Illustrated in the style of a vintage Edwardian or Victorian photograph. This image is part of my 'Anicurio' collection. Each original illustration is carefully hand drawn in pencil. Once finished, I hand age and treat them with various dye methods, to resemble an old dusty antique photograph. I want this series to suggest something that was rediscovered by you. An inherited artifact from a mysterious benefactor? Or perhaps revealed in a long abandoned attic, lying at the bottom of a chest. Buried beneath old dusty clothes and fading hand written notes.
Paper print: 10H" X 8W" - $29.00 (signed) - FREE shipping within USA
Paper print: 11H" X 16W" - $49.00signed) - FREE shipping within USA
Watermark will not be printed on image
FREE shipping within USA
All reproduction prints are scanned and printed using gallery standard, professional equipment and materials. Ensuring the highest quality.
Sir Humphrey Hawley-Brown. 3rd Earl of Hawley-Brown manor in Shropshire, England. Born 1857.
Hawley-Brown manor, was Sir Humphry's sprawling estate. It was often remarked that it seemed to reflect Sir Humphry's state of mind. It had long since seen it’s best years. Sir Humphrey did little to conserve or curate it, and the crumbling spires and hallways of Hawley-Brown manor were as chaotic and unpredictable as Sir Humphry himself.
His staff was limited to one groundskeeper, named Pembleton, an octogenarian butler named Copestick, and his old partially blind Labrador retainer, Henry.
Sir Humphrey was reputed locally to be an eccentric. He did little to swage those rumors. He could often be seen patrolling the grounds with his shotgun. If an aeroplane or hot air ballon was unfortunate enough to stray overhead, Sir Humphrey would attempt to shoot it down with his rifle, thinking that he had bagged a great winged beast. Fortunately, his aim was terrible and there were never any casualties reported.
Because of the strain of the upkeep upon his old butler Copestick, most of the manor was now uninhabitable. Sir Humphrey was content to live in the east wing, but every year his world constricted smaller as more rooms became inhabitable to him. Ironically, his great girth didn’t reduce at a comprable rate. So he was often left complaining to anyone who was within ear shot, that “The world is shrinking, don’t you know? The world is shrinking It’ll get so blasted small that we’ll all fall off one day. …you mark my words!”