Sketching His Own Path: Richard Brooks' Artistic Beginnings

Richard Brooks never intended to become an artist—at least not in any formal sense. But from the moment he could hold a pencil, he couldn't stop drawing. It wasn’t just a habit—it was an obsession. Every sheet of paper, every scrap, bore his sketches. His school desks became impromptu canvases, covered in idle creativity. More often than not, his focus drifted from the lesson at hand. Teachers took notice. He was kicked out of more than a few classes for doodling instead of paying attention. But no amount of discipline could stop him—he was already on the path to becoming an artist, even if he didn’t realize it yet.

Born in Warrensburg, Missouri, in 1943, Richard spent his early years moving from place to place—Windsor, Marshall, Fort Worth. His father, Cecil Brooks, had a restless spirit that kept the family moving, never settling for long. Wherever the Brooks family went, Richard’s passion for art followed. But of all the places he lived, Henry County was home.

Richard’s lineage stretched back in Henry County for generations, with deep roots in Windsor and beyond. His great-great-great-grandfather had been a bushwhacker—one of Missouri’s guerrilla fighters steeped in Civil War-era conflict. But closer to home, Richard had at least one family member who influenced his artistry. His uncle, Frank Brooks, was a carpenter with a knack for sketching, suggesting that creativity ran in the family.

Art on Wheels: The Beginnings of a Sign Painter

Richard Brooks’ first canvas wasn’t stretched cotton or fine linen—it was metal, polished and gleaming under shop lights. Hot rods, to be specific. In Windsor, Missouri, a group of young men obsessed with automobiles found their unofficial artist in Richard, who painted designs on their cars at a local body shop. The shop’s owner, Orly Day, trusted them with the keys, allowing the young men to tinker and paint deep into the night.

Richard’s own car, the Road Hog, was unmistakable—a rebellious streak brought to life through an illustrated pig, a pair of racing flags, and a cigar dangling from its mouth. It wasn’t just decoration—it was personality, art, and attitude rolled into one.

His talent for painting soon evolved into something more practical. Missouri law required trucks to display their owner’s name, address, and town. Richard quickly realized that lettering these trucks was a profitable venture.

At the International Shoe Company in Windsor, he earned a dollar an hour, but lettering trucks proved far more lucrative—he could make six times that amount in the same timeframe. Richard never claimed to be a math scholar, but he understood one thing—six dollars was better than one. More importantly, it meant he could make a living doing what he loved.

A Mentor Appears: Learning the Trade from Frank Hayden

Then came Frank Hayden, a seasoned sign painter from Chicago who had recently moved to Windsor. Frank saw something in Richard—raw, untamed potential. One night, he arrived at Richard’s door, handed him a catalog from Dick Blick Company, one of the largest art supply distributors in the country, and said, “If you want to paint right and earn a living at it, then order these brushes”

For the next couple of years, Richard trained under Frank’s watchful eye, learning lessons that would define his career. Letters had to be flawless—if one wasn’t just right, Frank made him redo it until perfection became second nature. But precision alone wasn’t enough.

Frank didn’t care if I could paint the Mona Lisa," Richard recalled. "If I couldn’t do it quick enough to make money, it didn’t amount to anything."

It wasn’t a one-sided mentorship—both men gained from the relationship. Frank, well past his prime, had never learned to drive. Richard taught Frank to drive, while Frank, in turn, taught Richard how to make a living. It was an exchange that would shape the trajectory of Richard’s career forever.

The Test of Speed: Richard Brooks Proves His Skill

Richard Brooks never had a grand plan for his career—he simply painted, and the work found him. By the time he refined his skills under Frank Hayden’s mentorship, opportunities began to come his way. One of the most unexpected calls came from Central Missouri State College, now the University of Central Missouri. Their longtime sign painter had suffered a heart attack, and they needed someone to step in.

Richard wasn’t sure he had the necessary speed for the job, but he decided to give it a try anyway. They assigned him a truck to letter, and he finished in an hour and a half. Convinced he had taken too long, Richard hesitantly asked what was next. The college staff, however, were stunned.

“They had to go look at it because they couldn’t believe it,” Richard recalled. “The last guy took eight hours to do that.”

Suddenly, Richard had secured steady work, allowing him to perfect his technique. He learned that flashy, cursive lettering wasn’t the challenge—those were relatively easy. It was the block letters that demanded the most skill. They required precision, discipline, and consistency. Over the course of five years at the college, he mastered them, building the foundation for the next chapter of his career.

Scaling Up: The Art and Precision of Billboard Painting

After leaving CMSU, Richard spent a brief period working with a union company, but it didn’t last long before the business folded. By then, he had developed enough skill and confidence to venture out on his own—or at least, he tried. That’s when Bill Boatman—Billy Jack Boatman to some—of Sedalia Neon called, offering him steady work painting billboards. Richard accepted.

During the golden age of hand-painted billboards, Sedalia Neon thrived on a simple yet effective formula. Salesmen secured leases for billboard space, businesses approved Richard’s designs, and then he brought them to life, one brushstroke at a time.

Billboards may have seemed daunting to some, but Richard approached them like everything else—with methodical precision. Scaling a design to massive proportions required an artist’s eye and a steady hand.

"I’d do a scaled drawing and then grid it," Richard explained. "Then, when I got on the board, I could keep track of where I was."

His process was as meticulous as his art. First, Richard sketched the design, sometimes penciling the layout directly onto the billboard surface. But when multiple identical signs were needed, he used a technique called “pounce patterns.”

A pounce wheel, also known as a tracing wheel or pattern wheel, is a tool equipped with a spiked, rotating wheel attached to a handle. It is used to transfer markings from patterns onto various surfaces, an essential technique in sign painting.

To ensure perfect consistency, Richard drew the full-scale image on paper, perforated the lines with a pounce wheel, and then pressed a charcoal bag over the paper, transferring the design onto the billboard. This allowed him to replicate identical lettering across surfaces—a skill so impressive that observers marveled at how he and his coworker, Bill Boatman, could paint opposite sides of a van simultaneously, finishing at the exact same time with identical results.

High Above the Streets: The Perils and Thrills of Billboard Painting

Billboards and large-scale signs weren’t just work—they were an adventure.

Richard recalled one particularly daring job in Sedalia, where a towering sign stretched 40 feet high and nearly 100 feet long. To complete it, a crane hoisted him over power lines and lowered him down on cables—a process that required precision and trust.

“I trusted the guy,” Richard said of the crane operator. “He could set you down within half an inch of where you needed to be.”

The setup itself was unconventional, to say the least—a stolen lawn chair reinforced with welded rebar, a seatbelt repurposed from a car, and paint baskets strapped to either side. OSHA certainly wouldn’t have approved. But for Richard, it was exhilarating.

Then there was the wind.

While painting on the third floor of a building, a sudden gust caught him, sending him drifting straight toward a window. Inside, a woman glanced up just in time to see Richard’s feet pass right in front of her.

"She wasn’t expecting anybody to come in a third-story window," he chuckled.

There are no pictures of Richard painting in those perilous situations—only memories, a testament to an era when sign painters worked high above the streets, relying on skill, balance, and trust.

Challenges often arose, but Richard always found ways to adapt. One such challenge in his career occurred when he painted a carnival truck in pouring rain. The organizers insisted it needed to be finished, so Richard accomplished what seemed impossible—brushing water from oil-based paint as he worked. Although he warned them it might not last, years later, the lettering remained intact.

Beyond the Brush: Richard Brooks’ Artistic Range

Richard wasn’t simply an artisan painting by formula—his creativity extended well beyond signs. Oils, pastels, and landscapes all held a place in his personal and professional portfolio, though he always found portraits elusive. Watercolor frustrated him; he disliked the muddied look it often produced. And as for contests? He never entered them himself. His high school art teacher, Miss Pulliam, did—sneaking his work into competitions where he sometimes won, though he never sought the recognition.

He was equally skilled at painting on glass, often working in reverse to achieve striking effects. Watching him paint an illuminated sign, where every brushstroke had to be applied to the back side of the material, was a marvel in itself. Layering colors backward—starting with the darkest shades before applying lighter tones—was a technique few could master. But for Richard, it was simply part of the craft.

He wasn’t limited to brushes, either. Airbrush, spray gun, gold leaf—he did it all. Gold leaf, in particular, was a technique he learned from Frank Hayden. Applying it required precision, especially on glass, where it had to be laid down first and worked backward to create the proper effect. Though breathtakingly beautiful, the cost made it rare—Keil Jewelry was one of the last businesses Richard remembered using it in Clinton.

Inspired by Artistic Influences

What influenced him seemed to come from everywhere. By subscribing to Signcraft Magazine and Signs of the Times, Richard kept up with the latest trends, often adopting West Coast styles years before they arrived in Missouri. One such project—an elaborate truck lettering featuring a desert scene with a tractor-trailer emerging from oversized letters—was unlike anything rural Missouri had ever seen. The customer couldn’t afford the work, but Richard did it anyway. He simply wanted to create.

That generosity extended beyond business. Churches never received a bill for their vans, cemetery signs, or other church signs. If it was needed, Richard painted it—no questions asked.

And when asked about professional artistic influences outside his own circle, Richard had one name: Norman Rockwell.

"I love his work," he said simply.

A visit to the Mark Twain Museum in Hannibal proved just how deep that admiration ran. Kaye, his wife, remembered watching Richard enter a room filled with original Rockwell paintings—sketches and finished canvases.

“He came in, and I swear, I thought the man would fall on the floor and cry,” she recalled.

Experiencing Rockwell’s original paintings was a profoundly moving experience for Richard, revealing details that prints could never replicate. Kaye remembered one particular piece—a depiction of Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher in the cave, illuminated by a single candle. In the print version, the glow was subtle, but in the original, even the smallest detail came to life, like the candlelight filtering through Tom Sawyer’s fingers, with warmth captured in even the tiniest strokes of paint.

Rockwell had once been dismissed as just an illustrator instead of a fine artist, but Richard recognized the mastery in every brushstroke.

“He was kind of an outlaw in the art world,” Richard said. “They called him an illustrator because he didn’t fit in with the artists.”

Perhaps he recognized something familiar in Rockwell—a craftsman operating outside the traditional mold, crafting work intended not just for admiration, but for living with.

The End of an Era: How Legislation Ended Hand-Painted Billboards

His work for Sedalia Neon took him across Missouri, where he painted storefronts, lettered trucks, and created billboards. He especially recalls painting advertisements for Holsom Bread. Painting billboards provided him with consistent work, and he cherished every minute of it.

But then came the Highway Beautification Act.

Billboard painting, once a thriving industry, was on the verge of transformation. When the Highway Beautification Act was enacted in 1965, it profoundly changed the billboard business. The act, advocated by Lady Bird Johnson, aimed to reduce advertising clutter along American highways.

"It pretty well killed the billboard business," Richard noted. "Except for the bigger companies that had pull."

By 1977, the writing was on the wall—quite literally. Sedalia Neon folded, and Richard had to decide his next move.

The Business of Art: How Richard Brooks Shaped Local Sign Painting

That’s when Al Ralston of D&M Sign Company in Clinton called. D&M had been around since the 1950s, founded by Chester Derringer and Claude Murphy. Chester was now battling cancer, and Al had leased the company from him. With work piling up, Al needed Richard’s help.

At first, Richard was just there to lend a hand, but it didn’t take long before Al struggled to keep up. The business grew, with demand coming from Warrensburg, Sedalia, and even Kansas City. Gradually, Richard assumed a greater role in the business. He even painted signs for clients who didn’t even know he was the one behind them.

“I had people in Warrensburg and Sedalia selling signs,” he said. “They’d buy a sign from me and resell it, and I think nobody knew I was involved.”

Richard had joined the ranks of Missouri’s sign painters—a skilled and competitive trade with plenty of talent in towns like Windsor and Clinton and throughout the state. However, as time went on, the number of sign painters gradually declined.

Years later, Richard and Kaye sat down to reflect on how many sign painters they had worked with or known personally. The number was staggering—close to 40. Yet, in the present day, only two remained active. One had switched to computer-based design, leaving Richard as the last true hand-lettering sign painter among them.

Although times had changed, Richard never abandoned his craft. His brush still moved with the same steady precision, preserving a tradition that few today could replicate. He wasn’t just painting signs—he was establishing a legacy.

A Vanishing Craft: Sign Painting in the Age of Automation

The rise of digital printing changed everything. It was the final nail in the coffin for hand-painted signs. By the time computers and large-scale printers became standard in the sign industry, Richard recognized that the craft he loved was fading. The skill of sign painting—knowing how to form letters freehand and mastering the delicate techniques of color blending and shading—was being replaced by automation.

In towns where computers and illuminated signs had taken over, Richard remained a spectacle, as he discovered in Lexington when drivers paused at a traffic light, captivated by the sight of a man hand-painting a storefront.

"They'd sit there for two or three light changes, watching," his wife recalled. "I said, 'Have they never seen a sign painter before?' And Richard said, 'Obviously not.'

The Wall Dog’s Art on Clinton’s Square

Artists who painted advertisements on the sides of buildings were nicknamed “wall dogs” due to the nature of their work. Before digital printing and vinyl signage became widespread, painters like Richard Brooks often scaled tall buildings, worked on scaffolding, or hung from ropes to complete large-scale murals and advertisements.

The hand-painted signs adorning Clinton’s historic square offer more than just striking artwork, business names, and logos—they embody the craftsmanship of a man who has dedicated his life to perfecting the art of lettering and mural work.

When asked about which signs on Clinton’s square were his, Richard simply smiled, “The good ones,” he said with quiet pride.

The way those projects came about varied. Some customers brought him artwork to replicate, especially in the later years when computers started to creep into the industry. However, for most of his career, Richard was the creative force behind the designs. Businesses trusted him to envision something striking and memorable, and he rarely disappointed.

Passing His Skills On to Others

He did what he could to share his knowledge. Sedalia Neon had once planned to launch a sign-painting course at the local college, with Richard set to teach. But tragedy struck—the owner’s wife was killed in a car accident, leading to the abandonment of the plan. Although Richard mentored a few younger painters who successfully started their own businesses, the world changed too quickly for his children to follow in his footsteps.

“I wish my kids had taken it up,” he admitted, “but it would have ended before they really got going.”

His son, Scott, inherited Richard’s creativity but channeled it into floral design by running Clinton’s Flower Shop. His daughter, Tina, carved out a completely different path, working in conservation and natural resources before retiring in Alaska. She and her husband now split their time between the snow-covered landscapes up north and the familiar roads of Missouri.

A Lifetime of Love and Work

At the center of Richard’s life is his wife, Kaye.

Married in 1962, they formed a partnership that transcended their personal life and extended into their business endeavors. Sign painting wasn’t the life she had envisioned for them, but she never wavered in her support.

When Sedalia Neon’s office manager left to have a baby, Kaye stepped in, allowing Richard to focus solely on painting. Later, at D&M Signs, she managed bookkeeping, ensuring that Richard never had to put down his brush.

“That’s what made it work,” Richard said. “She did all the real work—I just painted.”

A Life in Paint: Reflecting On His Career

Sign painting wasn’t just his profession—it was his life. When he stepped away after 60 years, it wasn’t for lack of skill or passion; it was because the industry had changed. Brushes became scarce, the paints he relied on disappeared from production, and printers took over where steady hands once thrived. Richard could have adapted, but he chose not to.

For Richard Brooks, every mural, every billboard, every hand-lettered sign carried a sense of deep satisfaction. Yet, when asked if he had a favorite, he simply smiled and said, “Not really. I like them all.”

Each completed project was an achievement, though he never felt they were truly finished—he always noticed details he could have tweaked, a stroke he could have refined. That’s the mark of a true artist: never fully satisfied, always reaching for something better.

Reflecting on his long and accomplished career, he said, “I never worked a day in my life after the shoe factory.”

A Life Well Painted

Richard Brooks may have been one of the last of his kind—a painter from an era when a steady hand and an artist’s eye turned blank walls into memorable landmarks. His influence endures in the murals and the stories conveyed through the artwork that still bears his touch.

And long after technology advances, his bold, hand-crafted, and distinctly personal artistry will continue to speak volumes. Even in retirement, Richard’s artistic touch is sought after. When approached about donating a painting for a fundraiser, he didn’t hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve got several paintings.”

Most of his personal artwork reflected his passions: coon hunting, landscapes, and the small-town imagery of Missouri. He painted not for recognition but for the pure joy of painting.