Memories of Peter Pracownik

A Tribute to My Friend Peter Pracownik
by Oliver Wakeman

Life has an odd way of teasing you with time. It slips away, unnoticed, until suddenly you’re left realising just how long it’s been since you last spoke to someone important in your life. This happens to me often, especially with my many friends - some of whom are fellow musicians and artists, others who aren't involved in the creative world at all. We're all great friends, and we speak regularly - or at least, we think we do. In reality, weeks, months, or even years can go by without proper conversation. Instead, we often settle for the occasional quick message or a comment on each other’s social media posts, thinking it’s enough.

Back in January, I noticed a missed call from Peter Pracownik, a dear friend and a brilliant artist. It had been a while since we last spoke, and I thought to myself, I must call him back. But, as life often does, it got in the way. A week went by. Then another. And another. Then, one morning, while my wife was browsing through Instagram, she stopped and said, “Did you know Peter died?”

My heart sank. What?
“Peter Pracownik,” she said, almost in disbelief.
I was stunned. The news felt unreal. I immediately remembered that missed call in January - Peter had tried to reach me, and I hadn’t responded. I felt a wave of guilt rush over me.

I needed to call his wife, Nicola, right away. When I did, I found out that the missed call had, in fact, been from her, telling me about Peter’s passing. The call that I never made was a message I now deeply regretted missing. I felt dreadful, but Nicola reassured me with her kind words, reminding me that Peter had truly valued our friendship.

Peter was one of the most eclectic and unique individuals I’ve ever known. He was a genius in his own way - an artist whose imagination knew no bounds. He wasn’t just an artist; he was a character, one that was unforgettable. His eccentricity made him all the more fascinating, and I enjoyed every single moment spent in his company. What’s odd is that I can’t remember the exact moment we met. With some friends, it's hard to pinpoint when the friendship started, but I remember the moments that made it a lasting one.

Over nearly 25 years of knowing Peter, we shared countless conversations—about art, music, life, and everything in between. One memory that stands out was how he and Nicola spent a whole day with my son, Arthur, when he was just four or five years old. They introduced him to the world of painting, of imagination, of creating. It was one of those days that stays with you forever. Arthur, now almost 20, still remembers it like it was yesterday. Peter and Nicola didn’t have to do that; they could have gone about their day as usual. But they took the time, and it made an impact on a young boy that he still treasures.

Peter’s artwork was like nothing else. He had an extraordinary ability to create vivid, compelling worlds on canvas. One of the first times I worked with him was on the Hound of the Baskervilles album cover. This was the follow-up to Jabawocky, the album Clive Nolan and I had released back in 1999. Baskervilles was a darker, more intense concept album, based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic story about a family terrorised by a supernatural hound.

Peter lived in Cornwall, near Tintagel, in a wonderfully atmospheric old manor house not far from the legendary castle itself. It was the perfect setting for an artist like him- steeped in myth and mood, a truly evocative place for creating.

I remember calling him up to talk about the concept for The Hound of the Baskervilles album cover. We were discussing the story, the mood, the visual tone we were hoping to strike. Peter was excited about the project even though he didn't know the story that well.

When we spoke on the phone, he told me he had an image in his mind. “I’ve come up with something really special,” he said. “It’ll be of an old manor house with steps leading up to it, with lightning in the sky, dark blues, and just a touch of yellow from the lights in the windows.”

“Great,” I replied.

“It’s meant to be Baskerville Hall,” he continued.

“Wonderful,” I said, already intrigued.

For those unfamiliar with the Conan Doyle story, it centres around a family haunted by a terrifying hound—something believed to be supernatural, even demonic. The imagery is rich, gothic, and full of tension - perfect fodder for Peter’s imagination.

He went on: “I’ve been down to the Tintagel Hotel - around the back, where those amazing steps lead down into the grounds. I’ve drawn them all, captured the angle, the perspective. The manor house sits in the background, storm clouds overhead, lightning tearing across a moody, dark blue sky.”

“That sounds incredible, Peter.”

“It’s all deep blue tones,” he said, “with streaks of lightning and just the faintest glow of yellow coming from the windows.”

“Sounds magical. I can’t wait to see it.”

Then he added, as if building to the climax:
“And at the front, on the steps - I’m going to paint the hounds...”

“Sorry, Peter,” I cut in, laughing. “Did you say hounds?”

“Yes,” he replied casually, “I’m going to paint the hounds at the front.”

“There’s just the one hound in the book, Peter.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. Just the one.”

“You sure? Absolutely sure?”

“Yep. Just the one hound.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Okay... I’ll just paint one then.”

I remember that exchange vividly. One of those brilliant, humorous moments that lodges itself in your memory forever - charming, a little absurd, and completely Peter.

When I finally saw the finished cover, I was blown away. It was breathtaking - moody, dramatic, and utterly evocative.

“It’s amazing, Peter,” I told him, genuinely moved.