W.H. Isaacs

Isaacs spent his life carving small wooden blocks in a London attic, inking them himself, then hand-printing just enough copies to pay the rent. He never signed his prints, but the lines are so crisp you can still count the bristles in a horse’s tail. Look for his Print Collection, a stack of everyday scenes you’d miss if you blinked: a fishmonger’s stall, a chimney sweep mid-step, all sharp enough to feel the morning chill.