When I first painted The Mad Tea Party, I wasn’t just thinking about teacups and talking rabbits—I was thinking about human behavior, respect, and the strange line between nonsense and meaning. The scene from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland has always fascinated me—not just for its visual absurdity, but for the uncomfortable social dynamics it explores. For me, this isn’t just a children’s fantasy. It’s a lesson in communication, self-worth, and knowing when to walk away.
Originally published in 1865, Alice’s Adventures Under Ground (yes, that was the first title) was written by Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson under the name Lewis Carroll. Its sequel, Through the Looking Glass, was even banned in parts of China because animals were portrayed as using human language. The governor of Hunan Province argued that animals and people shouldn't be seen as equals, even in fiction. That kind of control—over stories, symbols, and speech—has been happening for centuries. It reminds me how powerful art and literature really are. When stories are censored, it’s often because they make us think too much.
The Mad Tea Party scene is a perfect example. Alice sits at a long table with the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, and a sleeping Dormouse used as a literal elbow rest. She’s talked over, ignored, and ridiculed. They toss riddles at her without answers, and when she tries to engage meaningfully, she’s shut down. Eventually, she does something brilliant—she leaves. She says it’s the stupidest tea party she’s ever been to, and she walks away. That’s strength. That’s clarity. And it’s something I wanted to capture in my watercolor illustration of the scene.
In my version, I’ve mixed my cartoon-style characters with the swirling elegance of henna-inspired designs—a nod to my tattoo art background and my love for art nouveau. I used watercolor for its fluid, dreamlike qualities, and finished the details with black gel pen to bring structure to the chaos. It’s playful, yes—but beneath the surface, I’m asking questions: How do we deal with nonsense? What do we tolerate in conversation? Where do we draw the line between absurdity and disrespect?
This idea of walking away from a table where you’re not respected is one I think about a lot—not just in stories, but in real life. Open communication and mutual respect are the foundations of any meaningful human connection. When those break down, when people talk over us or treat us like props in their performance, the most powerful thing we can do is get up and leave. Alice teaches us that. And Lewis Carroll, strange and brilliant as he was, gave us that moment wrapped in riddles and teacups.
The original illustration of this scene was done by John Tenniel, who famously collaborated—and clashed—with Carroll. Their work was precise, challenging, and deeply influential. Tenniel was even knighted for his contributions. Later, artists like Arthur Rackham added their own interpretations, often stirring controversy for straying from Tenniel’s iconic style. Even Walt Disney struggled with this. After multiple rewrites and artistic shifts, the 1951 animated version finally leaned into the comedy and whimsy, thanks in part to Mary Blair’s bold concept art.
I love that this one scene has inspired so many versions over the years, from Victorian illustrations to Disney rides to my own ink-and-watercolor reimagining. But it wouldn’t exist at all if people had succeeded in banning Carroll’s work outright. Whether it’s banning books for talking animals or discouraging kids from asking “nonsense” questions, censorship shuts down curiosity. And curiosity is where all the best conversations begin.
So yes—The Mad Tea Party may seem like a chaotic, ridiculous mess. But in that mess is a message: You don’t have to stay at the table if no one’s listening. That, to me, is the real heart of the story.
And that’s why I keep painting. Because somewhere between the lines and swirls, the brushstrokes and absurdities, we’re all just trying to make sense of the ride.