Frank 151 sits down with Jim Phillips to talk about his life, art, and times.

INTERVIEW BY: Will Stolk 

Frank 151: Growing up, what were some of your earliest artistic influences before skateboarding came into the picture?

I was born to an Army Captain father who frequently moved our family around. He stopped briefly in San Jose, California, so my mother’s uncle, a doctor, could deliver my mother’s second child—me—on October 24, 1944.

We lived in big houses with no furniture because of the constant relocations, and as I grew older, I realized what that meant: a lot of nothingness. My sister, a bookworm several years older, often left me to my own devices.

Our last base was Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City, where we lived in a 12-room granite building without furniture. TV had been invented, but there were no stations providing content beyond a 24-hour test pattern. The snowy winters were long and dull. The only connection to the outside world was the daily newspaper lying on the bare wooden floor. And that is where I found the inspiration that would last my whole life: newspaper comic strips.

I spent hours reading favorites such as Krazy Kat by George Herriman, where, in a surrealist setting, Ignaz the mouse would eventually lob a brick at Krazy. The hook for me was humor, which was new and magical—especially in a graphic, comedic setting. The Hollywood caricature master Al Hirschfeld called the ink line a “Magic Line” for its ability to render seemingly living characters in a few strokes.

I also loved Mutt & Jeff, Popeye, Donald Duck, Blondie, and many others. Reading them repeatedly made it natural to pick up pencil and paper to copy characters and create my own. That’s how I escaped my otherwise drab childhood. I believe adversity can train artists to succeed through perseverance.

In 1951, my father signed up to go to the Korean War. At a family ceremony, he asked my mother where she wanted to settle. Blindfolded, she pointed to Santa Cruz, California—where my art flourished over the years. My Santa Cruz red-dot logo would later come to represent the city in tourist shops worldwide. The move also took us near the beach, where ironically, the lowest property values were found in those days. That proximity brought another dimension to my art: surf art.

In 1959, my older sister passed down a collection of Mad comics from 1954. They were like finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. Under Harvey Kurtzman’s direction, artists like Bill Elder, Wallace Wood, Jack Davis, and John Severin introduced me to satire. Mad lampooned movies, comics, TV, and fables—everything was fair game. I loved the mix of parody, humor, and the best pen-and-ink graphics I had ever seen.

In 8th grade at Branciforte Junior High, my journalism teacher Mr. Egbert asked me to produce full-page lampoons of teachers for the Branciforte Bee. Needless to say, the teachers hated it.

Humor, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is “that quality which appeals to a sense of the ludicrous or absurdly incongruous: a funny or amusing quality.” That definition suits Mad perfectly, and it became a pillar of my career. I always try to steer clients toward something fun because fun is essential to the arduous life of a pen-and-ink artist.

My fine-art influences include Dalí, Picasso, Bosch, and Escher, as well as a few great teachers at the California College of Arts & Crafts in Oakland. Every artist competes with the greats, because their works remain celebrated forever.

 

 

Frank 151: Do you remember the very first skate graphic you designed and how it felt to see it out in the wild?

My first commission came when I was 15, in 1958. I was asked to paint a monster on the dashboard of a lowered black ’55 Oldsmobile. Painting on such a fine car in my parents’ driveway was exhilarating—even more than the $15 payment.

Not long after, Charley Lemos saw it and asked if I could paint something similar on his surfboard. Of course, I said yes. In his garage, I painted a green monster with big teeth and a forked tongue on a brand-new nine-foot Mako balsa surfboard. Running my hands along its silky smooth rails and glassy deck while painting, I fell in love—not with the painting, but with the surfboard itself. That moment began my surfing career.

My first published work appeared in the 1962 spring issue of Surfer Quarterly Magazine after winning Honorable Mention in a surf-car cartoon contest. At 16, I was surf- and car-crazy. My drawings often ended up in the Dean’s office. One notorious piece was a request from a surfer named Jose: a surfer with a rose coming out of his backside. It ended up displayed in the school library case before being confiscated by the Dean, who accused me of drawing pornography.

Surfing begat skateboarding. With my friend Big John, we made early boards called “bun-boards”—two-by-fours with roller-skate trucks and metal wheels. They were sketchy and dangerous, but loads of fun. Everyone broke their arms. I even painted on Big John’s cast, though his mom made him return to have me add trunks for church approval.

Eventually, old friends Rich Novak and Jay Shuirman called me to design a logo for their new urethane wheels, which revolutionized skateboarding. That led to my “Dolly” t-shirt design, the Road Rider Wheels logo, and many ads that pushed NHS to dominate the global market.

My first real “stoke” came when NHS printed Road Rider stickers. They gave me a pack of 100, and I flung them out of my old truck to skaters who cheered. That was the moment my art really started living in the wild.

Frank 151: Your artwork defined an entire generation of skateboarding—at the time, did you realize how big of an impact your graphics would have?

That’s the thing—there’s no way to predict the future of art. Many designs I thought would be hits were met with silence.

My publisher says there are 900 images in my book. Many are cool, some had their time, but only one breached the stratosphere: Screaming Hand. Art is like roulette—you spin the wheel and see what happens.

It’s such an honor to receive recognition, but credit also goes to NHS for building a distribution system spanning 80+ countries. Without worldwide distribution, no art could become iconic globally.

Frank 151: Were there moments in the film that surprised you in how others view your legacy?

As an artist, it’s gratifying to achieve any status in art. But any moment is quickly swept away by time. The artist bares his soul in every work, exposing his ego to ridicule from every angle.

As Shakespeare wrote: “Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more—a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

To be honored with a documentary is almost unimaginable, but I believe every artist should strive toward it.

Frank 151: What did it feel like to watch your life’s work distilled into a 90-minute film?

Watching The Art and Life was like seeing my life flash before my eyes—except I’m still here with my fans and loved ones. John Makens did an amazing job directing, digging up old stories, and creating the animations with his crew.

 

Frank 151: If you could give advice to the next generation of artists coming into skateboarding, what would you tell them?

Keep drawing. Carry a sketchpad everywhere and draw whatever you see. Drawing is the foundation of any art career, just as it was in the Renaissance when Raphael and Michelangelo sketched their masterpieces first.

Drawing opens your mind, provides joy, and with enough skill, can even sustain you. Art is life and life is art—everything else is meaningless