Stupid Dog - Original Artwork

Stupid Dog is a riot of psychedelic colour and primitive form. Two totemic figures stand sentinel either side of a pale, ghostly flower. The left figure pulses with wavy bands of electric blue, acid green, hot pink and orange — like a heat map or a hallucination. The right figure towers in dusty pink and purple, striped vertically, both arms raised. Between them, a white daisy bleeds downward, drips of pale ink running like wax from a candle.

The background is pure optical heat. Radiating bands of red, orange, yellow and green surge outward from the centre, creating a halo effect that feels part sunrise, part target, part portal. The flower sits dead centre, its petals crudely drawn, almost childlike. But there's nothing naive about the execution.

This is an original artwork. One of one. No edition. Once it's sold, that's it.

The layering here is dense and deliberate. First came the background gradient — probably three or four passes to build that intensity, each colour pulled through a separate screen. Then the figures, built up in transparent washes of cyan, magenta, yellow, layered to create those undulating rainbow patterns. The green and pink solids came next, printed wet enough to allow some bleed and texture. Finally, the white flower and drips, laid down last to sit on top of everything, opaque but not flat — you can see the weave of the paper through the ink.

Oli worked this on heavy cotton rag stock, the kind that holds water-based ink without buckling. Every pass registered by eye and hand. No digital shortcuts. The slight shifts in alignment aren't mistakes — they're evidence of the process.

The mood pulls from 1960s psychedelic poster art, the kind churned out for Avalon Ballroom gigs and Grateful Dead shows. But there's also something older here. Those figures feel like corrupted deities, ancient symbols passed through a photocopier too many times. The flower could be reverent or sarcastic. The title suggests the latter.

There's a looseness to this that only comes from decades of printmaking. Oli doesn't fuss. He pulls, he layers, he lets the ink do what it wants within the boundaries of the screen. Twenty-six years of craft gives you that confidence.

Who is this print for? Collectors who understand that hand-pulled means unrepeatable. Once it's gone, it's gone. Own a piece of British screenprint craft.