Biting Lines: The Graphic Satire That Undermined the Crown
Some of the sharpest blades in the American Revolution were etched not in steel, but in copper and ink. Before the first musket fired at Lexington, satirical prints were already striking blows against the British Crown. These images – sometimes crude, often brilliant – circled taverns, parlors, and town squares, speaking directly to the public in a language of exaggeration, caricature, and biting irony. As a visual artist myself, I’ve spent years painting history into the 250th Anniversary Mural, but I’ve also spent those years in quiet conversation with the engraved ghosts who came before me.
The satirists of the 18th century drew blood with their lines, and they did it with intention. In an era before Instagram or even widespread literacy, these prints were powerfully accessible. They were the meme warfare of the 1770s, composed in allegory, exaggeration, and unmistakable symbolism. The colonial public didn’t just view these images; they internalized them. One could walk into a print shop or a tavern and find the latest political cartoon tacked to the wall, drawing laughter, anger, or knowing nods. The art itself wasn’t precious. It was printed fast, distributed wide, and meant to provoke. For those of us who work slowly in oils and glazes, this urgency is enviable – and humbling. The mural’s Unity section features Benjamin Franklin’s Join, or Die cartoon, a snake divided into colonial segments, daring the viewer to imagine what disunity would bring.
Though originally drawn in 1754 during the French and Indian War, it was resurrected in the 1770s and passed from hand to hand like a revolutionary relic. The lines are simple, but they hold weight. There’s no color, no soft blending, no baroque flourish – just stark visual logic. It tells you: if we stay divided, we die. Satire wasn’t subtle. British artists like James Gillray and William Hogarth, who sharpened their teeth on Parliament and monarchy alike, were later joined by American counterparts who flipped the lens. Paul Revere’s engraving of the Boston Massacre stands as one of the earliest examples of propaganda posing as reportage. His version exaggerates British cruelty and simplifies the chaos. It was designed not to inform, but to incite. This wasn’t about accuracy. It was about impact. And it worked. While painting the mural, I kept returning to this tension between truth and persuasion. These images are not passive historical references – they’re weapons.
Each one contributed to the cultural shift that made revolution not only possible but necessary in the minds of colonists. The brush and the pen conspired to ignite public sentiment. Even ordinary tradespeople, who may never have read Locke or heard a Congressional debate, could understand the grotesque image of a redcoat trampling a liberty cap or gutting Lady America. For me, rendering this history in the mural meant honoring both the aesthetics and the intent. The color palette for the Unity section is drawn from parchment and newsprint. There’s a roughness to the textures and a deliberate restraint in the light. I wanted to echo the simplicity of the broadsides – those single sheets printed and plastered across cities. I couldn’t paint every cartoon, but I wove their spirit into the composition: protest signs layered near the Liberty Tree, a figure holding a folded pamphlet, a young boy reading aloud beneath torchlight. These are not literal recreations. They are visual echoes, tributes to the role of popular art in revolutionary consciousness.
What strikes me most, still, is how quickly these prints became action. A cartoon in one colony could stir a boycott in another. A crude drawing mocking the Stamp Act could fan real flames. The lines weren’t always fine, but they cut deep. Today, we often talk about media and influence as if it’s something modern. But back then, a copperplate engraving had the power to spark protest, invite reprisal, and tilt public sentiment. The King’s men feared these images because they worked. As an artist, I take comfort – and responsibility – in knowing that images endure. They do more than record. They persuade. They provoke. And sometimes, they liberate. In this mural, tucked between speeches and signatures, you’ll find the shadows of satire. You’ll find the lines that once dared to laugh at tyranny and lived long enough to see freedom born. These biting lines may be centuries old, but their power hasn’t dulled. They still draw us in. And sometimes, if we let them, they still draw blood.
