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Andrzej Klimowski, in London geborener Illustrator und Künstler, Sohn polnischer Emigranten. [url=http://www.eyemagazine.com/feature/article/andrzej-klimowski-theatre-of-dreams]Hat unter anderem ein Plakat zum Film The Omen gestaltet. Weit vor dem Boom hat er zwei Werke veröffentlicht, die wohl heute als Graphic Novels vermarktet werden würden:

In September [1994], Faber and Faber, which has consistently understood and supported his work, is publishing The Depository: A Dream Book, a wordless novel in the tradition of Ernst and Masereel, composed of 250 brush and ink drawings and described by Klimowski as ‘a contemporary silent movie’.

Sowie bei Paul Gravett:

In The Secret (ISBN 0-571-20688-3, Faber & Faber [2003]), Klimowski’s new novel-without-words, his sequence of 300 charged brush and ink drawings questions the act of looking and being looked at, the perception and gaze of characters, narrator, author and reader and the tricks the eye can play on us all. Tellingly, he opens and closes with a single eyeball peering through a peephole or shutter.

Klimowski findet sich noch ein weiteres Mal in Paul Gravetts Blog:

Horace Dorlan
by Andrzej Klimowski
Faber [2007]
£12.99
Reading stories told entirely in pictures, such as Klimowski’s previous novels The Depository and The Secret, can be an unsettling experience. Cast adrift from the comforting anchorage of explanatory words, you may feel as if you are reverting to some forgotten, preliterate state, not unlike your puzzled wonder as a baby, or your prehistoric ancestor’s awe at cave paintings, where only close decoding of every cue and clue allows you to navigate these ‘silent’ images in sequence. In Horace Dorlan, the reading experience becomes stranger and richer still. For the first time, Klimowski takes 110 mostly wordless, woodcut-like drawings, some across one spread, others filling numerous pages, and interweaves them with generously spaced passages of precise text. After the opening two chapters, in which he segregates the apparent reliability of words and then the fantastical aspects of pictures, his cutting between the verbal and visual becomes more fluid, as the frontiers between realities and reveries, memories and anticipations, people and places, increasingly blur. The more images you conjure from the prose and the more stories you unlock from the pictures, the more you see how they echo and feed back into each other. No wonder one diner mistakenly toasts Horace Dorlan as ‘Doris Horlan’.
It is appropriate that one half-waking encounter by Klimowski himself should become the source of Dorlan’s initial symbolic dream. Strolling in South Kensington, Klimowski had been struck by a woman’s unusually elongated elegance, like a human preying mantis, and began following her. When she disappeared inside a grand building, he stepped up and read on its nameplate ‘Institute of Entomology’. Winged, with antennae, this ‘insect woman’ becomes a key figure of mystery and eroticism in the book, her black-rimmed glasses similar to Dorlan’s, her charms confused with those of his lover Angela. Another of the book’s memorable motifs has haunted Klimowski since his Fifties childhood in a labyrinthine Ealing communal home among mainly exiled Poles: he grew up convinced that inside their large wooden wireless was playing a miniature jazz band. Similar sorts of heightened imaginings, one expressed through the visual arts, the other through writing, are triggered in two of the book’s protagonists when parallel accidents knock them unconscious. Upon waking, respected scientist Dorlan produces reams of abstract automatic drawings before reenvisaging his formal lecture as a wild multimedia extravaganza, whereas his technical assistant Edward Green scribes a "science fiction biography" entitled The Insect Queen. In its hypnotic Lynchian fascination, Klimowski’s hybrid itself also stands as the product of an uncannily awakened imagination, a masterwork whether of art, or literature, or both.