The Pearl of the World, by John Steinbeck, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell in Woman's Home Companion Magazine, 1945.

Sai Shankar's message struck me because it was more than a simple request—it was a reminder of how multiverse thinking connects us in unexpected ways and at unexpected times. It’s a philosophy I’ve spent years exploring: the idea that every story, every person, and every creative act exists within intersecting worlds. In this case, the world of a 20th-century illustrator, the world of pulp magazines, and my own world as a writer and curator collided. Maxwell’s life and art weren’t just about illustrating stories—they were about traversing boundaries, embracing contradictions, and finding beauty in places others might overlook.

John Alan Maxwell’s work embodies multiverse thinking. He illustrated for literary giants like Pearl Buck and John Steinbeck while simultaneously contributing to the pulpy, hard-hitting worlds of stag magazines and Street & Smith’s Sea Stories. His lush nudes and historical epics, his collaborations with the New York Bibliophilist Society, and his ventures into literary erotica reveal an artist who was unafraid to navigate diverse, even contradictory spaces. The blogger’s discovery of Maxwell’s covers for Sea Stories—and even more intriguingly, a few unsigned works that bore his unmistakable signature—was yet another layer in this multiverse of creativity.

The following essay is a reflection on my great uncle John Alan Maxwell’s life and legacy. It explores not just the man and his art but the intersections where his work challenged and redefined boundaries. If multiverse thinking has taught me anything, it’s that our connections to the past are never linear; they spiral outward, inviting us to see familiar stories in new dimensions. This is my invitation to you: step into the multiverse artistry and visual storytelling of John Alan Maxwell.

Family Secrets

Family secrets have a way of seeping through the cracks, revealing themselves in whispers, in glances, in half-told stories at kitchen tables or over tinkling glasses of bourbon on a summer time back porch. My great-uncle John Alan Maxwell (1904-1984) was one such secret. A noted illustrator in his time, John’s life and work lived at the intersection of high art and pulp fiction, of Southern charm and New York bohemia, of reverence and scandal. As I pieced together his story through fragments shared by my grandmother Gladys, her sister, Elizabeth, and others, I came to realize that John wasn’t just an artist—he was an enigma.

At 18 years old, a year after John had passed, I spent the summer of 1985 with my grandmother Gladys at her house on Pine Street in Johnson City, Tennessee. After long days of painting the clapboard siding of her Victorian cottage, the evenings on her back porch, often with her sister, Elizabeth, were languid and honeyed, marked by the tinkling of ice in glasses of bourbon as we talked late into the humid nights. It was during one of these moments, as fireflies danced lazily in the air, that Gladys, in her usual commanding tone, leaned back in her wicker chair and said, “Doug, you know your Uncle John was quite the character. But there are so many things we don’t know about him.” This, I would later realize, was a literary gauntlet. 

Only a few weeks later, Gladys too passed away, leaving me in deep grief and over time, having to sift through the fragments of her stories, notes, and memories. Her words lingered, pressing on me, more like a military charge than a quiet directive. Understanding John now felt less like a casual pursuit and more like a mission—a way to honor both her memory and the legacy of her brother.

Revelations that summer had come in drips and waves, unraveling the tapestry of my family’s carefully curated narrative about Uncle John. Gladys, who seemed to know everything about everyone, admitted that even she hadn’t grasped the full breadth of his career. Sure, she knew he was famous for illustrating books and magazines, and she pointed out the gifts he had scattered among family members over the years—sketches, drawings, and a few of his more obscure works. And now, she too was gone. But as I delved deeper into his life, it became clear that she was right; there was so much more to John than the enigmatic artist anyone thought they knew.

Cover art, Pearl Buck's 1941 novel, China Sky.

Gladys was so proud that her favorite painting, one John  had gifted her, was Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth; even in my youth, however, I could tell that this painting didn’t fit this book, but at that time, I held my tongue. It would take me 19 years to prove that John never illustrated The Good Earth, but that Gladys’ painting was indeed the cover art for Buck’s lesser known 1941 novel, China Sky. John, in fact, illustrated numerous other works for Buck, including 1930s magazine serials of The Exile and The Angel in Woman’s Home Companion magazine. My sporadic discoveries of family truth, of obscure works for Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winning authors, became a game for me through the noughties, as I painstaking scrolled through Google book and magazine searches and made perilous bids and forays on EBay. 

John’s career, I learned through years of research, was far richer, more prolific, and more complicated than any of us could have guessed. As I explored the dusty corners of the book and magazine trades, I found treasures far beyond my imagination: a prolific number of books and magazines with his illustrations, each bearing his signature blend of classical technique and modern boldness. Titles unknown to my family that John had illustrated for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Christopher Morley, John Steinbeck, Pearl Buck, Edna Ferber, and Ernest Hemingway were there. But so too were other works—sea sagas and historical novels by Thomas Costain, C.S. Forrester, Frank Yerby, F. Van Wyck Mason, Hervey Allen, and Booth Tarkington. These weren’t just projects for John; they were collaborations with storytellers whose tales of adventure, romance, and history mirrored his own fascination with the human experience.

Tenth Street Studio

It wasn’t just the works themselves that fascinated me; the most intriguing aspect of John’s story was the life that surrounded it. His friendships with figures like Christopher Morley (1890-1957) and Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931) placed him at the heart of New York’s 1930s bohemian scene around the famous Tenth Street Studio, where people like John, Gibran, artists like John LaFarge and Alexander Calder, and illustrators like Ray Prohaska and Tommy Stevens maintained studios.

The Tenth Street Studio Building, built in 1857 in Greenwich Village, was a revolutionary space designed exclusively for artists by architect Richard Morris Hunt. Its central domed gallery and interconnected studios fostered both creativity and collaboration, making it a hub for the New York art scene. Nineteenth century artists like Winslow Homer and members of the Hudson River School worked and exhibited there, with Frederic Edwin Church even debuting The Heart of the Andes in its famed atrium. This was long before these 20th-century bohemian denizens occupied these studios. The building’s influence stretched far beyond its walls, shaping American art until its demolition in 1956—a loss still felt in the cultural fabric of New York City.

Inscribed illustration from Morley's 1929 book, Seacoast of Bohemia, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell.

John’s connection to Morley and Gibran highlights the depth of his artistic and intellectual multiverse. Morley, a towering figure in early 20th-century literature and theater, recognized 24-year-old John’s talent early, inviting him to collaborate on various projects. From their first meeting around 1928, Morley brought John into his orbit, commissioning posters and illustrations for ambitious theatrical revivals like The Black Crook and Civil War-inspired works such as The Blue and the Gray. Morley’s description of Hoboken as the “Last Seacoast of Bohemia,” a book John illustrated in 1929, echoed the duo’s shared lament for a fading artistic culture in New York’s Greenwich Village. Their partnership embodied a mutual commitment to reinvigorate art and storytelling, with Morley championing Maxwell’s ability to weave drama and history into a single image. 

Meanwhile, John’s residency at the Tenth Street Studio brought him into close proximity with Kahlil Gibran, whose philosophical musings left an indelible mark on him. The two often played chess together, their conversations extending beyond strategy to themes of love, death, and beauty. Maxwell admired Gibran’s ability to distill complex ideas into poetic simplicity, a skill he echoed in his illustrations. When Gibran’s health waned, Maxwell made a promise to ensure his spirit would “dance” in stories he would later tell. True to his word, Maxwell kept Gibran’s memory alive, often humorously recounting tales of his ghostly presence at the studio to the New York Times, blending myth and memory into his reflections. This connection not only shaped Maxwell’s personal philosophy but also informed his art, grounding it in the same deep humanism that defined Gibran’s writing. 

Pulp Fiction

John’s work wasn’t confined to the world of literature. Once nationally recognized by the Society of Illustrators for his elegant book covers and serialized magazine art, John rarely sought fame. By the 1950s, however, fame proved even more elusive, as photography began to replace illustration, and John found himself adapting to newer, more “unseemly” markets. John shifted to stag magazines and pulp fiction. These later works, often dismissed as lowbrow, revealed a grittier side to his artistry. They were bold, provocative, and unapologetically raw, reflecting a man who refused to let cultural shifts dictate his creative output.

John’s pivot to stag mags and pulp fiction wasn’t just a necessary career move; it was a reflection of his broader philosophy as an artist. He didn’t distinguish between “high” and “low” art. To him, every commission was a canvas for exploring the human condition, a way to pay the bills, whether it was a literary masterpiece or a lurid tale of intrigue. Hell, this was man who made a living as an artist during the Great Depression and World War II: a testament to his resilience and tenacity. That ethos would carry him through the highs and lows of his career, even as the art world shifted beneath his feet.

For all his adaptability, John was never content to simply “illustrate.” His work for authors like Forrester and Tarkington wasn’t just decorative; it was interpretive. His illustrations added layers of meaning, drawing out nuances in the text that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. It’s no wonder that critics of the time, despite their biases against illustrators, recognized his genius. Yet, within the family, his achievements were often overshadowed by scandal.

John’s “Lovelies,” as he once referred to them in a 1960s newspaper profile, I learned, were central to that scandal. These nudes, whether in pen and ink or oil, were both celebrated and reviled. To his sisters, Gladys and Elizabeth, they were stunning examples of his artistry. To others in the family, they were an embarrassment, a stain on the family name. 

My uncle’s career often took fascinating, multiversical detours, each marked by an extraordinary ability to blend the classical with the provocative. One of the most prestigious chapters of his work involved his 1930s commissions for the New York Bibliophilist Society. These were no ordinary projects; they were painstakingly crafted reprints of literary classics such as Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders and Roxana: the Fortunate Mistress, or Alain René Le Sage’s Asmodeus: the Devil on Two Sticks. Maxwell’s luscious illustrations for these limited editions captured the tension between the moralistic tone of the prose and the sensual undertones of its characters. His renderings of the human form, exquisite in their detail, elevated these works into something transcendent—art that navigated the edge between respectability and desire.

A variety of pulp fiction covers from the 1930s to the 1960s by John Alan Maxwell.

John never shied away from pushing such boundaries. His body of work brims with nudes that were both luscious and contemplative. These weren’t simply risqué sketches meant to provoke; they were explorations of anatomy, texture, and emotion. The sensuality in these pieces mirrored his own philosophy: that beauty, whether refined or raw, deserved a place in the art world. Yet, within his family, these works at times became a source of whispered embarrassment. Sketches hidden behind bookshelves and hastily covered portfolios spoke to a tension between his daring artistry and the conservative expectations of his Southern roots in Tennessee.

Proto-Pulp

Perhaps most intriguing to me, however, was one of John’s other ventures into literary erotica, almost proto-pulp fiction. A particularly memorable discovery came to me years later when a book description popped up on eBay: Youth Walks on the Highway by Albert Richard Wetjen. The book, illustrated with John’s unmistakable pen strokes, was a revelation to me. His ability to capture eroticism without vulgarity, to depict intimacy with vulnerability and elegance, was remarkable. 

Youth Walks on the Highway (1930) by Albert Richard Wetjen, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell.

Albert Richard Wetjen was a writer whose rugged prose drew heavily from his life experiences at sea, crafting narratives that reflected themes of isolation, survival, and youthful longing. Born in New Zealand, Wetjen spent his early years on the water, as a British Army officer once held captive by the Sultan of Zanzibar. These experiences imbued his work with an authenticity that resonated with readers of his time. While he gained significant acclaim for his adventure stories in popular magazines like Adventure, Action Stories, and Blue Book, Wetjen’s 1930 novel Youth Walks on the Highway stands apart from his later pulp contributions.

Youth Walks on the Highway is a fascinating artifact of its time—a proto-pulp novella that straddles the line between literary ambition and the raw immediacy of pulp storytelling. Published in 1930 as a limited edition of only 750 copies, this work was printed on fine vellum, a striking departure from the cheap, mass-produced pages typical of pulp books or magazines. The choice of materials and its limited run suggest that Youth Walks on the Highway was intended not just as a story, but as an objet d’art—a collector’s piece designed to elevate its genre influences into something enduring.

The novella itself, steeped in themes of youthful desire and existential longing, where archteypal youth is introduced to the carnal pleasures of Dionyus’ four daughters. It reads like a precursor to the pulp aesthetic, with its visceral energy and John’s evocative imagery. His nudes, in particular, are striking—figures imbued with both vulnerability and strength, their poses in space and sky suggestive yet restrained, inviting the viewer into moments of quiet reflection rather than overt spectacle. One can sense the physicality of his subjects—the curve of a back, the tilt of a head—each imbued with a quiet sensuality that lingers beyond the page. Together, Wetjen and Maxwell crafted a work that stands apart—both an homage to the boldness of pulp and a declaration of its potential as high art.

An Enigmatic Legacy

Each artistic and narrative paradigm of my uncle John’s multiverse reveal the many layers of his identity. To the public, he was a master illustrator whose lines breathed life into great literature. To those who have known him more intimately, even posthumously, as I have, he was an artist unafraid to delve into the sensual and the controversial. And to me, he remains an enduring enigma, a man whose art continues to challenge and inspire.

His works aren’t merely erotic; they’re intimate, vulnerable, and deeply human. They reflect John’s fascination with the human form, his obsession with bone structure and musculature, and his belief that beauty could be found in the grotesque as well as the sublime.

John Alan Maxwell: Self portrait

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventure of the Speckled Band, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell, 1930.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventure of the Speckled Band, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell, 1930.

Daniel Defoe's Moll Flanders, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell, 1930.

Alain Rene Le Sage's Asmodeus, the Devil on Two Sticks, illustrated by John Alan Maxwell

Magazine illustration by John Alan Maxwell for The Yearling, 1946.

Years later, I felt compelled to tell John’s story in my own way. In 2012, I wrote, directed, and produced The Lovelies of John Alan Maxwell, a film that premiered at the Bijou Theatre in Knoxville in February, 2013. The film sought to unravel some of the mysteries of John’s life and work, blending dramatization with family history and artistic analysis. It was my attempt to make sense of a man who straddled so many worlds: the Southern boy who became a bohemian artist, the celebrated illustrator who later worked for pulp magazines, the family man who was also a provocateur. The film was as much about my journey to understand him as it was about John himself.

The following year, in April 2014, I curated an exhibition at the Reece Museum at East Tennessee State University, titled John Alan Maxwell: Illustrator of Romance. It was a major retrospective of many of the unknown aspects of his career, bringing together pieces that spanned decades and genres. From his early illustrations for literary classics to his later, more experimental works, the exhibition celebrated his artistic evolution. Seeing his art on those walls, contextualized within the broader arc of 20th-century illustration, was a profound experience. For many visitors, it was their first introduction to John’s genius. For others who were once his students in his later years in Upper East Tennessee, it was indeed a nostalgic celebration. For me, it was the culmination of years of exploration and discovery.

What struck me most during the exhibition was the reaction of visitors. People lingered over his lush, dark palettes, his meticulous attention to detail, and his ability to evoke emotion through line and shadow. His illustrations weren’t just images; they were narratives in their own right, each one inviting viewers to step into a world of romance, adventure, and intrigue.

In celebrating John Alan Maxwell—through my first indie film, through exhibitions, and through essays like this—I hope to do more than preserve his legacy. I hope to share the “Lovelies” he left behind, not just as works of art but as windows into a man who saw the world in all its complexity and dared to capture it.