Unquiet
Things

I don’t recall when I first stumbled upon the artwork of Iris Compiet, but I can find evidence that I shared some of it over on my Tumblr way back in 2015, in the form of an elegant cat lady with two equally elegant skull-faced Sphinx felines cozied up on her lap. Yet, despite being able to pinpoint this specific encounter, I feel as if I have always known her work. Compiet’s creatures inhabit a corner of my mind that feels as ancient and familiar as childhood memories, as if they’ve been whispering their secrets to me all my life.

There’s a timeless quality to her art that transcends the moment of discovery. Her faeries, spirits, and otherworldly beings seem to exist in a realm just adjacent to our own, one that we’ve always known about but somehow forgot. It’s as though Compiet’s brush doesn’t create these entities so much as reveal them, pulling back the veil on a world that’s been there all along, patiently waiting for us to remember how to see it.

I am always thrilled to spot a familiar name in the artist’s credits for a Magic: The Gathering card, but when Iris Compiet’s name appeared on a handful of cards in a recent expansion, my heart performed a gleeful, flooping little pirouette. In the mystical realm of Valley, where fur and feathers pulse with arcane energy, Compiet’s brush evokes a world where the extraordinary and the endearing intertwine. Her Valley Flood Caller, an otter wizard resplendent in ceremonial garb wielding a staff of eldritch light, captures the whimsical gravitas of this imperiled animal kingdom. For those of us who’ve whiled away countless hours reverently sleeving our precious cardboard spells, Compiet’s art feels like stumbling upon a homecoming in a place we’ve only visited in dreams.

MtG entered my life in my 36th year, a gift from my then-new paramour, Yvan (13 years later, now my spouse!) It became our shared language, a perfect conduit for two introverts to connect. While I may never have fully grasped the game’s intricacies, I fell deeply in love – with the art, the worlds, and the person who introduced me to them. Many years later, my recent hair color is actually a Golgarian/Witherbloom ode! Seeing Iris Compiet’s art grace these cards feels like a beautiful convergence of passions, both old and new.

But to pigeonhole Compiet as merely a collectible trading card game illustrator would be to do a grave disservice to the extraordinary realms she explores and documents. For in truth, Iris Compiet isn’t just an artist – she’s a dreamer of the extraordinary, a chronicler of beings that exist in the misty realms between knowing and believing.

In Compiet’s ethereal renderings, fantastical entities materialize like visions from a waking dream. Her work invites us to become unwitting travelers in realms beyond our own, stumbling upon magical creatures and forgotten spirits with the wide-eyed wonder of an accidental explorer. The beings she portrays possess a gossamer quality that embraces their impossible nature. Each creation, whether fae, a forest spirit, or something entirely unclassifiable, is imbued with a haunting beauty and an air of mystery; you can almost see the mists of imagination swirling around them. This ability to capture the elusive, dreamlike quality of myth and legend is the hallmark of Compiet’s art. She creates beings that resonate with ancient whispers while feeling as fleeting and intangible as morning mist, as if they might fade back into the realm of dreams at any moment.

It is in her magnum opus, Faeries of the Faultlines, that Compiet’s dreamy visions find their fullest expression. This book is not merely a collection of artwork; it’s an explorer’s journal, a naturalist’s field guide to a world that exists in the periphery of our vision, in the spaces between heartbeats. The Faultlines, as Compiet reveals, are the gossamer-thin boundaries where our mundane world whispers secrets to realms unknown. These are the spaces where the veil between the human world and the fairy realm wears thin, allowing us to step into a reality that is at once familiar and utterly alien.

Through her paintings, sketches, and narrative notions, Compiet invites us to peer through rainbow-hued droplets, to trust that prickle at the back of our necks when we feel unseen eyes upon us. The veil, she assures us, is omnipresent – above, below, around, and even within us. We need only learn to look, to regain our Sight – that innate ability we all possessed as children to perceive the magical world that exists alongside our own.

Compiet’s faeries challenge conventional expectations, embodying nature’s capricious magic – as diverse, complex, and sometimes unsettling as the natural world itself. They can be eerily alluring, mischievous, melancholic, or utterly alien – but never predictable, never trite. These are not the sanitized sprites of Victorian fancy, but complex beings as varied as nature itself. They belong to neither the Seelie nor Unseelie courts exclusively, instead embodying a state of All – an encompassing existence that transcends our limited notions of good and evil. These are creatures of raw, wild magic, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure, their morality as alien to us as their forms are wondrous.

As we venture deeper into the Faultlines, Compiet introduces us to a mesmerizing menagerie of otherworldly beings. Here, we encounter the rooty, bulbous mandrake faeries, often mistaken for mere ugly tubers but possessing a blissful hallucinogenic magic of startling potency. We marvel at the magnificent green men, those benevolent forest guardians tasked with tending to all that grows, their bark-like skin a testament to their deep connection with the natural world. In murky bogs, swamps, and near thundering waterfalls, we glimpse creatures that seem born of water and shadow, while overhead, feathered beings of surpassing beauty soar on silent wings.

Shapeshifting witches flit at the edges of our vision, keepers of a precarious balance, their power to bestow dreams, nightmares, and health – whether boon or bane – a reminder of the capricious nature of fairy gifts. The many species of flesh-eating trolls lumber through this magical landscape, their presence a thrilling hint of danger. And everywhere, darting between roots and stones, we spot the countless varieties of small, hairy, mischievous gnomes, brownies, and hobgoblins, their antics a constant source of both delight and exasperation to their fairy kin.

In Compiet’s hands, each of these beings comes alive with a vivid specificity that makes them feel less like flights of fancy and more like subjects of an esoteric field guide, creatures as real and varied as any found in our own natural world. As we leaf through the pages of Faeries of the Faultlines, we’re invited to abandon our preconceptions and linear thinking, to flit from one fairy to another, immersing ourselves fully in this world that exists just beyond the corner of our eye. Compiet’s art becomes a key, unlocking the dormant ability within us to See – truly See – the magic that has always surrounded us, waiting patiently for us to remember how to look.

I feel immensely privileged to feature Compiet’s work in my book, The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal. Her contribution offers readers a mesmerizing glimpse into the artistry that has made her a renowned figure in the world of fantastical imagery. The piece we included, a striking rendition of the Morrigan, perfectly encapsulates Compiet’s unique vision and skill.

In this powerful portrayal of the fearsome Celtic goddess of war, death, and fate, Compiet’s mastery is on full display. The deity’s face bears a grim yet wry expression, a subtle nod to the complexities of her nature. Shadowy, crow-like elements hint at the Morrigan’s shapeshifting abilities, adding layers of depth to the portrayal. With sober brilliance, Compiet captures the essence of this mythical being, creating an image that resonates with ancient power while feeling startlingly immediate.

This single work embodies the raw, untamed magic that courses through all of Compiet’s art. Drawing deep from the wells of European folklore, dark fairy tales, and spectral stories, Compiet’s creation gives form to half-remembered dreams and whispered myths, conjuring creatures and beings that feel as if they’ve drifted in from the edges of our consciousness. The Morrigan, as rendered by Compiet, is at once beautiful and terrible, alluring and intimidating – a being who defies easy categorization or moral simplification. Through this masterful illustration, we’re invited to confront the beautiful and terrible complexity of the otherworldly, to embrace a more primal sense of wonder that acknowledges both the allure and the danger of these liminal realms.

Compiet’s talent for bringing fantastical creatures to vivid life extends far beyond the Faultlines. Her artistic explorations have led her to document the denizens of other beloved magical realms as well. In The Dark Crystal Bestiary: The Definitive Guide to the Creatures of Thra, Compiet’s masterful renderings breathe new life into the rich world of Thra. Her interpretation of Aughra, in particular, is nothing short of magnificent, capturing the ancient sage’s wisdom, power, and otherworldly nature with stunning clarity. This work stands as a testament to Compiet’s ability to honor and enhance even the most iconic fantasy creations. Similarly, in Jim Henson’s Labyrinth: Bestiary: A Definitive Guide to the Creatures of the Goblin King’s Realm, Compiet’s brush infuses the weird and wonderful inhabitants of this cult classic world with her own ethereal style. Her explorations extend even to a galaxy far, far away in Star Wars Bestiary, Vol. 1: Creatures of the Galaxy, where her unique perspective transforms the exotic into the hauntingly familiar, making alien beings feel like half-remembered dreams from our own world. In each of these works, Compiet proves herself not just an artist, but a visual storyteller and worldbuilder, capable of enriching and expanding even the most well-established fantastical universes with her unique vision.

When she’s not chronicling the ways of the fae or breathing life into beloved fantasy realms, Compiet invites kindred spirits to join her on Patreon, where she shares secret glimpses of a world beyond our own. There, fellow dreamers might just find the key to unlocking their own Sight, allowing them to peer a little deeper into the misty realms that exist just beyond the corner of our eye.

And I will close out this blog post with a few secrets that Iris recently whispered to me, shared here with her blessing. The enchanted realms of the Faultlines are expanding their borders and are soon to be released in Germany, inviting a whole new audience to peer through the veil. For those already enchanted by the Faultlines, there’s more magic on the horizon. Iris is currently working on the next installment of Faeries of the Faultlines, and it promises to be something truly special – an oracle deck! Imagine holding the wisdom of the fae in your hands, each card a portal to hidden truths and ancient mysteries. Lastly, for readers familiar with my olfactory obsessions, you might be delighted to know that Iris and I share a fondness for enigmatic scents. When asked about her favorite fragrances, she revealed herself to be a big fan of the mysterious indie perfumers For Strange Women. These little glimpses into Iris’s world and work only deepen the mystery and allure of her art, leaving us eager for whatever magic she conjures next.

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?

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A mysterious rider leans forward on a horse seemingly formed of living shadow, their posture speaking of urgency and a mission that cannot wait. Hair streams behind them, merging with the horse’s mane like a mesmerizing Rorschach test in motion, challenging us to decipher where intention ends and instinct begins. This breathtaking scene unfolds against a backdrop of lurid red – perhaps velvet curtains, a blood-tinged sunset, or the very gates of hell yawning open.

Conjured forth by contemporary artist Tristan Elwell in the cover art for Ashling by Isobelle Carmody, it encapsulates the spirit of high fantasy with an undercurrent of delicious menace. It speaks of quests undertaken in realms where the natural and supernatural coexist, evoking a world where untamed spirits race against looming shadows.

Fantastical, brooding imagery leaps from the covers of countless tomes, beckoning readers into realms of fantasy, young adult adventures, and thought-provoking editorials. Elwell’s darkly whimsical visions serve as portals, each image a visual distillation of complex narratives into single, compelling moments frozen in time. His art is like a tarot deck for the modern age, each image a card that tells a story of possible futures and hidden truths.

Beyond book covers, this artistic vision spills onto Magic: The Gathering cards; whether you’re cycling with Merfolk Looter or summoning a horde with Elvish Piper, Elwell’s contributions to this beloved bastion of nerdery transforms players’ hands into galleries of miniature masterpieces amidst their fantastical battles.

In this evocative scene featured in my book The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal, we spy a levitating witch-like character slyly peeking over her shoulder to catch us in the act of observing her. Her wild grey hair billows in an unseen ethereal current, adding to her mystical allure. Below, a cat cleverly bats at an unseen ‘mouse,’ while a circle of arcane symbols swirls on the floor. An incongruous on/off button in the foreground adds a surprising modern touch to this magical scene. The image is bathed in the warm glow of a trio of pillar candles held aloft by wrought iron stands, illuminating this instance of the arcane and the contemporary.

A visual paradox where ancient sorcery and modern technology coexist in a single, mesmerizing moment, it’s an intriguing fusion that invites viewers to ponder the intersection of mystical arts and technological advancement, each complex in its own right. The image bears a whimsical resemblance to a somewhat archaic ad for witchy helpdesk support in PC Plus magazine, but it’s the captivating illustration adorning the cover of Curses, Inc. and Other Stories by Vivian Vande Velde.

Midnight in a graveyard, a sleek black cat paces at a crossroads, its presence both ominous and intriguing. Headstones thrust up from shaggy, unkempt grass, casting long shadows across the scene. The dampness of overgrown blades is almost palpable, their imagined rustle carried on a chill breeze. This haunting imagery for Witch Way to Murder by Shirley Damsgaard weaves a visual story of mystery and magic that entices the viewer to peer deeper into its shadows. I am totally judging a book by its cover here, but you can count me among the viewers enticed to peek! (I’m looking for a copy at the library as we speak!)

A domestic longhair cat, resplendent in a business suit, regards us with an expression of cunning professionalism. Its eyes glint with intelligence and a hint of mischief, suggesting playful yet potentially nefarious schemes. This clever and cute image, with its undercurrent of menacing shenanigans, graces the cover of John Scalzi’s Starter Villain and becomes a charming yet unsettling visual ambassador for Scalzi’s satirical exploration of corporate ethics and modern villainy.

The brilliance of this cover becomes even more apparent when considered alongside the book’s premise (which unlike a few above, I have actually read!) In Starter Villain, Charlie, a recently divorced substitute teacher, inherits his estranged uncle’s unconventional business: supervillainy.  Thrust into a world of lasers, talking cats, and unionized dolphins, Charlie embarks on a journey of self-discovery amidst the absurdity, where humor and intrigue simmer –dangerously, delightfully!–beneath the surface of a dormant volcano in a remote island lair.  Elwell’s suited cat perfectly serves as an ideal visual ambassador for Scalzi’s satirical exploration of corporate ethics and modern villainy.

Personal works reveal a deep appreciation for the gothic and dramatic. In “Isolation,” a striking figure perches high on a wire, defying gravity and convention. Adorned in a long black Victorian-style frock, complete with lace collar and cameo, the figure’s playful space buns add a touch of youthful spirit to the somber attire. An umbrella clutched in hand leaves us wondering: is it to ward off sun or rain? Four crows share the wire, a fifth ascending to join this curious gathering, regarding their human companion with interest but without malice, as if recognizing a kindred spirit in this darkly clad figure who has ventured into their domain.

“Inversion,” which just yesterday won First Place for Digital Art in the Beautiful Bizarre Magazine Art Prize (many sincere congratulations, Tristan!!) mirrors this scene but diverges dramatically. A nude woman hangs upside down from a wire, her body a study in grace and control. The tension in her form evokes a ballet dancer practicing passé relevés variations, every muscle defined, every line carefully considered. She shares her precarious perch with a quartet of bats, their expressions a mixture of fascination and bewilderment at this topsy-turvy human interloper. Behind them, the sky transitions to evening, wisps of clouds texturing the horizon as a distant flock of bats passes by.

These two pieces form a captivating diptych: from gothic Victorian aesthetic to an almost balletic nude, recurring motifs of solitary figures, wire perches, and avian companions create thematic links that invite contemplation on isolation, inversion, and the strange companions we find in lonely places. These works are like visual kōans, paradoxical vignettes that invite meditation on the nature of solitude and perspective.

Instagram sketches reveal a gallery of iconic figures: Elsa Lanchester’s Bride of Frankenstein, sultry silent film star Theda Bara, the hauntingly beautiful Peter Steele, and delightfully macabre Lily Munster. The artistic gaze extends beyond pure gothic to embrace a wider range of dramatic personalities: Nick Cave broods alongside Tom Waits, while the surreal world of David Lynch’s Eraserhead neighbors a classically melodramatic depiction of Salome offering John the Baptist’s head. His Instagram becomes a cabinet of curiosities, each sketch a specimen of pop culture preserved in the formaldehyde of Elwell’s distinctive style.

A particularly striking image captures an Edwardian lady in fencing attire, a red heart embroidered on her dress breast. It’s a masterful blend of historical aesthetics and symbolic elements, both beautiful and poignant.

While Elwell’s work has graced an impressive array of book covers spanning YA fantasy to cozy mystery and beyond, one can’t help but imagine the striking impact his art could have on gothic romance novels. Picture a cover where a graceful figure in a meticulously rendered Regency gown stands before a fog-shrouded manor, her hair tousled by an unseen wind. A sleek black cat winds around her ankles, its eyes gleaming with otherworldly intelligence, while a colony of bats silently wheels against the brooding sky.

Another scene might capture a moonlit balcony: a corseted Victorian beauty leans precariously over the railing, her lace-gloved hand outstretched toward a shadowy figure astride a powerful, dark horse in the garden below. The intricate detailing of her dress would be a testament to Elwell’s keen eye, while the play of light and shadow could hint at the passion and danger lurking within the pages. Or envision a windswept moor at twilight, where a lone rider on a ghostly pale horse gallops past ancient standing stones. In the foreground, crimson roses entwine with thorny vines, their blooms stark against the misty landscape.

Such covers would perfectly capture the genre’s signature blend of desire and dread, all while showcasing the motifs that make Elwell’s work so distinctively captivating. Elwell’s hypothetical gothic romance covers would be like Victorian valentines dipped in the blood of midnight ink – ornate, passionate, with just a touch of sly diablerie.

And finally, here is a Halloween cow. A bovine celebration of the most wonderful time of the year! Because beyond the artist’s keen eye for detail and all their technical wizardry and all those years of honing and refining their skills, we know the thing that truly counts is recognizing that animal + Halloween costume = pure, unadulterated gold. I’m not even joking. It is true! (You have no idea how much I love this cow!)

But seriously folks! Elwell’s portfolio is a cocktail of the macabre, the whimsical, and fantastical, shaken vigorously and served with a twist of sardonic wit. These works, from fully realized paintings to quick sketches, reveal an artist with an uncanny ability to capture the essence of his subjects, and his images act as windows to realms where magic, mystery, and wonder are tangible, ever-present forces. Infused with a dreamy darkness and a subtle but distinctive thread of mordant humor, these works captivate and inspire. They invite us to imagine worlds where a midnight ride on a shadow steed is possible, where a feline might stand guard at a haunted crossroads, or where a talking cat in a business suit could be plotting world domination.

 Speaking of how these works captivate and inspire, it was that very cat at that very crossroads that caught my eye back in 2010 when it was rampantly reblogged all over Tumblr sans credit or context. Searching out the artist responsible for it was how I first discovered Tristan’s body of work, which I have been following ever since. It feels like a very full-circle moment to have been able to include Tristan’s work in my book.  What a weird, wild, wonderful world! And how glad I am to share it with artists like Tristan Elwell.

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?

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Happy birthday to my three beloved art books, published in Septembers 2020, 2022, and 2023!

Let’s take a moment to appreciate these visual feasts that explore the mystical, the dark, and the fantastical.

✨ The Art of the Occult: A Visual Sourcebook For The Modern Mystic (2020)
A journey through the esoteric and spiritual in art, from theosophy to sacred geometry. This book showcases how artists have been drawn to the mystical, creating works that transcend time and place.

“The Art of the Occult crosses mystical spheres in a bid to inspire and delight, acting as a light introduction to the art of mysticism.”

✨ The Art of Darkness: A Treasury Of The Morbid, Melancholic & Macabre (2022)
Dive into the shadows with this exploration of how artists have grappled with the darker aspects of the human condition. From the haunting to the horrifying, this book asks: what comfort can be found in facing our demons?

“We deny our inner darkness at our own peril. This book invites us to sit for a while with these shadows – from the safety of our armchairs.”

✨ The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal (2023)
Embark on a magical journey through the realms of imagination. From mermaids to mythical creatures, this book celebrates the fantastical visions that have captivated artists throughout history.

“Our most madcap adventures and extraordinary flights of fancy – this is the fabulous realm of fantasy, and the spectrum of fantastic art is an abundant, richly diverse wonderland to explore.”

These books are more than just curations of art – they’re gateways to other worlds, invitations to explore the depths of human creativity and imagination. Whether you’re drawn to the mystical, the macabre, or the magical, there’s a book in this trio for you.
Find them here or grab a signed copy here and join me in celebrating these weird little art goblins and the windows they open into extraordinary realms!

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In the grey gloaming realm that stretches between the living and the dead, Dylan Garrett Smith’s monochrome reveries unfurl like smoke from a snuffed candle. His artistry is a nocturne played on the bones of forgotten beasts, a serenade to the wild things that lurk just beyond our peripheral vision.

Smith’s canvas is a chiaroscuro otherworld where vitality and decay intertwine in a spectral palimpsest, each layer revealing new depths of existence.

In one haunting tableau, corvids engage in a macabre game of cat’s cradle – or is it shibari? – with a skull, their ebony feathers a stark contrast to the bone’s pallid gleam.

Nearby, a small ram reclines in blissful repose, unaware of the arrows that surround it like a halo of impending doom. This particular piece, a poignant illustration of innocence amidst danger, can be found in my book The Art of Darkness: A Treasury of the Morbid, Melancholic and Macabre.

Suspended in the void, a broken bird’s nest becomes a mobile of bones, dangling precariously and giving dark new meaning to the phrase “cradle to grave.”

A fox bounds away into the darkness, its back turned to us. Its burden, both grisly and beautiful, is revealed: upended skulls serve as macabre baskets, overflowing with phantasmal autumn leaves. This juxtaposition of death and seasonal beauty encapsulates the cyclical nature of existence, a memento mori adorned with life’s fleeting splendor.

In Smith’s hands, a deer skull becomes a temple, its antlers reaching skyward like gothic spires, enrobed in a tapestry of forest flora that speaks of life’s persistence in the face of death.

Elsewhere, rats perform a macabre quadrille, their lithe forms weaving intricate patterns around a juicy pomegranate – a Persephone’s bargain made flesh, the promise of cyclic renewal amidst decay.

I have a fixation on “hands holding things,” and in Dylan Garrett Smith’s hands this obsession finds a dark playground of endless fascination. His monochrome world is populated by a menagerie of spindly, clawed fingers that grasp and clutch at various objects, each image a haunting vignette that pulls at the threads of the subconscious.

In one particularly arresting piece, skeletal hands cradle a guttering candle, its flame a fragile light against encroaching darkness, while rosary drape gently about around the wrists, as if anchoring the soul in its futile quest for salvation.

In another striking image, a snake coils sinuously around an arm, its scales a stark contrast to the human flesh streaked with dark, bleeding veins of dirt. From this liminal fusion of animal and human sprout leaves and berries, as if the arm itself is transforming into a branch, blurring the lines between flesh and flora, predator and prey.

These spectral appendages haunt the penumbral spaces of Smith’s work and our psyche. A wrist pierced by an arrow evokes a pagan stigmata, while elsewhere, a disembodied sorcerer’s hand plays puppeteer to a decaying apple, its fishhook strings a grim reminder of the manipulations that lie beneath life’s surface.

Each eerie hand draws me in, their skeletal digits beckoning me closer, telling stories of grasping desire, occult power, and the ever-present reach of mortality. They speak to something primal, a recognition of hands as tools of creation and destruction,  acting out dark fantasies and ancient rites.

Smith renders these visions in ash, chalk-lead, and ink on black cotton rag, his choice of medium as much a part of the story as the images themselves. The ash speaks of transformation and endings, the chalk-lead whispers of impermanence, while the ink etches permanence into the ephemeral. On the black canvas, these materials come alive, each stroke a revelation of light amidst shadow, of form emerging from void.

This interplay of light and dark extends beyond technique, embodying the very essence of Smith’s artistic philosophy. His work is a meditation on the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, on the beauty found in decay and the inevitability of nature’s reclamation. In Smith’s art, ecological concerns intertwine with occult symbolism, creating a visual language that speaks to both the natural world and the supernatural realms that haunt our collective unconscious.

This shadow play extends beyond the confines of gallery walls and into the pulsing heart of the music world. For over half his life, he’s been weaving his spectral visions into the very fabric of the industry, birthing nearly a thousand designs that clothe the devotees of darkness. From the hallowed racks of Hot Topic to the curated collections of Foxblood, Smith’s creations lurk, waiting to ensnare unsuspecting shoppers in their gossamer threads of ink and imagination.

Throughout his career, his artistry has been embraced by titans of the metal scene, with Smith creating designs for renowned bands whose music shakes our very souls. One can almost hear the eldritch roar of guitars and the seismic percussion echoing through his creations, each design a portal to a concert at the end of the world. “Through these designs,” Smith muses, “many of my favorite artists are now my closest friends.” It’s a testament to the alchemical power of his art, transmuting admiration into connection, fandom into friendship.

He has also lent his talent to the folks at Cadabra Records, where — small world!– I was perusing their website years ago and came across a spoken-word Dracula album, narrated by the one and only Tony Todd. “Hot dog!” I thought, “This is amazing! But wait a second…I recognize the style of this artwork…!” And sure enough, there are several albums in their catalog whose covers are awash in Dylan’s particular brand of darkness.

To stand before a Dylan Garrett Smith piece is to feel the veil between worlds grow gossamer-thin. Time becomes elastic; the boundaries between observer and observed blur. We find ourselves not simply viewing foxes and snakes, skulls and hands, but inhabiting a liminal space where the arcane and the ecological converge.

This is art as ritual, as invocation. Each piece a spell cast against forgetting, against the numbing comfort of artificial light. Smith’s work demands we rekindle our relationship with shadow, with the rich loam of decay that nourishes new life. It whispers of old gods and older truths, of the wisdom found in bone and root and stone.

In an age of ecological crisis, where the wild places shrink beneath our ever-expanding footprint, Smith’s art serves as both warning and balm. It reminds us that nature’s triumph is inevitable, not as a cataclysm to be feared, but as a homecoming to be embraced. To engage with Dylan Garrett Smith’s art is to pilgrimage into the heart of darkness – not as an absence of light, but as a fertile void teeming with possibility.

It is to remember that we, too, are creatures of ash and shadow, of bloom and decay. In his funereal monochrome, we glimpse not just the face of nature, but our own wild souls gazing back, asking to be remembered, to be set free. In Smith’s stark compositions, we find a memento vivere cloaked in the guise of a memento mori – a poignant reminder that in breakdown lies the promise of renewal, in endings, the whisper of beginnings.

Between these poles of existence, Smith reveals the raw, mesmerizing complexity of life’s perpetual cycle.

For all the haunting grimness of his canvases, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more amiable soul than Dylan Garrett Smith.

In my few DMs with him, our conversations have meandered through art and perfume, revealing an artist as relatable as he is talented. Smith’s Instagram offers a window into this duality: interspersed among his spectral creations are posts that showcase a genuine love for his artistic community and a delightfully goofy sense of humor.

I’m particularly fond of his allergy season jokes accompanying some of his woodland flora vignettes – a cheeky reminder that even artists who traffic in the realms of decay and darkness aren’t immune to the prosaic irritations of pollen. This juxtaposition of the macabre and the mundane, the profound and the playful, adds yet another layer of depth to Smith’s already multifaceted persona.

In contemplating Smith’s art, one can’t help but draw parallels to another realm of sensory experience: perfume. Both dark art and fragrance possess the power to evoke visceral reactions, bypassing our logical mind to trigger something primal within us. Like Smith’s meticulously crafted monochrome visions, perfume can transport us to liminal spaces, conjuring the essence of spectral forests and forgotten rituals in an instant. There’s an intimacy to both, a way of getting under the skin and lingering, transforming our perception of the world around us.

In the earthy notes of soil and roots, the metallic tang of blood, or the ethereal whisper of smoke, we find olfactory echoes of Smith’s visual themes – a shared fascination with the cycle of life, death, and rebirth that permeates both art forms. Just as Smith’s hands grasp candles and cradle skulls, certain scents can hold us in their thrall, telling stories of nature’s reclamation and the thin veil between worlds.

I recently inquired with Dylan about his favorites, and he got back to me with the following …

“Since moving to Los Angeles from Pennsylvania a few years ago, I had to completely overhaul my fragrance collection – everything I had was dark, smoky, spicy, and warm for the cooler weather and now that’s it’s like 80 all year long, I’ve had to do some soul searching and branch out, haha!”

Some of my favorites right now:

“Vertical Oud” by Hermetica Paris
“La Capitale” by Xerjoff
“Super Cedar” by Byredo
“Oud Wood” by Tom Ford (author note: ME TOO, IT’S SO GOOD!)
“Woodphoria” by Boy Smells
“Bulletproof” by Tokyomilk Dark
“FFCC33” (“Sunglow”) by Hans Hendley

Also, according to Dylan, “If you’re reading this from Southern California or New England, I have some events and art shows coming up that I’d love to see you at! Check out the Upcoming Events page on my site for more info!”

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As twilight descends and the world exhales into darkness, a different realm awakens – one populated by creatures that have long captivated our imagination.

In my book, The Art of Darkness: A Treasury of the Morbid, Melancholic, and Macabre, I explored the intricate nocturnal bestiary that has long prowled through dark-themed art. Now, let us both expand beyond the imagery in the book and narrow our gaze to three of night’s most beguiling emissaries: the owl, the bat, and the moth.

Owls: Wisdom’s Watchful Eyes

In the hushed cathedral of the forest, the owl reigns as both sage and specter. Its penetrating gaze has, for centuries, been a mirror for our own search for knowledge in the darkness of ignorance. From Dürer’s meticulous engravings, where owls perch as symbols of wisdom and melancholy, to the surreal, moonlit landscapes of Gertrude Abercrombie, where these birds stand as enigmatic sentinels, owls bridge our world with realms unseen, embodying the very essence of nocturnal mystery.

In literature, the owl’s hoot has heralded profound messages – think of the prophetic bird in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” or the wise companions in modern fantasy. These creatures, with their ability to pierce the veil of night, remind us that true wisdom often comes from peering into the shadows of our own souls.

Bats: Creatures of Transformation

If owls are the philosophers of the night, bats are its shape-shifters – embodiments of our fears and fascinations with the unknown. Goya’s haunting etching, “The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters,” captures this creature’s darker associations, with bats emerging from the dreamer’s subconscious like fragments of a shadowy psyche. Yet bats also inspire whimsy and wonder, as seen in Richard Doyle’s enchanting “A flight by night of bats and elves.” Here, bats flutter alongside fairy-like creatures in a nocturnal revelry, reminding us that the night holds magic as well as mystery. This duality of the bat – at once ominous and enchanting – reflects our complex relationship with the unknown, inviting us to find beauty in what we fear.

In gothic subcultures and literature, the bat has been elevated to a creature of dark majesty. From the pages of Dracula to the iconic symbolism of Batman, these winged mammals have come to represent fear transformed into strength, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, we have the power to soar. Or that at least we can look really cool and badass in big, black flappy capes.

Moths: Fragile Pursuers of Light

Perhaps the most poetic of our nocturnal trio, moths embody the delicate dance between destruction and desire. Their fatal attraction to light has inspired artists and writers to explore themes of transformation and the allure of the forbidden. The Pre-Raphaelites, with their love of natural symbolism, often included moths in their works, using their ephemeral beauty to speak of mortality and rebirth.

Contemporary artists like Kiki Smith have created haunting works centered around moths, inviting us to contemplate our own fragility and the beauty found in life’s fleeting moments. In literature, from Virginia Woolf’s poignant essay to the chilling motif in “The Silence of the Lambs,” moths continue to flutter through our collective consciousness, reminding us of the thin line between attraction and annihilation.

Together, these creatures form a nocturnal symphony, each playing its part in the grand opera of the night. In art that brings them together, we see a world where wisdom perches watchfully, transformation takes wing, and beauty dances perilously close to the flame. It’s a world that invites us to step beyond the boundaries of our illuminated lives and into the rich, velvety darkness where mystery still thrives.

As we gaze upon artistic renderings of these night dwellers or encounter their symbolism in stories and songs, we’re reminded of the thin veil between our orderly, illuminated world and the vast, unknowable darkness that surrounds us. In the piercing gaze of an owl, the silent swoop of a bat, or the moonlit dance of a moth’s delicate form, we see reflections of our own journeys through light and shadow, wisdom and fear, transformation and ephemerality.

These creatures and the art they inspire invite us to embrace the night – not as a place of terror but as a realm of beauty, mystery, and profound truth. They continue to flutter, flit, and lurk from the edges of our consciousness, reminding us of the unfathomable mysteries that still exist in the universe, just beyond the reach of daylight.

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There’s a mesmerizing quality to Jerome Podwil’s book covers that arrests the eye and captivates the imagination. His artistry weaves an irresistible spell, whether depicting the shadowy corridors of gothic romance or the shimmering vistas of far-flung galaxies. Podwil possesses a rare gift: the ability to imbue his subjects with a depth and complexity that transcends the typical boundaries of cover illustration.

Gazing upon a Podwil heroine is akin to peering through a window into a fully realized world. These aren’t mere figments of fantasy, but women with hidden depths and untold stories etched into every line and shadow. Their eyes, rendered with exquisite care, seem to hold secrets just beyond the viewer’s grasp. Each expression is a masterclass in subtle storytelling, hinting at complex emotions and veiled motivations that leave you yearning to unravel their mysteries.

What truly sets Podwil’s work apart is his uncanny ability to marry this psychological depth with an ethereal beauty. His touch is delicate yet assured, creating faces that are at once soft and strong, vulnerable and resolute. The eyes, in particular, are windows not just to the soul of the character, but to entire worlds. They’ve an immersive, expansive quality draw you in so completely that you can almost feel yourself slipping into the character’s perspective, seeing their gothic mansions or starlit skies through their eyes.

Podwil’s affinity for, and fluency in, the gothic is evident in his work on classic tales like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or the Dark Shadows novel The Mystery of Collinwood. While these pieces may not be his most daring or groundbreaking creations, they resonate with the eerie charm of the genre. Podwil’s brush dances between light and shadow, conjuring an atmosphere thick with unspoken secrets and lurking supernatural presence. As I gaze at these covers, I’m struck by how effortlessly he distills the essence of gothic literature, that palpable sense of brooding atmosphere and latent supernatural menace, into visual form. These works, while honoring the classic status of their source material, bear the unmistakable mark of Podwil’s artistry – a testament to his ability to infuse even well-trodden paths with his unique vision.

But Podwil’s artistic prowess isn’t confined to the realm of the gothic. His science fiction covers reveal an equally deft touch, transporting viewers to cosmic vistas that feel at once alien and oddly familiar. Where other artists might assault the senses with harsh lines and chromium gleam, Podwil opts for a more nuanced approach. His extraterrestrial landscapes are rendered in muted jewel tones, creating worlds that feel less like cold, distant planets and more like half-remembered dreams.

It’s no wonder that Podwil’s name frequently surfaced during last year’s search for the artist behind the iconic A Wrinkle in Time cover art. While that particular piece wasn’t his work (it is Richard Bober!) the frequent attribution speaks volumes about Podwil’s reputation in the field. His sci-fi illustrations share that same sense of wonder and otherworldly beauty that many associate with classic young adult science fiction.

In Podwil’s hands, celestial bodies become precious gems suspended in the velvet backdrop of space. His galactic empresses and space vampires exude an otherworldly glamour, their alien nature conveyed through subtle, telling details rather than outlandish caricatures. Even his depictions of spaceships and stations possess a whimsical, almost organic quality, as if they’ve grown naturally from the stuff of stars rather than being wrought by future engineers.

Podwil’s approach to science fiction illustration offers a unique perspective in a genre often dominated by sleek, technological imagery. While his covers are rich with detail, they feel more like stumbling upon an ornate treasure chest than poring over a complicated NASA blueprint. Each element, from swirling nebulae to gleaming spacecraft, is rendered with exquisite care, inviting viewers to lose themselves in a galaxy of intricate particulars. This style captures the wonder of space exploration not through sterile precision, but through a sense of opulent mystery that beckons the imagination.

In an era when cover art often served as mere marketing, Podwil elevated it to an art form in its own right. His distinctive style, at once recognizable and ever-surprising, transforms each cover into a carefully composed overture. Layers of visual storytelling complement and expand upon the written word, enriching the reader’s journey from the moment they lay eyes on the book.

Jerome Podwil’s book covers visual feasts and not simply previews, but portals to worlds both familiar and fantastical. When I encounter a Podwil piece, I’m drawn into a narrative that begins long before the first page is turned.

To discover Podwil’s work is to unearth a hidden treasure trove of imagination. His dreamy, evocative style reminds us of the magic inherent in a single image. Whether beckoning us down a gothic mansion’s candlelit corridor or to a distant planet where crystalline spires rise under triple moons, Podwil’s art whispers of midnight revelations and stardust-streaked journeys. Each cover is an invitation to step through the looking glass, a promise of adventure that lingers long after the book is closed. In this artist’s capable hands, the humble book cover becomes a gateway to infinite possibilities, sparking our imagination and priming us for the wonders that await within the pages and beyond

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I probably should have written this intro before I even began this series on cover artists. Actually, it just occurred to me today that I have written so frequently about book cover artists that I should make a series about it. In fact, now is probably a good time to confess that there is zero foresight or planning or scheduling at all when it comes to these blog posts. I get an idea–I write about it–I hit publish. I don’t have a content calendar or a backlog of posts waiting in the wings. I barely even edit these things!

So let me take a moment to apologize properly for my characteristic lack of foresight. But better late than never, right? Classic Sarah, chronically putting the dramatic reveal before the proper setup. Either way, here we are at last…

There’s a peculiar magic in the way a book cover can beckon to you from across a dusty shop or on a quiet library shelf; its ensorcelling visual siren song ensnares your imagination before you’ve even cracked the spine or read the first page. My obsession with cover art is a many-splendored thing, and as a connoisseur of the gloriously over-the-top, I’ve long been enthralled by these gateways to other worlds, particularly those depicting gothic romances, psychedelic fantasies, and golden age sci-fi. These genres, with their unapologetic embrace of the dramatic and fantastical, speak to the part of me that still believes in mythical monsters and mystical creatures and all manner of ghosts and goblins and ghoulies.

I’ve waxed poetic about many a cover artist in these digital pages: Victor Kalin with his brooding heroines and looming castles, Ted Coconis and his fever dream color palettes, Laurence Schwinger’s mastery of shadow and light. I’ve swooned over Hector Garrido’s penchant for placing impossibly coiffed damsels in the most dire of circumstances, marveled at Ed Emshwiller’s ability to make even the most outlandish alien worlds seem plausible, and lost myself in the transcendent visions of Leo and Diane Dillon. But today we turn our gaze to an artist whose gothic romance covers are a veritable feast for the eyes: the inimitable Vic Prezio.

Before we dive into the delicious depths of Prezio’s gothic oeuvre, I feel compelled to acknowledge the elephant in the room – or perhaps more accurately, the scantily clad pin-up and problematic stereotypes in the room. Yes, Prezio is perhaps best known for his ‘men’s magazine’ art. To which I say: yawn and yikes. Let’s just draw a veil over that particular aspect of his career and instead lose ourselves in the fog-shrouded moors and candlelit corridors of his gothic imaginings.

Vic Prezio’s gothic romance covers are a masterclass in atmospheric tension. His heroines, invariably clad in diaphanous nightgowns that seem to exist in a perpetual state of windswept drama, navigate landscapes that are equal parts allure and menace. Crumbling mansions loom against stormy skies, their windows glowing with an eldritch light that promises secrets best left undiscovered.

But it’s in his depiction of landscapes that Prezio truly shines. His seaside scenes rival the most evocative marine paintings, with jagged cliffs and turbulent waters that echo the emotional storms of his characters. The grounds of his manor houses are studies in cultivated wildness, where manicured lawns give way to tangled woods with shadows deep enough to hide a multitude of secrets.

Prezio’s shadowed midnight streets evoke comparisons to the nocturnes of Whistler or the gaslit avenues of Atkinson Grimshaw. While perhaps not rivaling these masters in technical execution, Prezio captures their spirit, transforming ordinary urban scenes into stages for extraordinary encounters. Gas lamps cast pools of sickly yellow light, barely holding the encroaching fog at bay. Cobblestones gleam with recent rain, reflecting the moon in fractured shards of silver.

[Edit: A commenter inquired as to the provenance of the above artwork, and I think…I may have saved it in my Vic Prezio folder by accident. I am but a human person and I do make mistakes! It’s possible the artist is actually Darrell Greene, but I am not entirely sure about that. My first inclination is to be embarrassed about flagrantly misattributing something, but I guess at least it was just in a blog post and not a published book, ha! At any rate, who has time for embarrassment when there’s a new artist to learn about?! And a big thanks to Steve for catching the error, seriously–thank you. ]

His color palette is a thing of moody beauty. He favors rich, deep hues – midnight blues that seem to swallow light, forest greens that whisper of ancient, untamed wilderness, and crimsons that could be passion or peril, depending on how the light hits them. These dark tones are often punctuated by a single, startling splash of brightness – the heroine’s golden hair, a shaft of moonlight piercing the gloom, or the sickly yellow glow of a ghost light leading unwary travelers astray.

There’s a delicious absurdity to many of Prezio’s compositions, a quality that I find utterly irresistible. On one cover, a ghostly woman outside a crumbling wooden house bathed in a crimson sunset looks as if she’s experiencing a head-scratching, logic-defying transporter malfunction  – she appears to be morphing into a tree, her form blurring with the gnarled branches behind her.

Another cover features a negligee-clad woman transfixed by a zombified hand rising from a marsh. Despite the apparent danger, she’s at a comically safe distance, with ample time to turn and flee, yet she remains rooted to the spot in classic gothic heroine fashion.

In yet another, a woman sits at a bloody piano, looking coquettishly alarmed, as if she’s been interrupted mid-way through a flirty rendition of “Three Blind Mice.” Behind her, a menacing figure glowers from a mirror, creating a delightful juxtaposition of the mundane and the macabre. It’s as if Prezio delighted in pushing the boundaries of the genre, seeing just how far he could stretch credulity before it snapped like an overstretched piece of lacy elastic from a flimsy peignoir.

Yet, for all their melodramatic excess (or perhaps because of it?), there’s something undeniably compelling about these covers. They capture the essence of the gothic romance genre – that delicious frisson of fear and desire, the thrill of the unknown, the promise of passion lurking just beyond the veil of propriety.

In Prezio’s hands, these stock elements become something more than the sum of their parts. They become windows into worlds where every shadow holds a secret, and where what should be perceived as menace and danger becomes, to the right kind of connoisseur, a tantalizing promise. In Prezio’s gothic landscapes, threats don’t just lurk—they beckon, transforming the nightmare into a thrilling invitation to adventure.

At least for us, the readers, if not for the artfully terror-stricken lady on the cover.

So here’s to Vic Prezio, master of the gothic cover, weaver of visual tales that have likely caused many a reader to miss their bus stop, so engrossed were they in the promise of the pages within. May his heroines never run out of breath, may his manor houses never succumb to mundane building codes, and may we all find a little of that gothic magic in our everyday lives, with a luxurious abundance of billowing nightgowns.

Billow on, friends. Billow on.

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As a writer, blogger, and (most importantly) a voracious reader, I’ve long been beguiled by the weird, wonderful threads that stitch seemingly random experiences together. These uncanny echoes, what Carl Jung called synchronicities, are like tiny magic tricks the universe performs for the observant soul. They have been a constant companion in my literary journeys, often leaving me breathless with wonder and pondering the hidden mechanics of our universe.

A recent example, and the thing that actually inspired this blog post, happened just this morning. Within the span of five minutes, I encountered two strikingly similar instances in completely unrelated texts. In Calling a Wolf a Wolf, a book of poetry by Kaveh Akbar, I came across the line, “…hobble back to your hovel like a knight moving in Ls.” The vivid imagery of a chess piece’s movement stuck with me as I set the book aside. Moments later, I picked up Spiritus Mundi, an anthology by contemporary creatives inspired by occult writing prompts. There, in a description of a dream, I read of a bed “hovering, darting over the floor like a chess piece in L-shapes.”

The parallel was unmistakable – two distinct authors, in two entirely different contexts, conjuring the same unusual image of L-shaped movement. What are the odds? And yet, in the world of synchronicities, such occurrences seem to happen with surprising frequency.

These literary echoes aren’t confined to the realm of fiction and poetry. Often, they bridge the gap between the written word and our lived experiences. Just today, I found myself fretting and extremely agitated over the state of our lawn. With Ývan nursing a broken foot and all our attempts at finding temporary lawn maintenance services mysteriously unresponsive, I’ve been anxiously eyeing the growing grass, all too aware of our HOA’s stringent standards and all the judging eyes of the neighborhood.

To take my mind off it for a moment, I randomly opened The Sphinx and the Milky Way: Selections from the Journals of artist Charles Burchfield. To my astonishment, I found him lamenting the very same issue – the pressure to maintain a perfectly manicured lawn in a neighborhood of immaculate yards. He writes of cutting down bunches of weed, plants that he actually deems quite beautiful, “Back of it all was the custom of people to have neat flat lawns–our front yard was a “disgrace,” and, accordingly, I was out with my sickle.” Burchfield’s frustration penned almost 100 years ago in 1925, mirrored my own current predicament with uncanny accuracy.

These synchronicities, while fascinating, often leave us grasping for explanations. Are they merely coincidences, random alignments in the vast tapestry of human experience? Or do they point to something deeper, a hidden order in the universe that occasionally makes itself known through these moments of convergence?

Carl Jung believed these meaningful coincidences were evidence of an acausal connecting principle – a force that links events not through cause and effect, but through meaning and significance. He saw synchronicities as moments when the collective unconscious bubbles up into our conscious awareness, revealing connections that transcend our ordinary understanding of time and space. As a reader and writer, I find Jung’s perspective particularly compelling. Books, after all, are portals to the collective human experience. They allow us to tap into the thoughts, emotions, and observations of countless individuals across time and space. Perhaps it’s not so surprising, then, that as we immerse ourselves in this vast sea of human consciousness, we occasionally encounter currents that align with our own lives in startling ways.

But synchronicities aren’t just curiosities to be marveled at and forgotten. They can serve as powerful tools for self-reflection and personal growth. When we encounter these meaningful coincidences, they often highlight aspects of our lives or psyches that we might otherwise overlook.

For instance, the recurring chess knight imagery I encountered could be seen as an invitation to consider the non-linear paths we sometimes need to take in life. Just as the knight moves in unexpected L-shapes on the chessboard, perhaps there’s an area of my life where an unconventional approach might yield surprising results. Similarly, Burchfield’s lawn-related frustrations resonating with my own current situation might be prompting me to examine my relationship with societal expectations and the pressures of conformity. Am I, like Burchfield, chafing against norms that don’t align with my values or natural inclinations?

Synchronicities can also serve as creative sparks, igniting new ideas and connections in our minds. As a writer, I often find that these moments of convergence become seeds for new blog posts, essays, or poems. They invite us to explore the liminal spaces between different ideas, disciplines, and experiences, often leading to fresh insights and innovative thinking. Frequently, I’ll be working on a piece of writing and suddenly recall a perfect reference or idea that I’ve encountered in my reading. What’s remarkable is that these references often come from sources that seem entirely unrelated to my current work. Yet, they fit seamlessly into the piece I’m crafting, as if they were waiting to be discovered and used in this exact context.

An experience late last year perfectly encapsulates this phenomenon. While preparing for an interview with Adam Rowe about his book on 70s Sci-Fi Art, I was concurrently reading John Koenig’s Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows – a work that, while not directly related to science fiction, explores otherworldly notions and ineffable experiences.

In Koenig’s book, I encountered the concept of “Astrophe” – the feeling of being irrevocably tethered to Earth while longing for the stars, that bittersweet mix of dreaming of other worlds and being constantly pulled back to earthly reality. This concept, emerging from a book ostensibly unrelated to my interview preparation, provided the perfect springboard for a question to Rowe:

“Is there a particular sci-fi artwork you revel in or an artist you admire whose art is so bold and striking that somewhere in your mind, it permanently yanks you right out of Earth’s orbit, perhaps quells that Astrophic yearning?”

This question, born from the collision of Koenig’s philosophical musings and Rowe’s exploration of science fiction art, bridges two seemingly disparate worlds. It invites a deeper reflection on the power of visual art to transport us beyond our earthly confines, even if only in our imagination.

Of course, it’s important to maintain a balanced perspective when it comes to the stuff of synchronicity. While they can be meaningful and insightful, it’s all too easy to fall into the trap of seeing significance in every coincidence. This can lead to magical thinking and a disconnection from reality. The key, I believe, is to remain open to these experiences without becoming obsessed with them or reading too much into every chance alignment.

Cultivating an awareness of synchronicities isn’t some magical talent – it’s a skill we can hone over time. I recall an early exercise in my high school AP English class that, while not synchronicity in the strictest sense, helped attune me to these literary coincidences. Our teacher encouraged us to note down on index cards any instances where we encountered our vocabulary words outside of class. The very evening after this assignment was given, I heard the word ‘surreptitious’ used in a rerun of Roseanne! It was either that or The Simpsons –in any case, it was an unexpected find. This exercise trained me to be more aware of the connections between my academic reading and the wider world.

As readers, we can cultivate a mindset that’s receptive to synchronicities without actively seeking them out. This involves maintaining a wide-ranging reading habit, exposing ourselves to diverse perspectives and ideas. It also means staying present and mindful as we read, allowing ourselves to fully engage with the text and notice connections that might otherwise slip by unnoticed.

Keeping a reading journal can be an excellent way to track and reflect on these synchronistic experiences. By noting down striking passages, recurring themes, or moments when a text seems to speak directly to our current circumstances, we create a record of these meaningful coincidences. Over time, patterns may emerge, offering deeper insights into our own psyches and the themes that resonate most strongly with us.

In my own practice, I’ve found that sharing these synchronicities – whether through public blog posts, private journaling, or conversations with fellow readers– can amplify their impact. Not only does this allow us to gain new perspectives on these experiences, but it also creates a sense of connection with others who have had similar encounters. There’s something deeply affirming about realizing that you’re not alone in experiencing these uncanny moments of convergence, and as we navigate the complex web of our lives, with all its challenges, joys, and mysteries, synchronicities serve as gentle reminders of the interconnectedness of all things. They whisper to us of hidden patterns and unseen connections, inviting us to look beyond the surface of our everyday experiences.

In reflecting on literary synchronicities, I realize that what truly captivates me is not just the phenomenon itself, but the magnetic pull it exerts on my curiosity and imagination. These uncanny convergences of text and life, of disparate books echoing each other across time and space, have held me spellbound for years. Perhaps it’s the thrill of discovery, the feeling of being let in on a cosmic secret each time I stumble upon a meaningful coincidence. Or maybe it’s the way these synchronicities transform the solitary act of reading into something more expansive, connecting me to a vast web of ideas and experiences that extends far beyond the pages in my hands.

There’s a comfort, too, in sensing an underlying order to the seemingly chaotic flow of life and literature. Each synchronicity feels like a gentle reassurance that my voracious reading habit is more than just a personal indulgence – it’s a way of attuning myself to the hidden rhythms of the universe. In exploring these literary convergences, I’m really excavating my own psyche, uncovering the deep-seated need to find meaning and connection in the world around me. And in sharing these experiences, I invite others to join me in this wonder, to see their own reading lives through this lens of magical possibility. After all, isn’t that shared sense of awe and discovery what draws us to literature in the first place?

The decision to pair this introspection on literary synchronicities with the artwork of Remedios Varo feels like a synchronicity in itself – a perfect convergence of text and image that speaks to the mysterious interconnectedness that so captivates me. Varo’s surrealist paintings, with their dreamlike quality and intricate, often impossible machines, beautifully capture the essence of what draws me to these meaningful coincidences. Her works often depict figures engaged in arcane pursuits, surrounded by swirling energies and cosmic symbolism, mirroring how I, as a reader, find myself caught in the eddies of unexpected connections.

The way Varo blends the mundane with the magical – ordinary rooms opening onto vast, starry voids, or domestic objects revealing hidden, otherworldly purposes – echoes my own experiences of finding profound links between everyday reading and life. Her recurring motifs of threads, webs, and intricate patterns visually represent the invisible links that I’m constantly seeking and discovering. In Varo’s world, as in my world of synchronicity-attuned reading, reality is permeable, full of hidden doorways and unexpected connections. Her art reminds me why I’m so drawn to these literary convergences: they reveal that beneath the surface of our ordinary lives lies a realm of wonder and mystery, waiting to be discovered by those with eyes to see. Just as Varo’s paintings invite viewers into a world where the impossible becomes possible, my fascination with literary synchronicities stems from a desire to uncover the magical in the mundane, to find meaning and connection in the vast tapestry of words and experiences that surround us.

So the next time you encounter an uncanny parallel between your books and your life, or between two seemingly unrelated texts, pause for a moment. Savor the shiver of recognition, the sense of wonder that washes over you. Reflect on what this convergence might be highlighting in your life, what invitation it might be extending. And then, by all means, keep reading. For in the vast library of human experience, who knows what synchronicity might be waiting for you on the next page?

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In the hazy heat of late summer, when the sky feels too vast and the cicada’s ceaseless shriek all but deafening, I turn to Charles Burchfield’s sunflowers.  These are not the cheery picture-perfect rows that grace so many cottage-core garden beds or the charming yellow bouquets of Mary Englebreit greeting cards.  No, Burchfield’s sunflowers throb with an eerie vitality, their petals seeming to vibrate with unseen energies, their stems twisting like dancers caught in the ecstatic trance of an errant breeze.

Born in 1893 in Salem, Ohio, Burchfield spent much of his life in Buffalo, New York, a city of harsh winters and industrial grit. There, he found endless inspiration in this interplay of nature and industry, magic in telephone wires humming with unseen messages and in the steadfast sunflowers that refused to be cowed by concrete or steel. They are nature’s rebels, refusing to be contained or cultivated. This visionary American painter found in sunflowers a kindred spirit – proud, resilient, and slightly otherworldly.

Burchfield’s unique style, often described as a form of mystical realism, combined precise observation with a visionary approach. His technique involved layering watercolors to create luminous, vibrating effects that seemed to capture not just the physical appearance of his subjects, but their inner energies as well. This approach is particularly evident in his sunflower paintings, where each petal pulses with an inner light.

Burchfield knew sunflowers. He really knew them in that bone-deep way that comes from countless hours of patient observation.

In his journal, he wrote:

“The sunflower turns its face to follow the sun, but what of its nighttime dreams? Does it yearn for dawn even as dusk falls?”

I wonder this, too, gazing at his paintings.

And it’s not just Charles Burchfield and me. Sunflowers have long occupied a place of reverence in human culture. Native American tribes used sunflower seeds not just for food, but in their healing rituals. In the language of flowers, sunflowers represent adoration and loyalty, their steadfast faces ever turning to follow the sun’s journey across the sky. Did you know the Incas saw gods in sunflowers? I can almost understand why, looking at Burchfield’s work. There’s something ancient there that speaks of long summers and longer winters, of cycles that spin far beyond our brief lives.

This unwavering devotion to light and time inspired the poet William Blake to pen these lines:

“Ah, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done.”

Weary of time. Yes, that’s it exactly. Blake’s words resonate deeply with Burchfield’s visual explorations of sunflowers. In Burchfield’s paintings, these flowers aren’t caught in a single moment but seem to exist in all moments at once – bud, bloom, and withering seed head in one impossible, beautiful form. His technique of layering watercolors and using bold, rhythmic brushstrokes create a sense of movement and transformation as if we’re witnessing the entire life cycle of the sunflower in a single glance.

Burchfield wrote in his journal, with a mixture of awe and kinship:

“Today, I stood before a stand of sunflowers, and for a moment, I swear I could hear them singing. Not with voices but with the very vibration of their being. It was a song of summer’s zenith, of life lived boldly and without regret.”

Oh, to have ears that could hear such songs! To see the world as Burchfield saw it, thrumming with hidden rhythms and secret symphonies. His sunflowers invite us to try, look closer, and listen harder. This ability to tune into the secret frequencies of nature draws me to Burchfield’s work and sets it apart. The weird lights and shadows of his strange singing sunflowers remind us that even in the most familiar of garden plants, there lurk ancient mysteries and untamed magics. In their strange, vibrant forms, we see echoes of every summer past and the promise of summers yet to come.

If you seek to steep yourself in the essence of Burchfield’s sunflowers, to feel the thrum of their secret energies, consider exploring works that share their spirit.  Dive into the pages of Algernon Blackwood’s “The Willows” or Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilation, where nature’s mystery bleeds into terror and wonder. Let the haunting melodies of Joanna Newsom’s Ys or Grouper’s Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill wash over you, evoking landscapes both familiar and utterly alien.

Lose yourself in the shadowed forests of The VVitch or the sun-drenched, unsettling vistas of Picnic at Hanging Rock. For a more psychedelic journey into nature’s mysteries, Ben Wheatley’s A Field in England offers a hallucinatory exploration of an English Civil War battlefield that feels spiritually akin to Burchfield’s vibrating landscapes. The eerie folk horror of  The Wicker Man(1973) and the cosmic dread of The Lighthouse also tap into that sense of nature as an overwhelming, often hostile force. The invasive, untethered reality of the endless reeds in Onibaba feels like a dream, like folktales or mythology.

Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and Mary Oliver’s nature poetry captures a similar sense of wonder and reverence in the natural world. J.A. Baker’s The Peregrine offers an intense, almost hallucinatory immersion in the English countryside that echoes Burchfield’s vibrant landscapes. Robert Macfarlane’s  The Old Ways explores ancient paths and landscapes with a keen eye for the mystical and the uncanny, resonating with Burchfield’s ability to reveal the hidden energies of the natural world.

Musically, you might also explore the atmospheric landscapes of Sigur Rós, whose ethereal soundscapes evoke the vast, unearthly beauty of their native Iceland. The transcendent folk of Current 93 delves into mystical and sometimes unsettling territory, much like Burchfield’s more intense works. Consider too the haunting Appalachian-inspired ballads of Gillian Welch, the spectral ambient works of William Basinski, or the nature-infused neo-folk of Hexvessel. Each of these artists, in their own way, captures something of the mystery, beauty, and occasional menace that Burchfield found in his sunflowers and landscapes. I’ve got a little playlist here, not so much sunflower-inspired, but more just Burchfield vibes in general: Sphinx & Milky Way.

These works, like Burchfield’s paintings, tap into nature’s hidden histories and the uncanny lurking in the everyday. They evoke moods of wistful contemplation and eerie beauty, revealing a deep, sometimes uneasy connection to landscape and seasons. In their own ways, they whisper of a world alive and conscious, often indifferent or even hostile to human concerns – much like the vibrating, almost sentient plant life in Burchfield’s most intense works. Through these various mediums, we can approach that sense of an animated, mysterious natural world beyond human understanding, inviting us to look closer, listen harder, and perhaps, for a moment, hear the secret songs of sunflowers.

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The title of this post is taken from Melancholy Maaret’s audio poem “Paper Butterflies.” I originally pondered this bit of weirdness, this memo on melancholy, if you will, for the Coilhouse blog back in 2011, and my thoughts often return to it. I can’t believe I never shared it here, so I am sharing it today because it continues to enthrall me, even now.

I’m embedding that particular audio installation because I loved it so much at the time (and still do but with an older, craggier heart and more life experience), but I also find the creator herself incredibly captivating. Melancholy Maaret is a deaf multidisciplinary artist, writer, and sound-art composer based in Helsinki and New York. Her work spans various media, including vocals and voice-overs created from sound-memory and vibrations without auto-tune. Maaret’s art often involves character-based performances, embodying fictional or historical women, as well as her own ancestors. Her creations are influenced by an eclectic mix of Finnish folklore, neuroscience, epigenetic trauma, and the works of diverse thinkers and artists. She leverages her classical training in theatre, movement, and voice to create unique sound compositions, often accompanied by manipulated video installations.

Her approach to melancholy was both profound and provocative, as evidenced in her statement about ‘Paper Butterfly’:

‘I do not want optimism and blind hope. I want to triumph in sadness… Science can never denude the soul’s need for an artistic confrontation or a lullaby… Sadness and her sister’s emotions increase productivity, kindness, and creativity.’

The intersection of melancholy, creativity, and cognitive function intrigues me immensely, and I often wonder about this artist—is she still creating? Where has her journey with melancholy led her in her art and life?

By preserving these snippets of writing on my blog here, I hope to maintain a record of my fascinations. Coilhouse, though not active for over a decade, continues to maintain its archives–which is amazing!–but I have been burned so many times by the blogs I’ve written for in the past suddenly winking out of existence, and like a dummy, I never had backups of my contributions. So here we are. And this is why you see things like this pop up on my blog occasionally. I wrote them initially for someone else’s blog, but the site disappeared, and my writing became unhoused for a time. What you see here today and at other times is my writing returning home.

 Anyway, this intro is becoming longer than the original writing! Just a bit more, though. Rereading it now, I’m struck by how some aspects still feel relevant, though I recognize that my approach to language and certain topics has evolved over time. I’d likely phrase some things differently today, with a more nuanced and sensitive perspective. I certainly would not tell anyone to ditch their meds in this year of our lord, 2024! I’m also aware that pain as performance, the romanticization of melancholy, and the allure of the tortured artist–these can be damaging ideations, potentially glorifying mental health struggles and obscuring the very real need for support and care. But …does it still resonate with me? On some level…of course, it does.

So I suppose this serves as a snapshot of a particular moment in time, both in my personal journey and in the broader cultural conversation around mental health and artistic expression.

…scientists say melancholics are better lovers” /” ..happy people are forgetful suckers”/ “…Roget created his thesaurus to combat the funk”

Melancholy Maaret, enigmatic contemporary visual and performance artist and founder of Secret Sauna Sirens—a pseudonymous, experimental collaborative of multidisciplinary artists—has some interesting insight into the subject of sadness. In her poem “Paper Butterflies,” she solemnly urges us inward, in lilting, bird-like tones and a delicately rolling Finnish accent, to examine our melancholia and embrace these hermetic, suffocating feelings.

Stop trying to be happy, she warbles. After all, “…mental acuity flourishes in despair” and”…blue betties make fewer tactical errors”. “I’m not making this shit up,” she insists. Well…is she? Perhaps not. In Scientific American’s 2009 article regarding a study of depression’s evolutionary roots, it is suggested that depression is not a disorder at all, but a mental adaptation with some useful cognitive benefits.

Depressed people often think intensely about their problems. These thoughts are called ruminations; they are persistent and depressed people have difficulty thinking about anything else. Numerous studies have also shown that this thinking style is often highly analytical. They dwell on a complex problem, breaking it down into smaller components, which are considered one at a time.

This analytical style of thought, of course, can be very productive. Each component is not as difficult, so the problem becomes more tractable. Indeed, when you are faced with a difficult problem, such as a math problem, feeling depressed is often a useful response that may help you analyze and solve it. For instance, in some of our research, we have found evidence that people who get more depressed while they are working on complex problems in an intelligence test tend to score higher on the test.

Thank you, Melancholy Maaret, for validating us saddies. Viva melancholia! Ditch the Wellbutrin. Stay sad and homely, indeed.

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