Over the next months, I’ll be up-dating the shop with new merchandise while adding to the gallery some of the more interesting commissions I’ve completed recently.
Check out the brutal animation for KMFDM’s , Hell Yeah album here.
I have also recently completed the artwork for Omicron, a forthcoming album-book by Nowhere Nation which was a real style departure for me. Keep checking back here for updates or join my Fan Page on Facebook for upcoming samples.
Please subscribe to the blog for the latest updates and merchandise and feel free to contact me with your commission requests.
I have recently been commissioned by a client to embark on a series of portraits of his favourite musicians, the second of which is this handsome portrait of Laibach front man, Milan Fras.
Anyone interested in posters or prints of this epic illustration, please message me here or contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org for ordering details.
For the their new album, Paradise, KMFDM supremo, Sasha Konietsko, wanted an artwork that would inspire hope in a world torn apart by tribal rivalries and hatred. As both of us are family men, it seemed appropriate to create an image that would illustrate our state of mind concerning the future of our children and immediately this post-apocalyptic scene popped into my head. Hold them close, teach them well and maybe their generation can accomplish that which we did not.
There are a number of positive aspects to my work as a portrait artist. One, I don’t have to come up with a narrative or conceptual roughs for the illustration. Two, I work from an available media source (the photos). Three, there’s no management committee putting their ten-pennorth in and extending the job schedule with endless re-edits and Four, I get to reach an audience who might normally never get to own one of my works.
Prices for portraits start at 200 euros (224.00USD) per face. Final file is in vector format for maximum scaling.
For details on how to commission your own portrait, please contact me at email@example.com
There’s a back story to the image I created for KMFDM’s latest album, Hell Yeah!
Back in 1994, I’d just moved into a new house in West London, renting a studio nearby as a workshop. No sooner had I acquired the keys when I got a call from KMFDM supremo, Sascha Konietsko, who informed me that he had to have the artwork for the band’s new album, asap. I barely had time to assemble my desk before starting the process of creating the image.
Unleashing the hack within me, I copied my face and hand reflected in a shaving mirror, adding the buildings behind almost as an afterthought. Despite the amount of fine detailing, I finished the picture well within my deadline.
Rather than mail it ahead of time, I decided to dwell a while on what I’d drawn, subsequently realising how powerful yet negative the image was. So, using another layer, I drew a cable within reach of the falling man’s hand, offering him a way out (if he chose to take it).
Over the years, it has become one of the images I’ve become most known for. I’ve been approached by people and told that the illustration made them stop and contemplate their lives before attempting suicide. Somehow, I’d accidentally created a piece of art that spoke to people in a way I’d never consciously considered during its creation.
Fast forward to 2016 and the news that KMFDM, once again, required a new BRUTE! cover. As I’d just launched the Tweak app, my time had been spent spent absorbing related articles and videos while how our lives are being shaped by smart phone technology was a recurring topic. During a phone call to Sascha, the idea of updating the Glory cover to address the concept occurred to me and, over the next few days, I embellished the initial idea into a story of sorts.
It was the summer of 1977 that I first ran into Malcolm at a dance in our home town. I remember the place: the glorious modernist Riverside ballroom, part of the New Brighton baths complex that was later destroyed in a storm. Inside, thugs and students eyed up the local talent. I was there with my mates; a motley crew of druggies, lefties and punks. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife – that’s why everyone was armed.
Suddenly, a gasp went up, the crowd parted and a big, burly bully burst in. Six foot seven in his leper-skin levi’s, a youth stood aloft, bursting to shout.
His bold entrance sent ripples of gossip around the room.
”Who is that?”, I enquired, urgently.
”It’s Malcolm Bennett”, they went.
‘’He’s a poet!’’. ‘’He’s a Nazi!’’. ‘’He’s bent!’’.
Knives, pints and slags were fingered, nervously.
”Hmm,” I thought through gritted teeth. ”He looks interesting and yellow.” But, before we could chat, a fight broke out and sirens cleared the dance floor. Later, I discovered he lived next door but one to me in Egremont, a feral squat that lapped the shores of the Mersey. I’d see him gangling up the road to the shop, his Glen Campbell fringe and polyester cardigan flapping gloomily in the smog. He was grumpy and serious and committed to his poetry. I once painted ”Happy Birthday” on my naked girlfriend and sent her round to cheer him up. He slammed the door in her face. He thought I was a frivolous party animal with no commitment to my art. I thought he was an old fart, stuck in his gloomy books instead of girls. However – he introduced me to Camus, Celine and Jack London.
I read his poetry and was impressed. I suggested Malcolm should read it over an improvised sound-scape. We practiced, stuck up posters and played at Eric’s club. To earn money, we dressed up as terrorists and stormed local pubs, threatening the regulars with fake guns to the amusement of practically everyone. We commandeered a school bus dressed as revolutionaries. We hired burly psychiatric nurses to beat up our bass player on stage. So many stories….
While Mal was in prison for an altercation with the police, I moved to Bristol to start a new operation whilst obtaining a better standard of benefits. When he eventually emerged from Walton nick, he joined me there and we began to start performing and publishing.
I’d been in town a while and met a new circle of people but Malcolm took over as soon as he arrived in the city. He became legendary for striding into St. Paul’s notorious Black and White club to complain about the standard of their weed and getting away with it. We spent the winter months writing and freezing in The Unit and the summers performing and selling books on the street, at festivals and at protest marches in the UK and Europe. Despite the unemployment and black mood that had settled over the country, Malcolm and I were inspired: the Thatcher government, the Miner’s Strike, the Falklands War and the Anti-Nazi League protests fueled our creative fury.
Amsterdam in the early 80s offered us new opportunities and Malcolm gave his most electric performances in the city, appearing at the One World Poetry festival two years in a row.
We decided to gatecrash the event (which featured, along with William Burroughs, Russia’s greatest living poet, Yevgeny Yevteshenko and the UK’s Gregory Corso. We had a lot of support in the city so it didn’t take much blagging before we got the nod from the organiser that we could go on before one of the night’s headliners. Unpacking our Roland 606 and 808 on stage, we surveyed the room, packed to the rafters with poets, punks and fans eager to see the legendary Burroughs in action. After performances from Corso and others, we shot onstage and, for 30 minutes, regaled the audience with our brand of high-octane electro demagoguery. Filled out with our supporters, the audience went mental, clapping wildly and urging us into several encores until, spent of energy and other material, we triumphantly legged it off stage and into the VIP bar which overlooked the main hall. Meanwhile, Old Bill took to the stage and proceeded to croak his way through a medley of his ancient hits, pausing briefly to survey the hall which was half-empty after our storming finale. So, we were into our fifth pint before Bill, along with his entourage, approached us at the bar and proceeded to accuse us of stealing his notes, drugs and wallet while his bony ass was on stage. His minder, while a strapping lad himself, noted Malcolm’s 6′ 6” fighting stance and baulked at Bill’s suggestion of a quick frisk to determine our innocence. ‘You’re off your head, mate,’ I laughed, ordering another round.
Malcolm, unfazed by Bill’s temper tantrum, suggested that the old timer check his own pockets before hurling unfounded accusations. The minder whispered in the elderly poet’s ear before Bill, his eyes glazing over, began to timidly search his pockets. Meanwhile a crowd, eager for some inter-poet rivalry, surged round us as Bill emptied his coat. There, in amongst the junkie flotsam, we could see the items he’d accused us of taking so his minder wisely took the opportunity to whisk him away.
Malcolm could not resist one parting shot. ‘You know, Bill,’ he yelled over the heads of the crowd, ‘You should stick to Guinness. It’s a lot better for your memory than heroin’.
Also at this time, we began to write the initial stories that would become the first issue of BRUTE!
In the mid-80s, Malcolm moved to London and, after a period living in poverty, managed to get himself an internship at Blink Studios in Soho while touting BRUTE! around various ad agencies and TV production companies. It paid off. He gave me the call and I moved to London, immediately. We both lived on the notorious Rockingham estate in Elephant and Castle with dozens of other scousers fleeing the bleak unemployment of the north. They even called the estate, ”Little Wallasey” due to the amount of squatters who’d moved down south from the Wirral. Before long, we entered into a period of sustained creative work producing short films, pop videos and ad campaigns all based on the BRUTE! concept. Malcolm’s unbridled enthusiasm, wit and bravado secured us jobs and press coverage until his rising star was recognised by channel chiefs eager to unleash unconventional presenters onto the world via the new medium of youth TV. By the time we parted company in 1989, Malcolm was appearing on TV twice a week.
Except for an fruitless reunion in Bristol in the mid-90s, I wasn’t to see him again for 25 years. I moved with my family to the States and put the work I’d done with Malcolm behind me. It wasn’t until his son,Tom, urged us to start talking again a few years back that we began to heal the old wounds and started talking about working together again. When he visited me in Prague last year, he seemed his old vivacious self, brimming with ideas for the future and looking forward to seeing BRUTE! on the book stands once more.
Sadly, he never lived to see his final book published.
Over the last couple of months, I have been assembling images for inclusion in the forthcoming BRUTE! art book and I’ve been quite surprised at how difficult it’s been locating hi-resolution copies of my work from the 80s and 90s (much of it lost to corrupt back-up discs etc.). Of those I was able to source, several files had to be extensively repaired, many of the album covers from that period requiring major re-rendering to make them usable for publication.
There is still much restoration work to be done before the book goes to print next year but am now able to offer BRUTE! fans the chance to get their hands on one of these glorious vector-rendered versions, available as signed canvas prints. For details on how to order yours, please PM me here or order yours direct from the blog shop. http://blog.bruteprop.co.uk/?wpsc_product_category=prints-categories&paged=4