Patrick Killian was barely an adult when he looked down at his hands and knew he had a choice to make. The pain he felt as he clenched them meant that if he continued to box, he would have to sacrifice his dreams of being an artist. Use them only to paint, though, and his ambition to fight at the highest level was over.
Those who are now familiar with Killian’s work, which is frequently spotted in and around the sport’s biggest events, will know which way the Welshman went. During a Las Vegas fight week, he can often be found inside the MGM Grand crafting a painting of the main event. His unique style – bold colors and sharp lines – means the boxers his images depict will always stop and sign the finished piece – and then often buy it. To be painted by Killian is a sign that they’ve hit the big time.
The success he’s enjoyed, however, doesn’t stop his imagination teasing him about what might have been. After all, such blatant sliding doors moments are never forgotten, particularly if the head ruled the heart at the crucial moment.
Killian fell in love with boxing at Newbridge Boxing Club and, as an up-and-coming amateur, he would go on to spar a young Joe Calzaghe. “I totally fell in love with the sport, totally,” Killian says with a smile. “In 1991, I left school. And that’s where I started, you know. I always remember the 1992 Olympics with [Oscar] De La Hoya and different ones.
“So, I suppose the dream then was to turn pro. And obviously, I had a lot of good opportunities on the doorstep. Because just up the road was Enzo Calzaghe.
“I really did think about that. But with the artwork, obviously going to college, and you do all that work, don’t you, as an artist coming through. And my hands were killing me.”
Though there was an opportunity for Patrick to join Enzo’s burgeoning stable, he was warned by Paul Samuels, then a promising welterweight, that much of Calzaghe Snr’s focus was purely on his son. Plus, he knew how good Joe was after sparring several rounds with the rising star in the past.
“I was an 18-year-old kid with no fear, and I thought I could go in there, throw a double jab, left hook, and catch him,” Killian remembers with a chuckle. “And at one point, right, I was sparring with him, and I always tell this story, because he was pitter-pattering me in a corner… boom! Caught me with a body shot. That hurt. Then he took off, he let me recover, and we carried on, and then boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. And then he was behind me.
“I covered up, and I put my hands down, and he’d done a spin or whatever, turned, and he was behind me. I looked up, and he was gone from the front of me, and he was behind me, and that’s how good he was.”
Those memories of the level he needed to reach alongside his prematurely eroding weapons persuaded Killian to step away from competition and put his hands to better use. Already respected on the international amateur circuit, he would turn up at events all over the world and sell his artwork. Before long, he was getting commissions to supplement his income as a youth worker in his local community.
Things really changed for him in 2009. By now working with “difficult kids” at Pen-Y-Dre High School in Merthyr Tydfill, an art studio was being built in his home when he was unexpectedly made redundant. “It’s so funny how things work out,” he says. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Fifteen years later, at the WBA convention, he sits on a chair in a plush hotel in Orlando, where outside the December sun is a far cry from the weather in Wales and surrounding him are his own paintings that make everyone who passes by stop and stare. During our 20-minute conversation, Acelino Freitas bounces over to embrace Killian while looking for his likeness on a painting that includes every WBA champion in history. He is soon followed by famous referee Tony Weeks who enquires about a project he and Killian had discussed.
“Problem is,” Killian says afterwards, “I would always paint these portraits after chatting to boxers, spend weeks and sometimes more on them, and then they don’t get sold at the end. I’ve even had some boxers complain that I haven’t painted them yet. Sometimes people presume I get paid to paint when the truth is I don’t – most of the money I make is when my work is sold.”
Killian has had no shortage of takers, however. Teofimo Lopez bought an entire collection from him. An image of Muhammad Ali doing battle with Mike Tyson, which was signed by both, sold for a lot of money and Canelo Alvarez’s trainer Eddy Reynoso snapped up a painting designed to promote his bout with Dmitry Bivol. Canelo ultimately lost the fight – but not before the fruit of Killian’s labor was placed on stage at the pre-fight press conference and signed by both fighters. “It’s a shame that Canelo lost, in a way, because I doubt it now has pride of place in his house. But it is what it is, they bought it anyway.”
Killian still frequently questions himself and his place in the boxing world. Transporting several paintings across the world is laborious in the extreme, not least the process of getting them through customs, explaining to officers why he’s lugging several carry cases that are twice the size of him, and then ensuring his work remains safe on the flight. Once at his location, it takes him several trips to and from his hotel room to get set up. The affable artist knows he must be visible at the major events, where he admits some doors have closed but plenty more have opened. Even so, the constant traveling has taken its toll; now 50 years old, he blames his trade on still being single and child-free. The life of an artist is a grind – and it holds no long-term guarantees.
“The fear creeps in, so then you think, oh, am I doing the right thing? But then when you turn up [at these events], and people are glad to see you there, and you have nice conversations with all the people you meet… Now, obviously, then you get to a certain stage where you’re then invited.
“It has been so nice, and I mean, the last few years have been great, but nothing is easy. Nothing’s easy, is it? And it has been, I wouldn’t say a struggle, but it’s been a constant push, and it still is, mind. It still is and it always will be, I think.
“It’s just a constant push, because with anything you have your ups and downs, don’t you? And you go through this, you have a bit of success, then it drops off, then you go through a little taper, and then it goes up again, you have another great bit of success. And I’ve always found that with this, you know? Maybe I’m being hard on myself. Maybe it’s just imposter syndrome.”
He need not worry. Those hands of his, and what he creates with them, are now very much part of the furniture.
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