I’m Drub — an artist, illustrator, and painter of rugged men, queer desire, unruly fantasies, and the strange tenderness hiding in plain sight.For decades, skinheads, punks, truckers, skaters, devils, and rubbermen have wandered through my work. I’m drawn to their swagger, rough edges, and unexpected softness—a tough-looking man can be tender, a filthy joke can be affectionate, and desire can make room for humor, vulnerability, and joy.I began drawing my fantasies as a teenager, before I had the freedom to live them openly. Art school, coming out, and the early internet widened the world around me. Drawing became a way to find my people, give shape to my desires, and build a world where toughness and tenderness, fantasy and everyday life, could exist side by side.Over more than three decades, that impulse has grown into illustrations, comics, prints, and paintings. Occult imagery and mythology run through the work, alongside working men, queer intimacy, and a lasting fondness for trouble. Whether I’m working on paper or canvas, I’m interested in the tension between toughness and tenderness, fantasy and everyday life.

In The Studio

These days, acrylic painting on canvas is at the center of my practice. A painting might begin with an image, a mood, or a character who refuses to leave me alone. Sometimes I start from a sketch or photograph; other times, the picture emerges through loose marks, color, and instinct. I prefer discovering the work as I go rather than controlling every detail from the beginning.I build paintings in layers, allowing earlier colors and gestures to remain visible beneath the surface. Acrylics suit me because they can be direct and immediate while still giving me time to revise, scrape back, sharpen an expression, or change direction entirely. A strong, simple shape may gradually develop through shadows, highlights, patterns, and small details that reveal something about the person I’m painting.What interests me most is what passes between people: a lingering glance, playful tension, or the weight of a touch. Sometimes the quietest moment carries the most heat. I’m often trying to hold onto the instant before a character speaks or moves—the charged pause when attraction, uncertainty, humor, or tenderness is still possible.That search makes painting both physical and emotional work. I can begin a session feeling distracted or restless, then become absorbed in mixing colors and moving the brush across the canvas. Frustration is part of the process, especially when a face, hand, or pose refuses to work. Often, a painting becomes more interesting when I stop trying to make it perfect. An unexpected mark, awkward proportion, or accidental color can give the image its personality.I pay close attention to emotional atmosphere. I want my figures to feel present rather than merely posed, as if their lives continue beyond the edges of the canvas. I think about what they want, what they are hiding, and how they might look at someone they trust. Even when a subject is playful, erotic, strange, or confrontational, I’m looking for the human feeling underneath it.Music, curiosity, and daydreaming keep the studio moving. Memories, fantasies, mythology, and everyday observations mingle there. A man seen on the street, a fragment from a comic, an old photograph, or a dream can all become part of a painting’s visual language.I’m not interested in presenting masculinity as fixed or emotionless. I like the way strength can coexist with vulnerability, and how a powerful figure can still look uncertain, affectionate, ridiculous, or deeply human. I want the men I paint to feel alive—with desires, contradictions, and soft spots of their own.Above all, I hope the work leaves you with joy, and perhaps recognition: that small, satisfying feeling of “Oh, he gets it.” If a painting makes you smile, feel seen, or imagine a story for the person in it, then the creative process has done what I hoped it would do.