A project representing the milestones in the life of famed 19th century author Arthur Conan Doyle in a manner that, visually and textually, invokes his work and the society in which he lived. Done for the Red & Yellow School with art director Penelope Cooras.
The Ghost Club
Concept: written as a fictional invitation sent to Doyle by the Ghost Club. The Ghost Club was a society focusing on spiritualism and paranormal phenomenon based in Victorian London. Doyle was a strong advocate of spiritualism later in life, and was a member of the Ghost Club.
Dear Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
It is with great pleasure that we cordially invite you to a séance at the home of Lord Andrew Burnham, where we will attempt to contact the spirit of his late wife, the Lady Caroline Northwood Burnham.
Your presence at our gathering, if possible, would be most appreciated, given your value to our society; your recent work in explaining to the world the merits of spiritualism has proven an immense boon to our small community in the face of hostility and scepticism. Your incorporation of its elements into your popular Professor Challenger series has afforded it a fresh presentation in the public eye, one free of the derision and mockery with which it is normally treated; and your efforts to counteract the recent spiteful and inflammatory conduct of Mr Harry Price were no doubt key to the continued cohesion of our community. The value of the public support of a renowned and educated gentleman such as yourself cannot be truly quantified, and our fellow spiritualists would, I am assured, take great delight in your presence.
The séance will commence at 10 o’clock this evening, 1 September 1897.
Detective fiction
Concept: Referencing the creation of Sherlock Holmes, Doyle’s character, who is generally agreed to have been instrumental in popularising detective fiction. Text is presented as a page from a novel; directly reflects Holmes’ description of Professor Moriarity from ‘The Final Problem’.
“His career has been an extraordinary one. A man of unassuming birth and humble education, he is nonetheless endowed with the talents of a true Renaissance man. At the age of 22, he entered into the unromantic work of ship’s surgeon aboard the SS Mayumba while it sailed to the coast of West Africa. Upon his return home, he set up a private practice, and by all accounts, his business was limited. But the man had hereditary tendencies of a much less sensible sort. The strain of artistry and love of fanciful fictions ran in his veins, which, instead of being diluted by his education in the far more practical field of medicine, was rendered more acute by his extraordinary mental powers.
“As you are aware, Watson, my familiarity with London society is most thorough by necessity, and extends even into such inconsequential corners as libraries and reading circles. For years past I have continually been conscious of a tangible growth in fascination with detective fiction – that objectionable little vulgarisation of the analytical process. Again and again, amidst all this talk of its growing popularity, I have heard the name of Doyle ever reverberating, a presence far heavier than that of the gloomy Poe’s Dupin or Gaboriau’s insufferable Lecoq.
“He is the Marco Polo of crime fiction, Watson. He is the organiser of half that is irrational and nearly all that is overtly fanciful. He is a spiritualist, a madman, and a juvenile genius.”
Folding my hands across my lap, I could not help but smirk slightly. “I have to say, my dear Holmes, he may not share your genius, but I dare say he could quite thoroughly conquer you in terms of amiability.”
George Edalji
Concept: Written as a fictional 1906 newspaper article about the case of George Edalji, an Anglo-Indian solicitor accused of animal mutilations. Doyle fought to get his conviction overturned.
“But Doyle,” I inquired, “whatever made you so certain of Mr Edalji’s innocence in the first place?”
“Elementary, my dear reporter. You see, when I first encountered Mr Edalji, he held his newspaper at such an angle to his face that it was at once clear to me that the man suffered from severely poor eyesight – eyesight, my dear reporter, which would have made the commission of these vulgar crimes quite impossible at night. Knifework, my dear fellow – even of such a crude variety as this – simply could not be done blindly.”
I nodded. In truth, even with his reputation considered, the man’s confidence struck me; yet I knew full well that the mind which had spawned the inquisitive genius of Sherlock Holmes would never draw any definitive conclusion based entirely upon what could be considered little more than a hunch.
“But my investigations, my dear reporter, have unearthed some profoundly revealing circumstances; and while I can assure you, my dear reporter, that I have no interest in deriding the good name of the Staffordshire police force in general, I have to remark that the work of one Captain the Honourable G.A. Anson in this case was of most questionable integrity.”
I nodded again, quietly receptive. The general conduct of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was, I have to admit, not at all what I anticipated – there was a striking dualism to it. In his current state of enthusiastic engagement, his conduct bespoke a rigid, analytical keen-mindedness I had always envisioned in his Holmes creation; yet at the same time, he never reflected the cold, detached air which so defined the Holmes character. Rather, his bearing bespoke a mild, grandfatherly warmth, and was that of a man who was not nearly as weary of, or detached from, human company as Holmes. In spite of circumstances, he was, in truth, far more suggestive of Dr Watson – slightly advanced in years – than of the great Baker Street detective.
“I dare say you are aware, my dear reporter,” Mr Doyle went on, “that one of the major pieces of evidence in the prosecution of Mr Edalji was a strand of his hair found upon a piece of the dead horse’s hide? I dare say, however, that Captain Anson neglected to inform the court that said piece of hide had, in fact, been wrapped in a piece of Mr Edalji’s clothing by his officers when it was taken for evidence.”
I raised my eyebrows in quiet shock.
“Indeed.” Mr Doyle said with a nod. “Moreover, my dear reporter, the razor with which Mr Edalji had allegedly maimed this poor creature had not borne a trace of blood on it; nor was the mud found on his clothes of the same type of soil as that at the crime scene.”
I nodded in silence, absorbing Mr Doyle’s restrained, yet damning delivery of these facts.
“These things were known at the time of the investigation, my dear reporter,” said Mr Doyle, “and it is most troubling that they were as difficult to unearth as they were.”
Cottingley fairies
Concept: written as a fictional letter by a child, early 20th century. A reference to the Cottingley fairies, in which two girls took fake photographs and claimed they were of fairies. Doyle believed in the authenticity of the photographs and used them in a magazine article. Letter is based on an actual letter that Frances Griffiths, one of the girls, wrote to a friend in Cape Town.
Dear Joe
How are you? Algebra’s terribly hard, but I’m enjoying French. Dad helps me practice it, teaches me words that aren’t in the lesson books that he learned while he was over there. He still won’t talk about the war, but it’s nice to have him back.
We’ve had an awful lot of reporters coming around to ask about the fairies we saw. A lot of them have dreadfully loud voices. Uncle Arthur looked awfully angry when he went out to a talk to them when a whole lot came in a big car, but he closed the front door first…
Mr Doyle came around again, though (mother says I ought to call him Sir Arthur, but he says he prefers Mr Doyle). He’s awfully nice, and he says he’s going to use our pictures to write an article that’ll make all the grown-ups believe that we really did see fairies.
Do you have Mr Doyle’s books over there? He wrote the stories about Mr Holmes, who solves mysteries. Mother says they’re too grown-up for me, but I saw some pictures of a play about them once on Broadway.
Anyway, she says Mr Doyle’s a most respected man, and if he tells people he believes we really did see fairies, there might be more people who won’t be so afraid to say they believe us too.
I wonder if you’ve tried looking for fairies around Cape Town? I still think most of Africa’s too hot for them, but Cape Town does have some nice green parts, doesn’t it? I think I can imagine them hiding somewhere up in the mountains where it snows sometimes, up in the trees, waiting in the shadows until winter. Maybe you’ll be able to go and see them one day.
