A friend posted a book cover on Threads the other day: the trippy, verdant jacket of Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Word for World Is Forest. I’ve still never read the novel, but every time I see this cover, my mind is boggled by how gorgeous it is. These old vintage paperbacks rarely make it easy to learn who painted them, but a little digging on ISFDB turned up a name: Richard Powers. Which rang a faint bell, because I had a post about him sitting half-drafted in my files, abandoned at some point and promptly forgotten.
So I asked my friend Adam Rowe, of the 70s Sci-Fi Art Tumblr, author of Worlds Beyond Time, whether he knew of the artist, fully aware the answer would arrive as an immediate and faintly insulted yes, obviously. (I am projecting here. Adam is too nice to act insulted. But if it were me, I would have been!) So yes, he’d written a whole section on Powers in his book, and somewhere in the middle of telling me about it a few days ago, I experienced a mortified flare of recognition. Huh. This sounded …really familiar.
Reader, I am a moron. I had already singled Powers out. In my own interview with Adam about his book, which I read cover to cover, Powers was one of the artists I’d fixated on and asked him about directly. He is not, as it turns out, a new-to-me artist so much as something my brain once glommed onto and then immediately cached away into storage to make room to keep more important stuff like the lyrics to Weird Al’s “Mr. Frump in the Iron Lung.”
Anyway. That cover! Drowned in a world of green, a wet watercolor green that bleeds past its own edges. A woman’s face surfaces out of a tangle of pale fronds, except her hair keeps unraveling back into them, so you can’t say where the woman ends and the forest starts. Pink and magenta flecks drift down over all of it, blossoms or spores or some secret mycological third thing. Off to one side, low, sits a small dark seed-head fringed like a sea urchin, faintly lit, a little private sun. And along the very bottom, so faint you could miss them, two or three figures stand sketched in bare outline, peering up at her.
No two are quite alike; the work is restless and wildly varied, but a handful of recurring elements surface often enough to feel like a signature. Bodies that blur past their own outlines: a face blooming open in the palm of a cupped hand; a woman condensing out of a dark husk with only her face and red hair finished; a whole head built from scabbed, scraped-on texture, the face under it carved and totemic and very nearly tiki, with hard little triangles and dots and dashes sifting down like television static. Coral and anemone growths pocked all over with neat ringed holes that resolve into eyes the longer you stare into them.
Half the time, you can’t tell whether you’re looking at biology or machinery: a reef on one cover is strung with glowing filaments, like someone ran a current through it; a hand on another is freckled with little starbursts that could be sores or suns. Whole cover flooded in a single color, a sodden green or a hot arterial red or a low-sodium orange, and shapes surfacing strangely out of it. Most science fiction art of the era at least did you the courtesy of somewhere familiar to stand: a rocket, a ridge, some square-jawed soul in a spacesuit. Powers does… not.
The scale slides around while you watch, planetary one moment and microscopic the next, and a lot of it has a certain Joan Miró looseness, all biomorphic shapes and little calligraphic marks adrift on a flat field, an alphabet no one was ever meant to read. The covers were forever getting saddled with clumsy packaging, type clomping across the image or a painting cropped down past all sense, and the weirdness underneath came through all the same.
Then, every so often, he’d do something like this. The Midwich Cuckoos is the odd one out: almost no color at all, just black brush-ink on cream, a band of khaki, a single pool of gold. He’s pared the whole thing down to a few gestural strokes — a great dark shape in profile, a head or a brooding hill or some sleeping animal, with one enormous ringed golden eye held open in the middle of it. Two small children stand up on the black mass, drawn in the barest scribble, and a little steeple leans in at the lower edge. Elegant and hushed and graphic where the others are bold and buzzy and chaotic, and yet there’s that eye again, the same one surfacing in all the coral and the anemones.
Ah, the horror anthologies, these are the ones I love best! The same hand behind all that hushed green tenderness moonlighted in the charnel house, and bless his little macabre heart for it! The Zacherley collections give us a leering ghoul risen from the flames to stir a vulture’s skull into his own bubbling muck, and a gangrenous green face sloughing apart at the jaw. The Graveyard Reader is a sodden cluster of glistening pods, swollen and eyed, one of them cradling a tiny human face with its mouth wrenched wide. And then — because there is always some wretched little detail waiting to undo you — there in the corner of Midnight Snacks, a prim miss lady in her pink finery, smiling out sweet as you please amid the carnage, as though she’d wandered in from some other, far more wholesome book and gotten herself pasted into this one for reasons known only to God and Richard Powers.
Richard M. Powers (1921–1996) spent decades smuggling Surrealist and abstract painting where nobody thought to look for it, on the fronts of cheap science fiction paperbacks, and did it hundreds of times over for Ballantine, Doubleday, and what seems like very nearly everyone else along the way. What a fabulous weirdo! After writing all of this out, you’d think now I will remember who he is, but eh. You know me. I’m not making any promises.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
The world we navigate daily is only the palest precipice at the edge of, well…everything.
Beneath, beyond, between it all lie chasms upon corridors upon catacombs of spatial marginalia we have failed to notice or chosen not to see: the vast, unmeasured wilderness beneath our feet, the vaporous spirit world peering from beyond, the humming, thrumming space between dreams, the distance between newborn and dying stars.
I assembled a companion playlist to my new book, The Art of the Unknown, and it sounds like this: a shimmering sidereal lullaby, jazz noir bleeding into a pulsating wound of ominous dread, the Stendhal syndrome scored for strings, the ritualistic choir of the body in extremis, the echoing reverb of palindromic mirror worlds, the incantatory clocklessness of Afrofuturist jazz. It contains a ballroom that survives the dissolving shipwreck of memory, electronic music built from pure sine waves for a universe in its first three minutes, before matter and light separated, the moment before anything became anything, and twenty-one minutes of slow electronic drift that pools like November fog in an abandoned stairwell. A trombone played in an underground cistern by seeping stone seraphim. A coastal field recording that captures moonlight shadows creeping slow.
A sonic curation for entire worlds — worlds beneath the skin on our bones and the lightless bottom of the ocean, beyond the final named star and the glittering edge of heaven, between the infinite and the unbearably intimate shadow and the soul.
I have been traveling and am behind on everything, and so I don’t have much lined up for the ol’ blog this week. SO I thought I’d pull a lazy move and share an update to a blog post I wrote a few years ago, Bargain Bin Romance, where I captioned some gothic romance covers with silly, made-up nonsense. It occurred to me that these would work better with some cheesy graphics, and I even added a few more to the mix!
Anyway, back to normal (?) updates once I get my shit together!
artist: Jerome Podwil
artist: Lou Marchetti
artist: Lou Marchetti
artist: Jerome Podwil
artist: George Ziel
artist: George Ziel
artist: Esteban Maroto
artist: Harry Barton
artist: Harry Barton
artist: Lou Marchetti
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
Ývan surprised me with the biggest of all surprises for my birthday! This morning we drove to an Old Navy parking lot to pick up our newest art acquisition: this fancy orc guy, an original painting by none other than the late Richard Bober (he of mystery artist Wrinkle in Time infamy!)
I loved this magnificent gentleman the first time I laid eyes on him a few years ago and my gast was completely flabbered when I realized Ývan had stored that tidbit away and later secured him for me. Get you a partner and collaborator who delights in your delights, for real!
Ývan was later aghast to learn I have renamed this fine fellow Dominic Toretto.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I recently wrote about building my own personal curriculum to better understand 1) the ideas and concepts around the term “hauntology,” and 2) wrap my head around Julia Kristeva’s writings. But it occurred to me that I’d be terribly remiss if I didn’t mention my own books in terms of creating some courses for self-learning!
I put together a (hopefully very shareable) slideshow of graphics about how each book might assist in studies of the arcane & esoteric, the darker side of life, and the fantastical, and how you shouldn’t skip the visual component when you’re deepening your understanding of this, that, or the other thing. (Coming from a rather lazy student, I mean obviously more pictures and less words is the way to go hehehe.)
Building Your Personal Curriculum: Where My Books Fit
If you’ve been online lately, you’ve probably seen people talking about “personal curriculums,” essentially, self-directed courses of study built around whatever you’re genuinely curious about. Instead of following someone else’s syllabus, you’re creating your own path through a subject, pulling together books, films, essays, art, music, whatever feeds your particular obsession.
It’s a beautiful way to learn, and it’s having a moment because people are hungry for depth, for expertise that comes from genuine interest rather than algorithmic recommendation. You get to be both student and curator of your own education.
I love this concept because it’s exactly how I’ve always learned: following threads of interest across mediums and disciplines, building connections between visual art and literature and history and folklore. It’s also, not coincidentally, how I approach curating my books. (It’s also a good reason to buy new notebooks!)
Which brings me to this: if you’re building a personal curriculum, here’s where my Art in the Margins series fits.
Studying the occult, symbolism, or esoteric art history?
The Art of the Occult belongs in your visual studies. From theosophy and kabbalah to the zodiac and alchemy, from spiritualism and ceremonial magic to the elements and sacred geometry—this book brings together artists who have been drawn to these unknown spheres and created curious artworks that transcend time and place. Whether you’re learning tarot, diving into the history of magical practice, or exploring Hermetic traditions, you need the visual language that goes with it. These works stem from a soul-deep desire for truth and awareness, revealing the hidden rules of nature and our world through imagery that has haunted and inspired across centuries.
Exploring Gothic aesthetics, melancholy, or the beauty of darkness?
The Art of Darkness is your visual companion. This book celebrates artists who have been obsessed with darkness throughout history—creating works that haunt and horrify, mesmerize and delight, and play on our innermost fears. From dreams and nightmares to matters of mortality, from depravity and destruction to gods and monsters, these artworks indulge our greatest fears while asking: what comfort can be found in facing our demons? Why are we tempted by fear and the grotesque? If you’re studying Victorian mourning culture, exploring Gothic traditions, or simply trying to understand why certain aesthetics speak to something deep within you, this is your sourcebook. Denial of our darkness leads us to fear it….better to create a connection with our shadows and revel in all the inspiration and wonder we may find there!
Deep-diving into fantasy worldbuilding, mythology, or the fantastic?
The Art of Fantasy gives you the visual language. Artists have explored imaginary worlds and fantastical creatures for centuries, expressing the unreal and impossible, the mystical and mythical through paint and illustration. This book presents a compendium of artworks inspired by myth, fantasy, and the unreal—from beasts and beings to forgotten realms and wonderlands, from dreams and magic to faith and philosophy. If you’re studying folklore, reading epic fantasy, learning about mythological traditions across cultures, or working on your own creative worldbuilding, these visual flights of fancy and imagination show you how artists have conveyed the vast swathe of hopes and dreams in our collected hearts. Fantasy is not simply an escape from reality…it is the irresistible impulse that reveals hope and wonder in us all.
Why Visual Art Belongs in Your Curriculum
Whatever you’re studying, visual art deepens your understanding in ways that text alone cannot. It shows you how ideas manifest aesthetically, how concepts become tangible, how symbolism operates visually. The artists in these books are thinking deeply about their subjects, creating work that’s in conversation with history, mythology, spirituality, and culture across centuries.
If you’re building your own curriculum for any of these subjects, please don’t skip the visual component! These books are resources, and they’re meant to be referenced, returned to, absorbed alongside whatever else you’re studying.
And if you’re building a curriculum around something else entirely? Tell me about it. I want to know what you’re learning, what threads you’re following, what obsessions are driving your self-directed education. That’s always been my favorite kind of conversation!
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
Here’s an entirely unrelated thing! A smattering of artful tidbits from the chapters of my forthcoming book, The Art of the Unknown: A Visual Treasury of the Esoteric, Uncanny and Unexplained, due into this world on September 1 and available for preorder now.
What Wenzel Hablik (1881–1934)achieves in this magnificent artwork makes the word ‘attempt’ in his titles seem almost comically modest. In Starry Sky, Attempt(1909), this visionary Czech artist transforms the cosmos into a pulsing, living thing. Planets hang at eye level, stars cluster and swarm like bees, and the very fabric of space seems encrusted with crystalline light. This crystalline quality was no accident – a chance discovery of a crystal fragment in his childhood sparked Hablik’s lifelong obsession with geometric forms and luminous patterns. Against a backdrop of deepest midnight, his celestial bodies pulse and throb with impossible colors. Crimson planets hang like ripe fruit, violet nebulae swirl like smoke, and countless stars burn in constellations of gold, azure, and white. That Hablik called this a mere‘attempt’ speaks volumes – as if this breathtaking cosmic vision were just a preliminary sketch rather than the universe reimagined in its full glory.
Leaf-like spirits spiral through the air while a lone figure sits among wildflowers, witnessing the hidden face of the breeze. Robert James Enraght Moony (1879–1946), influenced by Symbolists and Pre-Raphaelites, believed the natural world harbored invisible forces that revealed themselves only to patient observers. Magic doesn’t require remote wilderness; sometimes it’s waiting for someone willing to sit still and really look. His 1938 oil painting is essentially about how the world is constantly doing amazing things right in front of us, but we’re all too busy scrolling on our phones to notice. (Well, they didn’t have phones in 1938, but you get the idea.) We’ve all experienced this: you’re sitting in some random place when, suddenly, the air feels electric, like the world just reminded you that it’s a miracle, that you’re a miracle, that this ordinary day in 1938, or right now, is actually the most extraordinary thing that’s ever happened.
In the gloaming of a haunted forest, Dante Gabriel Rossetti(1828–82) stages an encounter with existential terror: meeting your exact double while on a romantic stroll. (‘So… come here often?’ suddenly becomes a deeply unsettling question.) Twomedieval lovers stumble upon their exact replicas, creating a mirrored quartet of supernatural dread. The woman on the right swoons dramatically, while her companion draws his sword against this impossible apparition. The doubled figures aren’t reflections but solid presences, glowing with eerie phosphorescence against the darkening woods. Rossetti calledthis his ‘Bogie drawing’ and paintedseveral versions over the years. Rossetti reportedly used himself and his wife, Elizabeth Siddal, as models for the imperiled couple, painting one version during their honeymoon, of all times. Folk beliefs hold thatencountering one’s doppelgängerportends imminent death, lendingthis woodland date a macabre edge. What terror might we feel, meeting ourselves in the flesh, our secret selves made manifest?
A woman floats in dark waters, her reflection staring back with eerie ambivalence, both versions seemingly unbothered by their impossible arrangement. Leonor Fini(1908–96) paints a doubled existence where neither face claims to be the original – they simply coexist, calm as you please, while three skulls drift past and dried leaves cling to a barren branch. The Argentine-born artist gives us feminine power at the end of the world (or perhaps its beginning – the title suggests both), yet her subject appears utterly untroubled by the apocalyptic scenery. The cracked, aged texture makes the woman feel ancient, eternal, as if she’s been taking this same leisurely soak since the lake first formed. In the distance, buildings shudder under a moody sky touched with orange and green – civilization reduced to a faint silhouette on the horizon. But why worry? The water’s fine, the company’s quiet, and there’s something marvelously peaceful about having your own reflection as your only companion at the end of everything.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I don’t update it as often as I used to, but once a week or so, I used to share a round-up of new art from my favorite artists (or old art from new-to-me artists) and call it “Weekly Eyeball Fodder.” I eventually slowed the rate at which I posted these collections and realized it would be a bit disingenuous to keep calling it that, so I retired the frankly aspirational “Weekly” and changed it to “Intermittent Eyeball Fodder.” I sure wouldn’t want to be accused of false advertising!
It’s been a while since I’ve shared one of these galleries of visual inspiration, so today felt like a good day to resurrect the tradition… and this particular selection has a secret connecting thread. The works themselves don’t necessarily have anything to do with one another, except they all caught my eye (and yes, they’re all a bit weird and dark and spooky, but that’s what my eye is always drawn to, and that part doesn’t mean anything here!) The thread runs through the artists themselves. If you’ve been following along lately, especially as it relates to a certain upcoming project, you may already be able to crack the code.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
For some reason, I got over 1,500 new followers on Instagram in the past two weeks, which is wild because, for the most part, I don’t even get 50 new followers in a year! I think it was because of the Nona Limmen art that I shared. Also, maybe the Machumayu post? Who knows! The vagaries of that app are profoundly elusive.
I thought it seemed like a good idea to leverage all those new eyeballs and do a “meet the author!” type of post, and share an inside peek at my new book… but what I did not take into account was that it would take me four freaking hours to create a fiddly, fussy thing about it in Canva, ugh! Now I feel like since I put all that work into making it, I gotta get a lot of bang for my buck and show it literally everywhere. So now I am making a blog post about it too, even though, ostensibly, you already know who I am.
But I am also sharing the first page, so even if you’re like, yeah, yeah, ok, we know who you are! Chances are, unless you were watching me over my shoulder like a weirdo creeper while I was writing this book, you haven’t read the first page yet!
Also, while you might know who I am…perhaps you might know some folks who do not, and if you search your heart further, it is possible these people might be into the idea of what I write about, and if we drill down into that even deeper, they might dig this very book? A strange and sprawling book showcasing art that spans cosmic mysteries, hidden watchers, liminal spaces, restless souls, visionary states, and forgotten knowledge? Featuring nearly 200 artworks from artists across the centuries who spent their lives investigating the ineffable, bearing witness to the impossible, and attempting to give form to the inexpressible? I bet you know some weirdos who are into that sorta thing! And I would love it if you could share the good news with them!
Art on featured grid includes Virgo Paraiso, Pascal Dagnan- Bouvier, Wenzel Hablik,Richard Bober, Francisco Goya, and Anna Mond. Cover art by Linda Westin.
There is no photograph of this, as far as I know. My mother is gone, and my grandfather Boppa, and my grandmother, and just about all of our elders, and whatever documentation existed of those years is in several boxes in my sister’s houses, and anyway, this was a picture never taken. But I don’t need a photograph. My memories of it are vivid enough…I just sometimes wish one existed so that I could have a bit of proof to show myself, see! See, you once did this!
Me and my sisters at the kitchen table, drawing paper, crayons, the serious bent-head posture of children doing extremely important work. We drew little people with their little clothes and little towns and elaborate little scenarios for them to inhabit, and we made our people talk in high-pitched voices that Boppa would tease us about every time he passed through the room. It was a super huge, major part of my childhood. I loved to draw!
In second grade, the illustration of my sneakers went up on the wall for parents’ night. In sixth grade, our art teacher asked us to draw our houses, and I, thinking aspirationally, kept sneaking glances at the tattered Amityville Horror paperback I’d hidden in my desk and drew that instead. The teacher was impressed, whether by my draftsmanship or my delusion, I can’t say.
And then, somewhere not long after that, I stopped.
There was a very specific moment. I was a kid who doodled everywhere: notebook margins, assignments, the brown paper bags we cut apart to cover our textbooks. One day, someone asked me what I was doing and why. I couldn’t explain it, and the question made me feel ashamed and strange, like I’d been caught doing something that required justification I didn’t have, and furthermore, I didn’t know I needed. The surest way to deter me from something is to embarrass the crap out of me. So I stopped, just like that.
I’ve caught myself thinking that I should have been encouraged to take art classes in middle school, high school, college, and I catch myself on that “should have” every time. What I guess I mean is that I wish someone had noticed something that gave me joy and said, keep going. Not really because I needed external permission to pursue it, but because I was a kid, and kids sometimes need someone to see them before they can see themselves.
Maybe this is how I eventually came to writing about art instead of making it. Art, like anything or maybe everything, is a practice. If you don’t practice, you don’t improve. If you don’t do it at all, the muscles atrophy, the instinct dwindles, and returning to it, or arriving at it for the first time, really, gets harder. I have known this for years. I have written around it for years. I love art so extravagantly, so helplessly, that I found my way to it through the door I knew how to open, which was language. I became someone who writes about the things I could not bring myself to make.
But there has always been something in me, some part of me that knows there is a marvelous, extraordinary thing inside and wants to let it out — and maybe that is drawing and maybe that is writing, and maybe I still don’t know what the creative hole even is that lets my light into the world.
When we moved to Jacksonville, we made new friends, and one of them gave me a box of secondhand creative supplies: stamps and stickers and journaling things, some of it never used. We started having craft days. I began in the shallow end, coloring books and zentangles, before deciding I was going to pursue my actual childhood dream, which was drawing flowers. I bought a lovely flower-drawing guide, collected tutorials, and I have been practicing for months now. Alongside those kaleidoscopic zentangles. Cut-and-paste surrealist poetry collages. Decorative journaling.
I tried to go slow at first. (as this was meant to be developing a practice, not acquiring a collection, and I know how my brain works when it comes to gathering supplies as opposed to using supplies.) I will admit the journal stack has grown exponentially, and I have gone from someone who didn’t own a single marker to someone who now has half a dozen boxes of them… and also colored pencils and watercolors and pastels (So, you know. “Slow.” Hehehe.)
Another thing I started doing that makes it not scary for me: I am a quasi-hermit who doesn’t do much, which means my daily planner has historically contained entries like “take pills, pay bills, wear sunscreen.” Not exactly a rich chronicle. But on the same page alongside the basic to-do list, I’ve started doing a small illustration a day, practicing what I’ve been learning in a low-stakes way, because it’s just a doodle in a planner and not expensive art paper, which is really intimidating! Just a little drawing next to “lift weights.” (Which somehow never gets crossed off the list.) It keeps me in the practice without the pressure of treating it like capital-A Art.
I know it sounds cheesy, but…my life has felt richer? if that’s the right word? these past few months. Getting over yourself, all the inexplicable shame and embarrassment, and flabby, languishing art muscles, is a hell of a thing, and working on these projects is fun and freeing. In a way that writing (which I love and hate in equal measure sometimes) is absolutely, definitively not.
Last week, Yvan and I were watching something on YouTube when Lucy needed to go outside to pee, or poop, or perform some unknown third dog operation, and when we came back in, he asked if I wanted to keep watching. No, I had to get back to my project. “My art is very important,” I loftily informed him.
Yvan nodded sagely (because he is on my level and he gets it.) “That sounds like something you should write about,” he said. He’s right. But immediately after I do, I am gonna draw a flower about it, too.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
For folks who were asking if there are other places than Amazon to order my new book, The Art of the Unknown, there sure are!
My publisher has a page listing several options: Amazon, Bookshop dot org, Waterstones, Indigo, and Barnes and Noble.
But here are a few more ways to support the book that you might not have thought of:
✷Ask your local independent bookshop to order a copy for you, or better yet, ask them to stock it. A customer request goes a long way toward getting a book on the shelf.
✷ Request it at your local library. Libraries purchase based on patron requests more than people realize, and a library copy means the book finds readers who might not otherwise stumble across it.
✷ Buy it as a gift for an artsy-fartsy weirdo. Most platforms allow gifting, and trust me, you definitely know a weird art person!
✷ If you have a connection to a museum, an art school, occult shop, witchy boutique, or independent bookshop with a dark and esoteric bent, put in a word. Bulk and institutional orders count toward first-week sales and genuinely move the needle.
✷ Are you a teacher, professor, or workshop leader whose students might find this useful or inspiring? Desk copies exist and I will help you get one.
✷ Are you someone with a very large and enthusiastic following who just genuinely loves books about strange art? No formal arrangement necessary. I just want you to have it.
✷ Add it to your Goodreads shelf and follow it there too. Following means you get notified of updates, and it helps with visibility.
✷ Do you do gift guides, round-ups, or “books I’m obsessed with” posts? September is coming fast and I would love to be on your list.✷If you think it might be a good fit for a subscription box or a holiday gift guide (gift guide season starts earlier than anyone expects!) please say something to the person who runs it. A mention to the right person now could mean a feature later.
✷Are you a Jacksonville (or north Florida area) bookstore with a local authors shelf? I’d love to be on it.
✷ When your copy arrives, photograph it, hold it, put it next to your cat, your crystals, your little bug friends, your collection of teeth. Tag me. I reshare everything!
✷ If you’re a bookstore that showcases employee recommendations and this looks like something your staff might love, I’d be so honored to end up on that shelf.
✷ After you’ve read it, a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or StoryGraph makes a big fat difference to the algorithm and to readers deciding whether to take a chance on something new.
✷ And finally…. I am available for podcasts, interviews, collaborations, and conversations of all persuasions. If you have a platform, a publication, a newsletter, or a podcast, I would be delighted to come and talk about art, mystery, and the glorious, vertiginous pleasure of not knowing things. You know where to find me.
✷✷Every single one of these things matters big time! Thank you for asking, and thank you for caring enough to look for ways to help. ✷✷
