#jack lindsay

John Farleigh was trained at the London County Council Central School of Arts, now the the Central School of Art and Design, where he studied with noted English wood engraver Noel Rooke, and would later teach there himself, mentoring the next generation of fine wood engravers, including the outstanding British engraver Monica Poole. For Storm at Sea, the author Jack Lindsay offered to provide his own illustrations, which would have been drawings translated into metal plates. The owner of Golden Cockerel at the time Christopher Sanford, however, preferred to maintain the press’s tradition of using wood engravings and offered the job to Farleigh, even though Stanford did not have a very high opinion of his work. In a correspondence related to hiring Farleigh for the job, Sanford noted that Farleigh “is not as good an artist as Agnes Miller Parker, Blair Hughes-Stanton or [Gertrude] Hermes & has only illustrated two important books.”

Even the authors for the 2002 A History of The Golden Cockerel Press 1920-1960, Roderick Cave and Sarah Manson, in assessing Farleigh’s work for this book, write that the engravings were “technically very accomplished, they had the correct historical detail but were also rather dull.” We beg to differ. They are indeed very accomplished, but in our opinion, they are far from dull, and we think they stand up fairly well against the work of Parker, Hughes-Stanton, and Hermes.

For comparison, view our posts on the works of Parker, Hughes-Stanton, and Hermes.

View more posts on Golden Cockerel Press editions.

about the character.

character desired : jack lindsay faceclaim : robert pattinson birthday / zodiac : dec 20 / Sagittarius sexual / romantic orientation : bisexual / bi romantic anything else : since jack is a musician i’m going to use brian fallon as his voice claim when i post any of his “original” songs & use brian’s band the gaslight anthem for jack’s most recent band’s sound

writing sample.

tw: drugs & murder

“Shit, shit, shit,” Jack mumbled to himself as he scrubbed his hands beneath the running hot water in his bathroom.  The ancient water tank couldn’t get the temperature hot enough to burn the guilt from his fingertips as blood circled the drain.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  His clunker of a classic car with the deep trunk was supposed to be nothing but transportation.  Jack offered to dispose of the body himself, he was so on edge, he couldn’t promise there wouldn’t be a second body to put six feet under if anybody even so much as looked at him the wrong way.  

Earlier that evening Jack had driven deep into the desert, chain smoking an entire pack of cigarettes as the highway stretched beyond him like two tightropes.  He pulled his car off the main road and kept driving for a few miles until he was at the base of some rocks.  It seemed like a good enough burial spot as any.  Then he began digging.  Turns out grave digging gave him plenty of time to contemplate his own mortality: the countless times he could have wound up in the ground himself.  Jack was once on his way to greatness and now— he was on track to wind up in an unmarked grave of his own.  

Fuck.  He needed a bump a hit of something.  Jack wasn’t feeling particularly picky about which vice to give into.

The sight of blood didn’t turn his stomach anymore.  Jack told himself it was from all the drug induced nosebleeds that would force him to stare, hyper fixated, on his own face until it looked more like an surrealist painting than flesh.  Even that was easier to stomach than thinking of all the blood he’s seen pooled on the tile of various motel bathrooms or beneath the pale glow of street lamps.  So, as he pulled the tarp covered body from the trunk of his car, expecting just to cast it into the earth, head back to his place and numb himself with a bottle of whiskey and cocaine— the last thing he expected was to see any signs of life.  

The tarp rose and fell shallowly— but the movement was unmistakable.  Jack wanted to blame the wind, but the night air was so still he could hear the echo of the coyotes howling from canyons away.  Theoretically Jack was left with multiple options here: drive back into town and see if this life could be spared, bury this man alive, or finish the job himself.  

Jack knew what he had to do, so he retrieved a tire iron from his car.  He swung, and swung, and swung until hot tears of guilt brimmed in corner of his eyes and the sounds of a cracking skull ricocheted between his ears.  Jack hastily buried the body and headed back into town– eager to escape reality..

anything else.

filled connection: I’d love to offer Jack up to fill Gemma’s roommate connection if that works!

wanted connection: jack has a soft spot for your character (whether bromantic or romantic we can flesh out) so he offered to bury a body for them.  when jack got to the burial spot he realized the person wasn’t dead… and now he’s killed for them too.  

task 001