Book Review: Artists, Siblings, Visionaries: The Lives and Loves of Gwen and Augustus John by Judith Mackrell
- Jenny Munoz
- Jun 7
- 5 min read
A Summer Must-Read: Dive into the dazzling, turbulent lives of art’s most fascinating sibling duo. Artists, Siblings, Visionaries is a heady mix of bohemian passion, creative genius, and emotional intensity that will stay with you long after the final page.
As someone who studied Art History, I’ve always believed that to truly understand an artwork, one needs to understand the artist—their life, their circumstances, and their inner world—rather than viewing the work in isolation. So when I received an advance proof of Artists, Siblings, Visionaries from Picador—thank you, Picador!—I was thrilled. Judith Mackrell’s latest biography does exactly what I hoped it would: take a deep dive into the complex, messy, and deeply human lives behind two of early 20th-century Britain’s most fascinating artists—Gwen and Augustus John.
In many ways, Gwen and Augustus were complete opposites. Augustus was larger-than-life: vivid, tempestuous, promiscuous, a bohemian legend in his own time. He quickly found fame as one of Britain’s most celebrated painters of the period. Gwen, on the other hand, was quiet, inward, and private. Her talent went underappreciated for much of her life. And yet, as Mackrell so clearly illustrates, her work—and her life—burned with just as much intensity. Their bond as siblings and artists, as well as the tension between gender, recognition, and freedom, form the heart of this beautifully layered story.
The central conflict is one of visibility and legacy: how does one become an artist when the world is not built for you to be one? Gwen’s struggle to forge a creative life under the constraints of Victorian and Edwardian society is one of the most moving threads in the book. At times, I found myself aching with frustration on her behalf. As Mackrell writes, “Even now, at twenty-one, Gwen had no control of her own money; as an unmarried woman, she was barred from opening a bank account.” The freedom to create, travel, and simply exist independently was something Gwen had to fight for at every turn.
Both Gwen and Augustus pursued art with ferocity, but the paths available to them were profoundly shaped by their gender. The book doesn’t offer easy answers, but rather lets us sit in that tension—appreciating what each sibling accomplished, and mourning what Gwen, in particular, was denied at the start of her career as an artist.
What struck me most while reading was how contemporary this story felt. Yes, these are artists who lived over a century ago, but the struggles—making a living through art, maintaining artistic integrity while cultivating relationships with patrons, navigating the push and pull of romantic and familial obligations—are still so relatable. “Gwen and Gus had once thought that money was irrelevant,” Mackrell writes. “As students, they’d believed that all they needed was a roof over their heads, materials with which to paint—and their freedom.” That line could have been lifted from any number of conversations I’ve had with artist friends today. Like the Johns, many artists I know would love nothing more than to focus solely on their practice, but the reality is, if you want to make a living from your art, you also have to grapple with its commercial side. No matter the era, that tension between creativity and commerce remains a constant in the life of an artist.
Mackrell’s gift lies in how vividly she brings their world to life. The extensive use of personal letters and correspondence is one of the book’s greatest strengths. You feel like you’re peeking behind the curtain, catching glimpses of Gwen and Augustus not just as artists but as siblings and as individuals navigating their own passionate relationships, friendships, and careers. Their relationships—with each other, their contemporaries, and the many figures in their orbit—are rendered in rich detail.
Admittedly, there were moments when the sheer volume of names and stories became a bit overwhelming. The Johns’ lives were anything but quiet—there were fiery friendships, illegitimate children, and secret romances —and it occasionally became difficult to keep track of who was who. Still, I understand that this level of detail was necessary to truly grasp the world they inhabited, and the social dynamics that both shaped and constrained them.
One of my favorite sections comes late in the book, when Augustus, now older, reflects on his sister’s legacy. “In the autumn of 1939,” Mackrell writes, “when he’d begun looking through the crates of his sister’s work and realized what strange and beautiful treasures they contained, he’d commented, with sentimental gloom, ‘In 50 years’ time I will be known as the brother of Gwen John.’” That quote moved me deeply. It speaks to a shift not just in his own recognition of her genius, but to the larger reassessment of Gwen’s place in the art world—a reassessment that, in many ways, this book contributes to.
One of the most resonant themes for me while reading Artists, Siblings, Visionaries was the profound way in which art and identity seem to shape and reflect one another, each constantly influencing the other. Understanding Gwen and Augustus as people—their privileges, their challenges, their choices—makes their artwork resonate more powerfully. I came away from this book not only with a deeper appreciation of their paintings but with a renewed sense of how radical it was, especially for Gwen, to simply keep painting in a world that didn’t make space for her to make a living from her work.
Mackrell’s writing is both meticulously researched and emotionally resonant. At times, the book reads like a Victorian-era gossip column, particularly when drawing from the deeply personal letters exchanged between Gwen, Augustus, and their lovers and friends. These glimpses into their private lives are unflinchingly intimate, revealing the emotional intensity that often simmered beneath their artistic pursuits. In one striking example, Gwen, consumed by her obsession with Rodin, the famous French sculptor, tried to rekindle his attention through increasingly charged letters. “Her letters had, in fact, been escalating in their frequency and force,” Mackrell writes. “She’d begun demanding Rodin’s attention through a combination of supplication, anger, and sexual provocation, reminding him, graphically, of the most intimate details of their lovemaking.” It’s in these moments—raw, complex, and deeply human—that the book comes alive, showing just how entwined their personal and creative lives truly were.
If I had one suggestion, it would simply be to include a visual guide to help keep track of all the players. With so many people moving in and out of the siblings’ lives, a small family tree or timeline might have been a helpful reference. That said, the richness of the storytelling more than makes up for any temporary confusion.
In the end, I feel like I know Gwen and Augustus John—not just through their art, but through their fears, passions, flaws, and dreams. That is the true power of this biography.
I highly recommend Artists, Siblings, Visionaries to anyone who loves art, history, biography, or simply a good, complex story about two people trying to live creative lives on their own terms. It’s a perfect addition to your summer reading list—compelling, immersive, and deeply human. And it’s not just for art historians; it’s for anyone who’s ever wondered what it means to dedicate your life to your vision. The book will be available for purchase on June 19th, 2025 (Hardcover, £30), and will also be available in e-book and audio formats.
By Judith Mackrell
Picador, 480pp, £30
Available from 19 June 2025 in hardback, ebook, and audiobook formats.
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