Ever looked at a map from the 1500s and wondered why there’s a giant, ship-eating monster chilling in the North Atlantic? It’s usually a mess of tentacles, beak, and terrifyingly human-looking eyes. Honestly, drawings of the kraken have changed remarkably little in five hundred years, even though we now know the "monster" is mostly just a very shy, very deep-dwelling cephalopod.
People used to think the ocean was a literal abyss of demons. They weren't just being dramatic. When you're on a wooden boat and the water starts churning with suckers the size of dinner plates, "biological curiosity" is the last thing on your mind. You’re thinking about survival. You're thinking about the beast.
The Scariest Doodles in History
The first time someone actually tried to put pen to paper to describe this thing, it didn't even look like an octopus. Early drawings of the kraken—like those inspired by the descriptions of King Sverre of Norway around 1180—suggested something more like an island. Sailors would supposedly land on its back, start a campfire to cook some fish, and then realize the "ground" was actually the leathery skin of a behemoth.
Pierre Denys de Montfort is the guy we really have to talk about here. In 1801, he published Histoire Naturelle Générale et Particulière des Mollusques. He included a print of a "colossal octopus" attacking a merchant ship. It’s iconic. It’s also the reason why everyone for the next two centuries thought octopuses were malicious ship-sinkers. De Montfort was a bit of a rogue; he actually claimed that a fleet of ten British warships disappeared in a single night because of giant krakens. The British Navy, understandably, pointed out that a hurricane was the more likely culprit.
But the damage was done. The image was stuck in the collective psyche.
From Sea Serpents to Tentacle Horrors
If you look at the Carta Marina by Olaus Magnus from 1539, you see the transition. It’s a map, but it’s also a bestiary. There’s a creature on there that looks like a cross between a lobster and a mountain. It’s messy. It’s chaotic. This is where the visual language of the kraken started to solidify. Artists weren't drawing from life—they were drawing from the terrified ramblings of sailors who had probably been drinking too much fermented grain juice and staring at the horizon for too long.
👉 See also: Brokeback Mountain Gay Scene: What Most People Get Wrong
We see a shift in the 1800s. Biology started to catch up with mythology. In 1853, a giant cephalopod beak washed up in Denmark. Japetus Steenstrup, a Danish zoologist, looked at it and basically told the world, "Hey, the kraken is real, it’s just a giant squid."
This changed the art. Suddenly, drawings of the kraken started looking more "squid-like" and less "island-with-teeth-like."
Why We Can't Stop Drawing It
There is something deeply primal about the kraken. It represents the unknown. It represents the fact that 80% of our ocean is still unmapped and unobserved. When an artist sits down to create a modern interpretation, they are usually pulling from two specific places: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and Pirates of the Caribbean.
Jules Verne’s "poulpe" (octopus/squid) was a game-changer. The illustrations in the original editions of his book showed a massive, multi-armed creature tangling with the Nautilus. It wasn't just a monster anymore; it was an antagonist. It had a personality. Sorta.
Then you have the 2006 CGI masterpiece from Dead Man’s Chest. That version of the kraken gave us something new: the "sinking pit" mouth. It wasn't just grabbing the ship; it was a vacuum of teeth. This version influenced thousands of digital artists on platforms like ArtStation and DeviantArt. If you search for drawings of the kraken today, you’ll see that gaping, circular maw everywhere. It's a visual shorthand for "this thing will swallow you whole."
✨ Don't miss: British TV Show in Department Store: What Most People Get Wrong
The Anatomy of a Modern Kraken Sketch
If you're trying to draw one yourself, you've gotta balance the realism of a Architeuthis dux (the giant squid) with the hyperbole of legend.
- The Eyes: Real giant squids have eyes the size of basketballs. In art, we often make them glow or give them horizontal pupils like a goat to make them look more "alien."
- The Scale: A real giant squid is maybe 40-50 feet long. That’s big, but it’s not "crushing a galleon" big. Kraken drawings usually scale the creature up to roughly the size of a city block.
- The Texture: Slime is key. If it doesn't look like it would leave a trail of iridescent goo on the deck of a ship, it’s just a big balloon.
What Science Says vs. What Artists Think
Honestly, the real giant squid is kind of a letdown if you’re looking for a fight. They are deep-sea predators that mostly eat small fish and other squid. They aren't particularly aggressive toward humans because, well, we don't live at 3,000 feet below sea level.
But in the world of drawings of the kraken, physics doesn't exist. You’ll see tentacles wrapped around masts, snapping oak like it’s dry spaghetti. In reality, a squid’s tentacles are mostly muscle and water; they’d have a hard time generating the leverage needed to snap a heavy wooden beam without some kind of solid ground to push against. But "realistic squid floats near ship and looks confused" doesn't make for a very compelling Renaissance woodcut, does it?
Notable Expert Perspectives
Dr. Jon Ablett, the curator of molluscs at the Natural History Museum in London, often talks about how the myth and the reality overlap. He’s noted that while the kraken is a myth, the "giant" part is very much a reality. We have the specimens. We have the DNA. But we don't have the "ship-crushing" footage.
And then there's the Colossal Squid (Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni). This thing is even heavier than the giant squid and has swiveling hooks on its tentacles. If you want your drawings of the kraken to be truly terrifying, look up the hooks on a Colossal Squid. They aren't just suckers. They are jagged, rotating blades of chitin. That’s the stuff of actual nightmares.
🔗 Read more: Break It Off PinkPantheress: How a 90-Second Garage Flip Changed Everything
How to Analyze a Kraken Illustration
When you’re looking at a piece of monster art, check the suckers. Most amateur artists draw them in a straight line. Real cephalopods have complex, often staggered patterns. Look at the siphon—the "jet engine" of the squid. Usually, artists hide it because it looks a bit like a fleshy tube and ruins the "scary monster" vibe. But including it adds a level of E-E-A-T (Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, and Trustworthiness) to the artwork that sets it apart from generic fantasy doodles.
Also, consider the water. The best drawings of the kraken use the water to create scale. White-capped waves, foam, and "sea smoke" help sell the idea that something massive is displacing thousands of tons of liquid. Without the interaction with the environment, the kraken just looks like it’s photoshopped onto a blue background.
Actionable Tips for Creating Your Own Kraken Art
If you are a concept artist or just someone who likes drawing monsters in the margins of your notebook, here is how you make it look "human-made" and high-quality:
- Reference the Humboldt Squid. They are called "Red Devils" for a reason. Their skin changes color rapidly when they hunt. Using flashes of angry crimson in your kraken art makes it feel much more aggressive than a dull grey.
- Vary the Tentacle Thickness. Don't make them all the same. Some should be the primary "hunting" tentacles (the long ones with clubs at the end), and others should be the shorter "arms" used for manipulating prey.
- Use Forced Perspective. Put the viewer in the water. Looking up at the belly of a kraken with a ship silhouetted against the sun above is way more effective than a side-on view.
- Study 19th-century Etchings. There is a specific "scratchy" quality to old ink drawings that immediately screams "maritime mystery." Use fine liners and cross-hatching to emulate that historical feel.
The kraken isn't just a squid. It’s a symbol of the things we can’t see. Whether you’re looking at a 500-year-old map or a modern digital painting, the goal is the same: to make the viewer feel very, very small.
Stop thinking of it as a biological animal and start thinking of it as an atmospheric event. It’s not just a creature; it’s a storm with teeth. To get the best results in your own work, combine the anatomical weirdness of the Colossal Squid's hooks with the sheer scale of an island. That’s where the real magic happens.
Next time you see a ripple in the water, just remember: we’ve only explored about 5% of the ocean floor. There’s plenty of room down there for something with way too many arms.