They work alone, and the things they make are strikingly diverse. One has that classic storybook look, with wild faces and tiny fine lines making up detailed backgrounds. Another twines quirky text so intensely with images it's not clear which came first. Still another is bright and simple and effective at transmitting information effortlessly.
They are produced daily, monthly, yearly (or multi-yearly). They begin by commission or their own invention or even a class assignment. They're sold or put online for free or roughed out and never really finished.
They are all so different — yet at their center, there's something the same. After all, they're all drawings made by illustrators working in St. Louis.
And St. Louis — it's a good place to be an illustrator. There's a solid community here and a surprising nexus of talent for such a small city that is not particularly known outside its borders for its well of drawing capability. You could say it's a secret, but it's one that's unlikely to stay hidden for much longer.
Perhaps not any longer than the publication of this article. Illustrators have built a community here, and they're happy not only to pare away the mystery of what it's like to draw for a living, but also to explain why and how they do it here — and make a compelling case that others just may want to join them.
The making of an illustrator
Most of these artists find illustration young, before they even know it could be a job.
"I've been an illustrator my whole life, I just didn't know that's what it was called," says John Hendrix, a freelance illustrator. A St. Louis native, he really came into the profession in New York, where he worked as an art director with the New York Times before returning home to teach at Washington University and eventually start up its Illustration & Visual Culture MFA, of which he's now chair.
It was the same for Dmitri Jackson, who traces his illustration roots back to a Crayola Easter Bunny coloring contest he entered at age six.
"I ended up winning first place, and it was pretty cool," he says. "That was the earliest moment where I thought, 'I think I can do this. I could make a living doing art or doing drawing.'"
Jackson began drawing comics (find his long-running Blackwax Boulevard online or pick up a print collection where books are sold), eventually going to college at Wash U, which broadened his interests into motion graphics and beyond.
School was also Christina "Steenz" Stewart's entry into drawing for a living — or, rather, dropping out of art school was how they found the profession.
"I liked drawing," Steenz says. "I knew I liked illustration; I thought maybe I should go into children's books, illustration. But I didn't really know what the avenue for that was either. So after realizing that my college was not giving me any valuable answers as to how to take my skills and put it into a career, I dropped out because I was like, 'What am I paying you for?'"
They started working at a local comic store and got involved in the community, eventually meeting their creative partner Ivy Noelle Weir. After Oni Press published the duo's first book, Archival Quality, things took off. "It made it a lot easier getting other gigs," Steenz says. Eventually everything fed into being tapped to take over as the artist of the daily syndicated comic Heart of the City.
But knowing your path from an early age isn't the only way to do things. Look at Candice Evers, a freelance illustrator who has done work with NPR-affiliate WNYC Studios, the LA Times and more. She was working in nonprofit fundraising until, amid a "quarter-life crisis," she relocated to St. Louis to be closer to her significant other's family.
After the move, she attended an online summer program through the Illustration Academy, where she heard lauded St. Louis illustrator Ed Kinsella speak. Then she made her way into Wash U's new grad program.
"It's not going to hurt me to give it a shot," she remembers thinking. "Like, I'm not so old yet. So what if I just try a little bit?"
The hustle — and the side hustles
Evers mostly does editorial work on commission, which is how it works when a publication hires an illustrator to create a piece to match a specific project (the RFT does this a lot). But it's not like getting an assignment and coming back with a fully finished piece by deadline. Instead, the artist will create sketches, maybe pitch them and refine them, and then ultimately produce a piece.
Recently, Evers worked with the WNYC podcast More Perfect to illustrate an episode about Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas' collegiate obsession with Malcolm X.
"You're getting this information, like bits and pieces of this podcast episode in process," she says. "It's interesting to see, 'OK, what am I thinking is standing out, what are they thinking is standing out?' So you're generating as many thumbnails, as many scratches as you can for possible ways that you could solve this puzzle of trying to create an image to go along with the story that they're trying to tell."
But that's just one way to do things, Hendrix says. And the lines between various modes of illustration have blurred.
"It used to be that the disciplines between, let's say, classic illustration and comics were very different," he says. "Thirty, forty years ago, but even fifteen years ago, they were very separate. But now they're very connected, mostly because illustrators are really not your classic 'waiting for the phone to ring' Mad Men era. There are people that are writing their own work, and in one way or another, using drawings and writing to engage with the world."
That could look like an old school in-house type of illustrator, so prolific in the heyday of the advertising boom but even now still in existence, as with Dan Zettwoch's first gig out of school as an illustrator at a technical magazine. Some create book jackets or children's books, like the icon who is arguably St. Louis' most famous illustrator, Mary Engelbreit. There are visual journalists, who write and draw stories. And professions like game design are increasingly falling under the illustration umbrella.
Then there are the people who have related jobs. Hendrix is a freelancer and he teaches, as do many, including Steenz, who is an instructor at Webster University, or Brandon Daniels, who says he teaches as an adjunct at "just about every school in the region." Jackson also serves as an educational technologist at Wash U, providing technical support, which he says is the perfect balance between creative and not creative.
Very rarely, it seems, does anyone these days focus on only one aspect of illustration, regardless of who they are or what they primarily produce.
"I like to have a bunch of different stuff going all at once," Zettwoch says. "I think that's been sort of my personal secret, to never feel like I'm chained to the drawing table or chained to a computer."
There's also a darker side to that multiplicity: It's a necessity. Jackson recalls reaching out to publications nationally at the start of his career. "I had to hustle hard from the jump," he says, noting that he's eyeing the encroachment of AI in illustration's territory warily.
Steenz sees things a bit differently. There are plenty of opportunities to be found, they say, because so much is done online. But that's not enough.
"What sucks is that there's not a lot of money for the arts," they say. "You can have all the faculty positions available, but they'll remain unfilled if the salary doesn't increase. Many artists are doing multiple creative pursuits. Not just because it's nice to diversify, but because we need multiple streams of income to make ends meet. But I can't say that's strictly a St. Louis problem."
Building a community
Drawing is a solo act, even when there's a collaborative aspect, as with Evers' podcast illustrations. That can be great — Zettwoch says he can look back at past projects and picture exactly what he was listening to or what was happening in his life at the time, like when he was putting together a book on the internal combustion engine just as his toddler son was getting super into cars.
"He's not always excited about what I'm working on. I'm a pretty boring dad," he says. "But that was a fun one."
But there's a downside as well. "It can be an incredibly isolated role," Evers says.
As a result, illustrators are finding ways to come together and make community in St. Louis.
Take Steenz, who makes their Heart of the City strips Monday through Wednesday and "sometimes Thursday, if I'm feeling lazy." They create two strips a day and then work on the Sunday one, which is longer and more involved.
That schedule leaves a lot of time to pursue other things. They'll read pitches, or do some work as an editor, help other comic creators develop their projects or teach a workshop. They've found a multitude of ways to give back and provide the support younger artists need.
"Those kinds of one-on-one reviews and mentorships are the stuff that I feel the most passionate about," Steenz says. "I felt so lost and abandoned after I left college."
Steenz set out to let others know that the expected path from college to job wasn't how it worked for everyone: "I don't want people to think that they have to live their life a certain way when they have so many other options out there for them."
Steenz is now part of a group, which includes Daniels, leading the charge to bring back the St. Louis Small Press Expo (which ceased with the pandemic) as the St. Louis Independent Comics Expo, or SLICE, this year on October 14 at the Sheldon. Despite the name, it involves far more than just comics — really, any print-based artwork, indie publications and more. And, unlike previous iterations, SLICE is now planning events throughout the year, including regular Drink & Draw meetups and workshops such as a graphic novel book club at Betty's Books on Wednesday, August 23.
The group is far from the only community connecting St. Louis creators. Ink and Drink Comics holds a weekly session for illustrators to meet up, grab a drink and make comics. It regularly publishes the results of those meetups in themed anthologies with drink-inspired names, such as 2021's Liquid Courage II, which is about superheros.
The Cherokee Print Bazaar is another such point of intersection.
"Whenever you go to one of those [annual events], seeing everybody, checking in with each other, maybe that's the only time you see someone over the course of six months or a year, but it's good to see what people are up to, and I think that definitely informs what other people are doing," Evers says.
There's also a natural nexus forming around Wash U since the creation of its MFA program. "St. Louis has kind of become a bit of an illustration destination," Hendrix says. "It's neat to see it really take off in our town."
The programs at Webster, Maryville University, Lindenwood and elsewhere add to that, with some graduates leaving but others staying in town.
Jackson says it isn't only about the programs here. There's something about the city itself, which is just the right size. "It creates a real strong sense of home and family in a strange way," he says.
"That's one of the great parts about St. Louis: It's big enough of a town to have real culture, things like that, but also small enough to where you feel like you have access to everybody, or could meet everyone who's doing the kind of work you're interested in," Zettwoch agrees. (He also observes that elements of the city have crept into his work subjects — local history and birds, for example — and even the style of lettering he sees around the city.)
Funding from places like the Kranzberg Arts Foundation and the Regional Arts Commission helps. "There are lots of art administrators and art foundations and nonprofits that are supporting us," Daniels says. "RAC gives out millions of dollars a year to support the local communities, and they don't seem to discriminate against illustrators or comic artists."
Then there's the thing that makes St. Louis great for all artists: It's cheap. And that draws creative people in, or just keeps them here.
"There's a lot to love about it," Hendrix says. "You can have an affordable home, and people just stay."
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