.

Hawkey was always linked with Deighton's work but was also the favoured designer for Kingsley Amis, Jane Gaskill, Ian Fleming, Thomas Hinde, Gavin Lyall, Frederick Forsyth, and many others.

Hawkey's dramatic influence and modern approach to book cover design spawned imitators that turned his simple graphic approach into a design cliche. To a certain extent, Hawkey became a victim of his own success. The clarity and inventiveness of his later cover work were often defused by over-large typography brought about, I suspect, by the increasingly aggressive publishing sales departments, who have always managed to dilute creative work.

One of Hawkey’s most memorable pieces came about once again through Deighton, who had formed a film production company. He had written the film script for Oh! What a Lovely War. It was to be Richard Attenborough's directorial debut and Deighton commissioned Hawkey to design the film's titles. He approached this with the perfectionism that had become his trademark. To convey the tragedy of the First World War, he used carefully chosen objects, sensitively photographed by David Cripps to create a building narrative over the sequence. Starting with items reflecting the jingoistic flag-waving, King and Country mentality, the images move on to symbolise the ultimate result of war. Death is represented by a skull and, in the last frame, a lone red poppy. Although a simple series of still images with the titles superimposed, the sequence retains its tragic impact. In another designer's hands it could have easily slipped into a nostalgic pastiche. Going back to1964 and the Stephen Frankfurt’s titles for To Kill a Mockingbird you can see the visual link.

In 1974 Hawkey turned the tables on the publishing world by becoming a thriller writer himself. Encouraged greatly by Deighton, over a ten-year period he has produced three novels, Wild Card, Side Effect and It. All have received glowing reviews and an option has been taken up on It for a possible feature film.

Sadly the film never happened. Hawkey, then into his seventies, understandably took things a little easier, but continued with writing a new novel, and he occasionally acted as an editorial consultant. Having a bolthole in Brighton enabled him to enjoy the lure of the sea with his wife Mary.

Raymond died on 22 August 2010 after a long illness at home with his wife. And on 15 March 2026 Len Deighton died, at age 97.

First published in 2021. © Mike Dempsey 2026.

A handful more of the illustrators I hold dear, some no longer here, others still quietly drawing, line by line, at their desks.

In an age of endless pixels, the scratch of pen on paper feels almost radical. Draw with your children if you can. It feeds the imagination in ways nothing else quite does. Drawing is thought made tangible, a universal language, and one of the simplest, richest tools we carry through life.

When I originally discussed my Heroes series idea for Design Week with editor Lynda Relph-Knight back in 2001, the first designer I intended to feature was John Gorham. Unfortunately, on telephoning him, I learned from his wife Pauline that he had been ill for some time and was not in the right frame of mind to talk to anyone at present. We left it that she would call me when he was feeling stronger. The call never came. John died. What follows is what became my post tribute to him in Design Week, when it was a physical magazine.

Mike Dempsey takes an affectionate look at graphic designer John Gorham, a friend and colleague who spent his life striving for perfection in his work.

I first met him in 1968 when I had just joined the publishing house William Heinemann as its art director. One of the first tasks was to seek a group of freelance designers whom I admired and who would be willing to accept the embarrassingly low fees on offer. Luckily, designers love to tackle book covers and always have. The tradition goes back a long way and somehow money never seems to figure in the equation. This was heartening for me because one of the designers I wanted to net was John.  At the time he shared a large, airy studio in London's Regent Street with fellow designer Richard Weaver. It was an exciting time for John; his work was beginning to appear everywhere, particularly in advertising. His vibrant, hand-lettered logotype for the Watney's Roll out the Red Barrel campaign had made a great impact and everyone was clamouring for his unique ability as a creative lettering artist.

Not knowing what to expect at our first meeting, I was immediately struck by his almost childlike enthusiasm for design. I found it refreshing to discover that I was not the only one with this all-consuming passion. Neither of us had received formal training in design, so we found common ground immediately and struck up a friendship, employing the verbal shorthand used by people familiar with their subject.

He became a regular visitor to my cramped attic studio at William Heinemann's Mayfair offices. I always looked forward to these visits, just to see how long he would keep me waiting before unveiling the design he had been working on. John would never be rushed and our meetings could effortlessly burn up an hour. After the second cup of tea, he would finally unzip his faithful black leather portfolio to reveal an impeccably hand-rendered rough. I was in awe of his ability.

He would then set about telling me just how much better the real thing would be, and with John, the real thing would undergo constant changes right up to the wire. He was a consummate craftsman whose typography, illustration and hand-lettering were immaculately finished. He also had an exceptional talent for ideas. Just a glance at Beryl McAlhone and David Stuart's 1998 book, A Smile in the Mind is testament to this.

When I moved on to another publishing house, John was on hand to give me support. Over the next ten-year period, our paths often crossed. In the 1970s, we both became involved with a new generation of film-makers from the world of advertising. David Puttnam was central to this, and John relished the prospect of working for the cinema, beginning with his graphics and titles for Alan Parker's Bugsy Malone. Many more followed, including Chariots of Fire, The Mission, Fame, Greystoke, Local Hero and Cal. Puttnam, who supplied John with a constant stream of enviable work, produced most of these films.

He became the bespoke designer of personal stationery for the ad industry elite. Each design was lovingly crafted and agonised over, then printed on just the right choice of paper, often beautifully die-stamped. Parker used his for sending wittily penned cartoons.

In between all this glamorous work, John found time to design a continuous stream of book covers, just a fraction featured in this the blog post.

For a time John was based in Covent Garden, but after a while he decided to abandon London to work from his home in Surrey. He settled into a routine. I can remember him telling me not to ring him on a Friday because that was the day that Pauline drove him into Guildford to do the weekly shop at Sainsbury's (John never learned to drive). I think he missed the chance encounters that occur when working in a bustling city. This lack of daily contact made his visits to London even more important. He would try to fill his entire day with appointments, often topped off with a visit to David Drummond's Victorian Pastimes and Pleasures, off St Martin's Lane. Here he would positively get a high, leafing through old children's annuals, posters, programmes, magazines and Victorian scraps.

John had a formidable collection of printed ephemera, which he always referred to as his "treasures". These would be carefully stored in boxes destined for the attic, only to be opened when he needed a little fix. He told me he was becoming worried about the weight of all this stuff on the ceiling and that he was seriously considering having it reinforced.

He would often collaborate with other creatives on projects, but these individuals had to demonstrate the same commitment to their craft as he did to his own. They included photographer the late Tony Evans, designer Howard Brown and illustrators Andrew Davidson, Allan Manham and Arthur Robbins.

John's range was quite staggering, including posters, packaging, book covers, film titles, calendars, wine labels, postage stamps, magazine spreads, books, logotypes, illustrations and typefaces.  I think I was one of the first people to see his rough concepts for the British Design & Art Direction silver award-winning Winsor & Newton ink packaging. It was clear at first glance that this piece of work was going to have a major impact on the field of packaging design. What followed in that area clearly shows the influence of his work.

The great work he produced for was, in my view, heightened because of the tactical competition between Gorham and John McConnell, who designed for and was very involved with Face at the time. Being pitched against McConnell's formidable talent is a daunting prospect, but John would always manage to pull it off, producing some of his most witty and intelligent pieces.

The film poster he produced with Howard Brown for Red Monarch featured a portrait of Josef Stalin on which there is the most perfectly placed squashed tomato, photographed by Tony Evans. Imagine three perfectionists on one job - it must have been a nightmare.

During the late 1970s and early 1980s, John experienced a new challenge, teaching at the Royal College of Art. He was proud of this, but it was mixed with amusement, because of his own lack of any formal design training.

As the 1990s progressed, John found it harder to come to terms with the impact that new technology had made on the design industry. Doggedly refusing to embrace the Apple Mac, he sent out a defiant mailer to all his clients and friends. On it was a photograph of the back of a crumpled envelope and below that a pencil, it simply said, "My only gizmo and its mouse". It summed John up perfectly. The thought of losing direct physical contact with his work was something he could not envisage.

But the world moved on and the traditional methods of working were cast aside. No more painstakingly separated artwork with Kodatrace overlays. Or the tracing covers, lovingly "spec'd" up for the printer. No more type mark-ups for the compositor, using the symbols that, to many designers today, look like a foreign language. John felt out of tune with the world he once knew so well. He believed sometimes that he was left holding a torch that represented an attention to detail that no one seemed to care about any more.

He settled for a quieter life, turning his attention to his other passion of gardening. His garden was lovingly tended with a vegetable patch that would have made even Beatrix Potter's Mr McGregor green with envy. He would continue to work on the occasional project, but it would have to be on his terms. Stamps to celebrate the Queen Mother's birthday and two Christmas issues all bore the hallmarks of John's approach to graphic design.  David Puttnam told me, just after he had been made a Peer of the Realm, that he had commissioned John to design his heraldic crest. It was a job that demanded the range of craft-based skills that only John possessed and he salivated at the prospect. Davidson was planning to collaborate with John on two books about the countryside. They had long and enthusiastic conversations about the projects, before John became unwell and was unable to work.

The last piece of work that I received from John was his annual Christmas card, something he hadn't missed for over 30 years. The card was to celebrate the coming of the new Millennium. It featured two partygoers holding their champagne glasses aloft. The juxtaposition of their festive hats created the shape of a double “M”. There's always an idea with John.

He was one of the few people who was equally loved and admired by both the design and advertising communities. In 1993 he received the D&AD President's Award. The array of influential industry figures that paid homage to him on that night was astonishing.

John never had children, but when I think of it, perhaps his work was his children. He would lovingly nurture each piece of work into life, with all the care and attention afforded to a newborn baby.

For me he is an equivalent of John Betjeman, a great favourite of John's. The countryside, the changing seasons, the ordinary everyday quirkiness of the English and the wealth of craft left behind from another era were all things that John cared about passionately.

First published in 2021. © Mike Dempsey 2026.

Last words:  As a designer John's approach was steeped in the culture of a bygone age, when every decorative element was lovingly crafted, from the everyday explication of the humble cigarette card and the flamboyant hand-drawn lettering of enamelled advertising signs, to the sumptuous binding cases of children's books with the colour plates protected by glassine paper. John loved the precious and tactile quality of the printed medium. My abiding memory is of John living out the half-timbered Englishness of a gentler era a period of Morris Minors, striped lawns, garden sheds, The Archers on the radio, people saying sorry when you bumped into them, the sound of summer bees mingling with Test Match Special, and the milkman whistling cheerfully as he went about his round. "Morning, Mr Gorham. Just the one pint today? Garden's looking nice again." As John would say - magical.

Drawing is a universal form of communication, a way of thinking from head to hand, and a wonderful lifelong asset.  Everyone can do it, and drawing with very young children is absolute joy and expand their imaginations.

More of my favourite handcrafted illustrators, some no longer with us, others still quietly working away at their desks, unplugged, with nothing more than a pen, black ink and a sheet of paper.

In a world increasingly dominated by screens and ever advancing digital shortcuts, the simple act of drawing feels more precious than ever. If you have children, drawing for them will expand their imaginations and encourage them to do it. Drawing is a universal form of communication, a way of thinking from head to hand, and a wonderful lifelong asset.

For many of us, Alan Fletcher was always part of the graphic landscape, fully formed and brilliant. So it’s hard to imagine him as a twenty-something trying to find a creative identity in the ravages of post-war London: a grim, rationed, fog-laden, gloomy place. In 1950, he wove his way through a series of art schools, culminating in the prestigious Central School of Arts and Crafts. Here, he found like-minded students: Derek Birdsall, Terence Conran, Colin Forbes and Theo Crosby. This little gang had a plethora of inspirational tutors at their disposal, including Paul Hogarth, Victor Pasmore, Richard Hamilton, Eduardo Paolozzi, and many more. The place was bubbling with experimentation, optimism, and a vision for a future Britain. 

That ethos continued later when Alan was awarded a place at The Royal College of Art, another hothouse of surfacing talent, including Len Deighton, Dennis Bailey, David Gentleman, Joe Tilson and Peter Blake. While there, he secured an exchange scholarship to the Yale School of Art and Design in the United States.

In 1956, sporting a full head of hair and with his young wife, Paola, on his arm, Alan set sail for the land of plenty, bustling with vibrant colour and unapologetic energy. It was a revelation and something he embraced with open arms. At Yale, he was again blessed with tutors of exceptional talent, among them Paul Rand, Bradbury Thompson and Josef Albers. While in the States, Alan kept in touch with Colin Forbes and was sad to discover that he was having a depressing time in London. “Come over, you’ll love it”, suggested Alan. Forbes did just that and was picked up from the airport by Alan and Paola in a classic open-top roadster. They spent the entire evening driving around the dramatic skyscraper canyons of Manhattan. Forbes camped out in Fletcher’s apartment, and the stay did the trick: when Forbes departed back to London, there was a definite spring in his step, and a seed had been planted in his mind that would blossom two decades later.

Before leaving America, Alan made a point of zooming around New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, making many lifelong friends along the way while freelancing for some of the most creative art directors of the time, including Saul Bass and Leo Lionni.

His time in America gave him not only a professional edge but also the confidence to return to London.

Alan’s journey back home from New York actually went via Venezuela (an ill-judged fantasy, but that’s another story) and then on to Italy with Paola. While there, he worked for Pirelli in Milan. When he finally returned to London, he still held the memory of his exhilarating time in the States, but that image was abruptly brought back down to earth. London was even more depressing than when he’d left three years earlier. Teenagers looked like their parents, apart from the odd Teddy Boy. There was little design work to be had. The industry was still termed ‘commercial art’, and what good stuff there was went to the established guard of the day: Milner Grey, Henrion, Misha Black, Abram Games et al. Alan longed to be back in the noise and neon of New York, where everything was big and blowsy, and work was plentiful and well-paid. Thanks to the connections he had made in New York, he’d secured a three-day-a-week consultancy for Time and Life in London, along with work from Pirelli and a one-day-a-week teaching post at Central School, thanks to Colin Forbes, who was head of graphics. Alan rented a studio space in Colin’s flat. With the security of some income from his two clients, he began to work.

During the tail end of Alan’s time in New York, he’d made a point of contacting the city’s creative set. He’d been keen to seek out Bob Gill, a young ‘hot’ designer at the time. But it never happened. Back in London, he settled into a daily routine in his basement studio at Forbes’s flat. One evening, his phone rang: “Hello Alan, it’s Bob Gill. I’m in London. Can we meet?” The die was being cast for the beginning of something very special.

Alan introduced Bob Gill to Colin Forbes. They all seemed to get along swimmingly, admiring one another’s work. Discussions of getting together formally became a regular talking point, which, as Alan recalled, was endless. It was only after some clairvoyant advice given to Gill in a caravan that they finally agreed to join forces. Work was divided up, and they found a nice little space thanks to Gill, who persuaded an ad agency he’d been involved with to bankroll the purchase of a small house in a mews just off Baker Street. A year passed while the property was being renovated, and on April Fools’ Day 1962, the Fletcher/Forbes/Gill doors were opened on what was to become a devastating force in British graphics.

At first, it was just the three of them, all very hands-on, plus a receptionist and her dog. With not enough work to occupy all of them, they would often spend time in nearby cafés bitching about London and philosophising about design while puffing away on Gauloises and downing copious amounts of coffee.

What little work they had came from Time and Life, Pirelli and Penguin Books. With the latter client, they’d argue over who was to design the cover, for the handsome fee of £30 (around £830 in today’s money).

One day, Alan recalled returning from lunch to discover their receptionist painting her fingernails. Perturbed by this lack of conscientiousness, there were huddled discussions and talks of firing, but Alan had a better idea. He told her they would promote her and that she would now be the receptionist and bookkeeper. It worked. The nail varnish never reappeared.

The idea of passing on their wisdom in book form was established with A Sign Systems Manual, Identity Kits, and Graphic Design: Visual Comparisons, and it was the beginning of many to follow. And up popped a new partner in the shape of Theo Crosby.

The idea of bringing Crosby into the fold came from Forbes, which felt that involvement in buildings and interiors would give them greater design possibilities. Alan could see the potential of this and agreed. Gill was not so sure but went along with it anyway. But in a short space of time, Gill’s patience wore thin. He found the whole protracted world of architecture infuriating, preferring the immediacy of graphics. As a hot-headed and opinionated character, he was always destined to work under his own remit, and so, three short years after joining, one of the key figures in Britain’s most influential graphics trio packed his portfolio and left. Eventually, the new, wider design offer did lead to bigger and higher profile clients, with the new trio dealing with decision-makers at the top of the pile, rather than underlings. Shell, Arthur Andersen, Reuters and Canard all became significant clients. They settled in to build on their dream.

The early 1970s saw significant growth, and the three partners now had teams of assistants and often collaborated with external, established designers. As with many companies of a certain size, talk of expansion arises. They had been in conversation with the product designer Kenneth Grange and one of their own associate designers, Mervyn Kurlansky, about formalising a new partnership.

Alan was forever delving into books for pearls of wisdom and witty quotations. And the story goes he’d been reading a book on witchcraft and became intrigued by the name ‘Pentagram’: a five-pointed star. Although none of the others liked it much, the name stuck, and so Pentagram was born. The five partners established a new business structure. Everyone would receive the same salary, regardless of their individual workflow; everyone would be responsible for their own profit centres, and everyone would contribute to a communal fund for rent, administration costs, and special projects. This mechanism would serve the partnership well for many years to come. By the late 1970s, Pentagram was installed in a canal-side building overlooking Paddington Station, described by Alan as: “One of the best views of East Germany in London”. The studio had an air of calm professionalism, with an endless array of strutting, youthful assistants sporting denim flares, Fair Isle jumpers, and the bubble hairdos of the period. Lunchtime was a communal affair set out on long tables below a wall of enamelled Victorian advertising signs. Meanwhile, Alan immersed himself in ever-larger projects. One project for the Commercial Bank of Kuwait involved him in every aspect of the bank’s visual manifestation: just what he’d always dreamed of. In 1978, Colin Forbes – still with the memory of his tour of Manhattan with the Fletchers back in ’58 – set off like Columbus to the Americas to set up Pentagram New York. And so began Pentagram’s tentative global reach.

The 1980s were a solid period for Alan, who built on his substantial experience in handling major identities and signing projects. He produced a sumptuous book and the signing programme for the then-shiny-new Lloyds of London HQ. Alan also enhanced the IBM Paris offices with new signage and a range of posters and produced the classic V&A identity, which is still going strong. By this time, more partners were embedded in the Pentagram mix, among them graphic designers John McConnell and David Hillman, and a new office was opened in San Francisco. The rich mix of egos and the aromas from Montecristo cigars and Gauloises permeated the new HQ building in Notting Hill. By that time, the design world was changing. A proliferation of new design consultancies appeared, many of whose personnel had passed through Pentagram. These were highly creative and well-organised consultancies, and with them came the digital world, which was about to transform the industry. For the first time, Pentagram found itself in competition with this new breed. And the haphazard economic climate of the time was a worrying factor for everyone.

By this time, Alan had been in the design business for almost four decades. He was bored with corporate clients and disillusioned with the daily complexities of Pentagram. He had begun taking on projects just feed the crew. He wanted out. He wanted more time to play in the studio rather than worry about it.

In 1992, he walked the half-mile journey from Pentagram to his home in Notting Hill Gate. He never went back, leaving behind 25 partners over his period there. But there was one partner he didn’t leave: his wife and life partner, Paola.

From 1992, you’d find Alan sitting in his well-worn Eames office chair amidst an array of his colourful work set out in his pristine, white-walled, immaculate mews studio. Here, he unleashed a torrent of highly personal work. For a while, he virtually abandoned conventional typesetting in favour of his own scratchy handwriting, along with simple, primary-coloured paper. He set about amusing himself, rather than others. He also decided that he would say ‘no’ to uninteresting work and people for the rest of his life. He also embarked on two highly successful books: Beware Wet Paint and The Art of Looking Sideways. Around that time, I interviewed Alan for a magazine and was taken by a menagerie of highly coloured animals made from loo rolls, card, cork and string displayed in his studio. He’d actually made them for his grandson, Tobia, to amuse him while on holiday. But Tobia never got to play with them because Alan liked them so much. They ended up in the 2001 Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.

His final years saw him as busy as ever: consultant art director of Phaidon Press; Domus magazine cover designer; and creative advisor to Novartis, a pharmaceutical conglomerate, for their new research and resource complex in Basel. The latter was an ambitious project that would have taken Alan 30 years to complete. 'I’ll be 101 by then,' he told me dryly.

Well, he never reached that grand old age. On 21 September 2006, he left us, far too early. The image of him that stays in my mind is of Alan on his hands and knees in the gutter, surreptitiously cutting out a choice piece of discarded cardboard to take back to his creative lair to add to one of his many collage pieces.

Alan Fletcher leaves behind an astonishing body of work: work that helped form the foundation of 20th-century British graphics.

© 2026 Mike Dempsey