Unquiet
Things

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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To gaze upon a painting by Margaretha Roosenboom is to be transported into a realm of heightened sensory experience, to lose oneself in the velvety darkness of a peony’s innermost petals, to trace the delicate veins of a translucent leaf, to feel the weight of a dewdrop trembling on the edge of a petal.

This extraordinary 19th-century Dutch artist broke new ground in floral still life painting, developing a unique, impressionistic style that favored natural compositions of single flower types against dark backgrounds. Despite being denied formal academy training – a common obstacle for women artists of her time – Roosenboom’s talent blossomed under the tutelage of her father and grandfather, both accomplished painters themselves.

This rich artistic heritage is evident in her masterful command of light and shadow. In Roosenboom’s paintings, light takes on a life of its own. Sometimes it’s the warm gold of a late afternoon; other times, a cool, silvery glow that makes the flowers look almost spectral. It’s as if they exist in some in-between place, not quite of this world but not fully here, either.

Have you noticed how her roses tremble on the edge of dissolution? Or how her lilacs droop with the weight of unspoken sorrows? There’s such exquisite detail in every bloom, you can almost feel the silken texture, catch a whiff of their fading perfume.

Her innovative approach and masterful watercolor technique didn’t go unnoticed. Roosenboom earned international acclaim and numerous awards, establishing herself as one of the leading flower painters of her time alongside contemporaries like Gerardine van de Sande Backhuyzen and Adriana Haanen. Yet, beyond the accolades, it’s the underlying melancholy in her work that truly captivates – the way she captures flowers on the cusp of decay, their splendor tinged with the inevitable. There’s profound beauty, but also a pervasive sadness. Each petal, each leaf, and stem tendril reminds us of life’s inexorable cycle.

In capturing these blooms at the pinnacle of their glory, touched by the first whispers of decline, Roosenboom offers us a meditation on the delicate nature of impermanence. Her canvases embody Mary Oliver’s insight: “Attention is the beginning of devotion.” She elevates quiet floral moments into something profound, suspending instants of fleeting beauty that invite us to linger in the liminal space where life reveals its deepest truths.

Roosenboom’s paintings persist not merely as a testament to her skill, but as a gentle challenge to our modern haste—a hushed invitation to pause, to look closely at the small miracles that surround us, and to find poetry in the curve of a petal or the shadow cast by a leaf. In closely observing life’s ever-present and unchanging cycles through her work, we might discover a richer appreciation for its ephemeral wonders.

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You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Annie Stegg Gerard permitted me to include sweet Scowl (above) in the pages of The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal.

I mean, who wouldn’t be, just look at that face! Swoon!

In the book, the caption for the image reads:

“Annie Stegg Gerard has been painting whimsical illustrations from early childhood and her works encompass a wide variety of mediums, including both two and three-dimensional forms. Specializing in character design and development as well as a masterful atmosphere of enchantment, Annie creates unique images populated with enigmatic figures and lively creatures.

This transportive effect of emotion and imagination is undeniable, such as the dear little Scowl above, eyes gleaming sweetly, a tender paw adorably curled in mid-thought. A viewer can’t help but coo in delight at the thought of those magical toe-beans!”

Her paintings are like a gilded invitation to a secret greenwood garden party, gossamer confections spun from sugar and moonbeams. Every surface shimmers with the beauty of magics most decadent, the kind that offers gleaming jeweled fairytale fruits and secrets sleeping in the shadow of a raven’s wing.  I’m almost tempted to refer to her style as glamorous, yet, that word conjures associations of a distant chilliness and a definite, distinct lack of fun. Maybe even something a bit wicked.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth in the case of this artist’s creations! For all the romantic enchantments and radiant glamour of these scenes, there’s a disarming warmth. The faeries, with their benevolent smiles, wouldn’t dream of causing actual harm, and the woodland creatures, even the mischievous ones, seem more interested in puckish pranks than actual malice.  There’s a sense of merriment in the air, a joyous abandon!

A world that invites exploration without ever truly feeling threatening.

Even the dragon chasing the thieving band of forest folk, arms loaded with loot and treasures, feels more like a scene from a whimsical ballet than a terrifying encounter. There’s a sense of playfulness, a twinkle in the dragon’s eye that suggests it’s all part of a delightful game.

There’s a distinct lack of menace in Stegg Gerard’s worlds. Even the fantastical beasts, with their playful expressions and captivating forms, lack the bite of traditional monsters. And the monsters themselves possess a sense of playful theatricality. They’re not mean and nasty, they’re just playing a part! And everyone’s in on the delightful secret. Even the darkness seems like a friend.

Annie’s artistry is a marvel of light and color. There is warmth and sincerity embedded into every brushstroke. The colors themselves sing a comforting melody, a symphony of rose golds, soft blues, and the warm glow of sunshine dappling through leaves.  The beauty here is not cold and sterile but rather a living, breathing entity, one that radiates warmth and invites you to step into the heart of its impish revelry.

The beauty, too, lies in the sincerity of her subjects, their expressions imbued with a soulful earnestness, holding a quiet wisdom of stories brimming with wild wonder and fierce, beautiful joy.  Their world is a shimmering celebration of the inherent joy in the fantastical, where the mythical and fanciful feel so utterly genuine that you could reach out and touch it, squeeze it in a big velvet-fuzzed, moth-winged hug.

But for all that innocent earnestness, it’s far from simplistic; it’s a captivating tumble of whimsy and earnestness, a world that echoes through and through with the thrum of a tremulous beating heart– making for a beauty that above all, feels real and true.

Find Annie Stegg Gerdard: Website // Instagram and see below for a further gallery of my favorites from this extraordinary artist.

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Unfurl your optic nerves and stretch out your retinas because this installation of Eyeball Fodder explodes with vibrant hues, captivating shapes, and transcendent visions. Prepare for sights that map the path of your dreams, a visual feast that will expand the horizons of your perception.

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When I was writing The Art of Fantasy, the final chapter presented a bit of a problem for me. It was becoming a real pain, to tell you the truth.

I’d covered art inspired by fantastical beasts and mythical creatures, powerful witches, wizards and incredible feats of magic, alternate histories, parallel dimensions, and otherworldly realms—but it begged the question as to who’s out there doing the heavy lifting of saving these worlds and their inhabitants from all the things they need saving from?

From realms at risk from wicked usurpers and maniacal overlords to worlds overrun by extraterrestrial aliens, ancient prophecies, and evil plots–cataclysms, calamities, and catastrophes abound, and it’s do-or-die against overwhelming odds! And, of course, artists in every culture have been capturing the essence of the idealized humans performing extraordinary feats…so I obviously needed a hero! A whole chapter of them!

But not a bunch of joyless, muscle-bound idiots swinging swords. Come on!

Enter Tino Rodriguez. Tino’s art wasn’t about the steely-eyed warriors or the brooding ironclad crusaders and grizzled berserkers. Instead, it brimmed with tenderness and offered an expansive glimmer of something hopeful, a reminder that even the gentlest souls can rise to the challenge in a world teetering on the edge. It was exactly the kind of inspiration–and hero–that I needed for my final chapter.

Up until this realization, this had been a project wherein I questioned just about every word I’d struggled to get on paper, but once I experienced the artwork below, it became one of the easiest things I’d ever written.

Infused with the captivating allure of celestial beings and Catholic saints, the whimsical charm of European fairytales, the otherworldly magic of Celtic fables, the vibrant energy of Mexican myths, and the timeless wisdom of Native American legends, and inspired by the wonder and magic of music, dreams, and childhood stories, Tino’s canvases are jubilant celebrations of ecstatic divinity, colorful butterfly-fluttered paradises, and brilliant floral explosions – sanctuaries for explorations of creative consciousness that transcend borders and language.

Personal transformation and universal connectedness are themes that tumble throughout Tino’s work, like so many spring blossoms on a sweet, laughing breeze: reminders that a hero’s work – this whole business of saving the world – often starts small, internally even, one precious human petal at a time.

The humble work of healing oneself is quiet and invisible, and it frequently doesn’t look – or feel – very good. Sometimes, it feels like ripping an arrow right out of your heart and fertilizing the ground with your blood. But you know what we call that? It’s an origin story. And it’s a great place to start.

But Tino’s art isn’t just a technicolor feast of kaleidoscopic opulence and psychedelic blooms; they are spaces of quiet revolution for creative spirits and gentle warriors of the heart, boundless realms where dreams take flight, transformation takes place, and where the questions that we carry with us are a beautiful, integral part of our complex and multilayered existence.

With regard to questions and answers and logic and reasoning, Tino says the following, and I love this sentiment so much:

“My work does not offer concrete answers. Instead, the poetic essence of my paintings questions literal and rational meanings. I am not interested in answers because I do not think there are absolute ones. Most questions are enigmas that we carry within ourselves, and they are part of our multilayered, complex existence. Novalis said: “Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.” I think the same of my paintings, which I consider visual poetry.”

Below is a gallery of my favorite visual poetics from this extraordinary artist, a testament to the idea that beauty can indeed save the world, one tender hero at a time.

Find Tino Rodriguez: Instagram // Facebook

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Many years ago, shortly after beginning my fledgling forays into writing about art, I had the privilege of interviewing one of my favorite artists. Their work, a weird hybrid of horror/comedy/adventure/and friendship, took place in an interconnected series that followed denizens of a haunted little town. At the time of the interview, the story depicted children in coming-of-age scenarios whilst encountering fantastical creatures and cryptids. It utterly delighted me, and, ecstatic at the opportunity to delve deeper, I peppered them with questions about their inspiration, their favorite monsters, and their personal encounters with the supernatural and the occult.

The response, though kind, was humbling. The artist explained that the fantastical elements – the monsters, the otherworldly details– were metaphors. They were ways of exploring the anxieties, the fears, and the very real challenges of growing up. My fascination with the fantastical had blinded me to the deeper message, the artist’s exploration of the human condition.

This experience has stayed with me as a reminder to look beyond the surface when encountering art. It’s a lesson that comes to mind when examining the captivating work of Madeline von Foerster, whose painting Essentia Exalta (above) is in my book The Art of the Occult: A Visual Sourcebook For The Modern Mystic. Obviously, this is an artist with some occult and mystical interests and fascinations –after all, she’s got a whole alchemically inspired series called “Desires Distilled.”

So, I don’t think that was me seeing something that wasn’t there or that I was superimposing my own wishes and beliefs on her work. That sense of mysticism is very present, but there’s so much more to it than that …which I suspect I was blinded to at the time, because of my occult-book-writing tunnel vision.

At first glance, her meticulously detailed canvases, teeming, tumbling, and tangled with flora and fauna, appear like portals to lush sanctuaries imbued with symbolism that transcends the readily apparent, ripe for interpretations of the occult. The intricate symbolism, the otherworldly light, the magical beasts and shadowy, enigmatic figures – it all whispers of hidden knowledge and forgotten languages, and an undeniable aura of mystery permeates her work.

These elements of the otherworldly and arcane aren’t jarring or out of place; they feel like natural extensions of the organic world she portrays. This creates a captivating tension, urging viewers to decipher the hidden messages while simultaneously reveling in the breathtaking beauty. It’s easy to get lost in deciphering these enigmatic elements, to chase after hidden meanings and esoteric truths, to lose sight of the forest for the meticulously rendered trees. And there’s certainly room for such exploration.

Her technique, egg tempera, which dates back to antiquity and has historical ties to alchemical practices, is a fascinating paradox and a laborious process that feels akin to a ritual. The resulting works possess an undeniable aura, a sense of channeling something older, wilder, and unseen. Yet, the imagery that emerges feels startlingly modern.

The scenes she creates boggle the mind, engage the senses, and speak to a spark of the sacred swimming deep within the soul. Her still lifes, gardens, and wunderkammers exist in a twilight zone where invasive species and extinct creatures frolic, and vibrant flora spills into dreamlike vistas of aggressively suffocating vines and jellyfish-flocked undersea ruins. Human torso-shaped wooden cabinets allude to the once-living trees that were their source. Deforestation, endangered species, and the ever-present shadow of war find subtle expression within future fairytales weaving a poignant commentary on the human condition into the beauty.

I began writing this blog post with the intention of saying that I might have lost sight of the true message of her art while immersing myself in the sumptuous verdancy and cryptic enchantments of Madeline von Forster’s cosmos. However, I realized that I am not in a position to determine what that message is or isn’t. Who is to say that art cannot be both mystical and otherworldly, while also being rooted in earthly concerns? Why can’t it be a portal to a supernatural realm and a window to the deep bond we share with the natural world that requires our attention and reverence?

Perhaps, then, it is a form of nature worship, a celebration of the deep-rooted magic that pulsates within every living thing. By capturing in her exquisite brushstrokes the intricate patterns and symbolism inherent in the natural world, she elevates it to a place of reverence. These breathtaking botanicals and wunderkammers teeming with wildness and wonder become more than just decorative elements or aesthetic choices; they are imbued with a sense of the sacred, whispered hints at the interconnectedness of all things, each revelation deepening our appreciation for the world around us.

Follow Madeline von Foerster : Website // Instagram // Facebook

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I post a lot of goofiness all over social media, but it doesn’t always make its way to my blog. So here is a little round-up of what I have been thinking about or observing lately, as told through various imagery and anecdotes.

Are you like that, too? Do you look at a painting or photo and illustration and give it an entirely out-of-context silly or surreal backstory? Or attach it to a bit of conversation you had with someone, or overheard or made up entirely in your head? I do that a lot. And I do mean a lot.

Anyway, I just saw someone post on Facebook last week that the eclipse “looked cool, but it’s not worth the hype,” and I don’t know why that’s so funny, but I was laughing so hard I fear I may pee myself. Not worth the hype, dummies! You can all go home now, I guess!

Give yourself fun pep talks with weird wizard advice, like, “When the instrument of sleep leaves the space of nourishment, begin the work.”

Which sounds way more magical than “I need to move the mattress out of the dining room so I can concentrate on writing again!” I want to write more, but because we are redoing our flooring and doing some renovations, our guest room mattress and related furnishings are currently in the dining room, and all of that precarious chaos is too anxiety-inducing for my brain to focus on working with words. Gimme my spaces back, please!

I still haven’t listened to Beyonce’s new album, other than her rendition of Jolene. It was fine, and I am sure the album is fine, and I should probably listen to it because it’s culturally important and so on, but first, I feel like we need to fix Jolene. I got my sisters on board with this idea over on Facebook, and we are working on it. That’s one of Mary’s contributions in the second image.

Someone commented on her FB page, “Oh, you mean Jolene, like the Dixie Chicks wrote it.” Oh, no, no. Jolene, if Circe and Mr. Rochester’s first wife had written it. Jolene, if Eileen Wuornos and Loreena Bobbit wrote it. No offense to anyone’s version, but no one is addressing the real problem here.

I also listened to three or four new songs on Taylor Swift’s new album, and it bored me tremendously. I know my baby sister reads this blog and will be sad to hear that because she is a huge fan, and Melissa I am sorry. There was not enough torture in the tortured poets’ department. There was like, zero torture. I feel misled.

“Listen, that’s between you and your pot of basil,” is a thing I am going to start responding with when people are trying to tell me shit I don’t need to know.

I have been irrationally angry at whoever was just before me in library holds line for Diavola. They took the whole two weeks to read that book! Come on, man! But my holds for both Diavola and The Familiar finally became available (at once, of course ) and so far they do not disappoint! I usually read about 10 things at once, but because the queues are so long for the both of these, and I will not be able renew them, I am focusing on them exclusively …no great difficulty there, they both drew me in immediately and entirely.

I have been writing and sharing on the internet for a long time. Both personal blogs and social media, as well as more widely read websites. But. As a writer of things, I could never say something like, “y’all liked my X thing so much, I’m back with another!” I mention this because it was something I saw over on fragrance reddit this week. Man. I don’t know. That seems wildly, toe-curlingly cringe to me. When I read that, I was stricken with the most intense fremdschämen.

But there’s an admirable audacity, too. Like… you truly believe people enjoyed the words you wrote. I love that for you. I want that, too.

On Tuesdays we wear gold. And hearts and moons and eyes. Light aloeswood incense. Find a perfectly preserved moth behind a picture frame. Listen to the owls’s hoot fluttering through the wind chimes. Slurp a scalding soup of bitter greens. Plant a crimson sunflower seed. Tuesday stuff.

A joke, but it’s a recurring nightmare from another life; a joke, but it’s a voice from the moon in the dark; a joke, but it’s a beckoning finger from a broken mirror; ha ha haa ahh ahh.

I forgot the word for “vegan” and was like, “You know…vegetable edge lord?” VEGLORD, if you will.

Something I tried to sneak into each of my books was at least one instance of an image that had been shared and memed all over the Internet without credit. Something that you see people repost all over the place with “artist unknown.” I want people to know there were actual human artists that created these works! I wanted it in black and white, something that couldn’t be lost to 404 errors and lazy reblogs.

These artworks from Ruth Marten (top) and Mr. Werewolf (b0ttom) were two of them, and you can find them in The Art of Darkness: A Treasury of the Morbid, Melancholic, and Macabre, and The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook of All That Is Unreal, respectively. There were obviously quite a few in this category, but unfortunately, I did not get permission from those artists. Three others that I had in mind were Omar Rayyon’s The Favorite, this little guy from Lily Seika-Jones, and this owl tea party by Yoshioka.

If you enjoy these musings, 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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In the weird, woodland magics of of Brett Manning’s art, one will find a labyrinth of moss-covered pathways and mushroom-dotted clearings, where one might imagine hearing the whispers of faeries and the footsteps of forest spirits.

Whimsy dances hand in hand with shadows and decay, creating a thicket of contrasts that defies simple categorization. While her creations exude a playful charm, there’s an underlying hint of shadow that adds depth and complexity to her work. Think Beatrix Potter goes to the Goblin Market, told via the forested strangeness of a gloomy Twin Peaksian folklore, tinged with the cryptic mystery and intrigue of the X-Files; channel that through an impish imagination, a flair for visual storytelling, and an eye for the uncanny, and you begin to grasp the enigmatic allure of Manning’s realms.

Basically what I am trying to say here is that Brett Manning’s artworks embrace the wild and the wondrous, they are the artistic equalivalent of the unhinged urge to disappear from society and rewild as a feral forest goblin, and embody the idea of a gnome riding on the back of a possom, rolling up to you in a little car made of autumnal forest detritus and saying, “get in losers, we’re gonna admire moss and mushrooms in the forest.”

The three images above, let me explain them. The first is “Faerie Music,” which Brett kindly permitted me to include the the pages of The Art of Fantasy: A Treasury of All That Is Unreal.

Here is the caption I wrote for it and which you will find included in the book:

“Fiddling, strumming and tootling through the twilight while lounging about on cosy toadstools, the faerie folk musicians by contemporary artist Brett Manning are a captivating blend of dainty and earthy, and seem envisioned from both ancient books of forest folklore and your favourite well-thumbed local woodland cryptid guide. A maker who wears many hats (probably woven by gnomes with spider silk and beetle wings), Manning’s whimsical, magic creations take the form of illustrations as well as cavorting and capering all over the clothing that she designs.”

The second image is a photo of Brett’s artwork in the Korean language edition of The Art of Fantasy, and the third photo is from where I ran the Korean caption through a translator, and it gave me back an English version. I don’t think this is actually how it reads in Korean, but …I also kind of hope so?

“Modern painter Brett Manning sat on a cosy poisonous mushroom, in the twilight, played the violin, ripped the harp, drew fairy flute musicians, capturing the elegant earthy nature. In this paining, we can think of both ancient folk tales and our favourite guides to unidentified creatures in our woods and our neighborhood. Manning’s quirky and magical creation, which mainly uses a hat (like a fairy in the ground woven with spider’s webs and beetle wings), is not only embodied in illustrations, but also plays cheerfully in the clothes she designs.”

I love the idea of Brett sitting on a mushroom, playing a violin and ripping a harp, and using a hat to create! Honestly, that may have been better than what I wrote.

Through her art, Manning invites us to peek into hidden nooks and corners where we can almost hear the lilting melodies played on instruments of nature, a secret serenade echoing through the twilight woods, performed by faeries, cryptids, spirits, and other strange entities that exist on the fringes and in the peripheries.  So next time you find yourself wandering through a sun-dappled sylvan setting, keep an ear out. Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of Manning’s whimsical creations, their music weaving a spell of wonder and enchantment, their whispers urging you to get lost in the woods and never to be seen again.

As you contemplate trading modern trappings for the untamed beauty of fanciful forest realms, and perhaps even become one with moss and bugs, indulge in daydreams of the things between and unseen.

Below, a gallery awaits, showcasing my favorites among Manning’s works, inviting you to embark on your own journey through her weird woodland worlds.

Find Brett Manning: Etsy // Instagram // Book: One Foot In The Green

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The creations borne of Anna Mond’s marvelously strange brain noodles are gleefully grotesque, wickedly cheeky, ghoulishly precious brouhahas with a through line of the weirdest humor steeped in simultaneous cups of cracked darkness and silliness. A chorus line of goggle-eyed electric blue skeletons pirouette madly; a fuzzy mushroom-homunculi-thing drunkenly rides on the back of a bewildered spider; a celestial diablerie of witchy critters deliriously possess the midnight sky.

All manner of creatures and beings and God knows what else cavort and caper in garish, gooey blurbling blobs of color drooled across the canvas in a vibrant rascality of shenanigans. I stare at these paintings rapturously, my bones all vibrating in a mad, magic jig and they make me want to do something crazy!

…and I don’t think I am the only one! The comment section of the artist’s Instagram account are frenzied fever dream free-for-all digital art raves where everyone’s losing their minds in the best way possible.

Fans are obsessed with the imaginative artist’s work and are moved to express their wild interpretations and emotions. They compliment the canvases, caption them with an imaginary script or song lyrics or meme du jour, analyze the content, the inspiration, the technique; they ramble at length with the fables and fictions the work evokes in them; they share last night’s unrelated dream, and recipes, and various theories and conspiracies!

From what I can tell, Anna Mond is a somewhat enigmatic individual. The artist’s website doesn’t offer much in the way of information, and although the handful of interviews do illuminate various inspirations in the form of artists: Atsuko Tanaka, Clementine Hunter, Zinaida Serebryakova, Sister Plautilla Nelli and music: Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash and Elvis and a love of fairy tales and horror, I haven’t found much more insight into the mind of this artist.

One thing I did learn was that Anna Mond refers to the work as “Fantasticalizm”–and really, how peculiar and playful and perfect is that? Fantasticalizm! I don’t need to know anything more, really!

Just let me fill my eyeballs with these visions of wild, wondrous, weirdness forever, please.

Find Anna Mond: website // Instagram

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Heart Beet (raw, wet beets, pulsating blood musk, and raw wild ginger) I was a little scared to try this one because I’ve read that the same component that gives petrichor, that old rain-whisperer, that wet, mineralic tang, is also present in beets. Geosmin. This irregular sesquiterpenoid explains why I do not care for the scent of petrichor and cannot stomach beets. Except for pickled beets, which I love, but I’m a bit of a pickle fiend; you could probably pickle up an old boot, and I’d love that, too. But in Heart Beet there is only the swiftest, most fleeting whiff of dirt and stony dampness and then the immediacy of what I think of as shampoo ginger. We have a profusion of ginger-but-not-quite-ginger growing wild in our backyard, and when you dig it up, it looks just like ginger, and it has that same fiery-floral tang of fresh ginger too, but there’s something that smells a little soapy about it, as well, which gave us pause and made us think maybe we shouldn’t be eating it! We looked it up, and we are pretty sure it’s “shampoo ginger,” which could be eaten (but it’s bitter) but is more often used in toiletries and cosmetics. And then, at the back of that zesty-floral-freshness is a murky musk, slightly sweet, subtly earthy hum that is so weirdly, unexpectable wearable.  This scent is as if you dug up a magenta-blooded, lumpy, heart-shaped taproot and deemed it a quirky imaginary friend and shared all your juicy secrets with it…and then that dang beet tried to give you some sassy advice.

Pistachio Ambrosia (a whipped green dream, pale and pillowy with multicolored mini marshmallows, densely studded with bits of pineapple, mandarin, and shredded coconut) Well, you thought this was a Tupperware party – Jello molds, covered casserole dishes, PTA gossip. But you knew different the moment you saw those seafoam green formica counters had been converted to a burlesque runway. All your friends do shots of ground pistachio paste lightened with pineapple juice’s fizzing neon effervescence, folded into the creamiest, velvety custard…laced with acid. You don’t want to seem like a square, so down it goes! The last thing you remember is your hostess’s outrageous shimmy and the mesmerizing billowing twirl of her whipped cream pasties. You awake on your front lawn, the technicolor escapades of the night before swimming before your eyes, the taste of an astronaut ice cream tiki drinks on your tongue.

Rhubarb Custard Muffins (tender chunks of tart rhubarb stalks spangled with oven-browned sugar crystals, nestled in a crown of golden cake generously marbled with jet-streams of warm custard) Last year, I bought a quartet of Strawberry Shortcake-themed candles. My excuse for this foolishness, not that anyone is asking me to justify myself, is that I’d had a bad day, which turned into a series of bad days, culminating in a whole-ass bad month. I was excited to illuminate these little beacons of nostalgia, but sadly, each was more disappointing than the last. If I’d had Rhubarb Custard Muffins and unscented wax (and, I suppose, any amount of ambition or motivation to speak of), I could have recreated exactly what I, as an adult now, was seeking in those candles with this scent’s vibrant bracing blush of rhubarb enlivened further by the jeweled, juicy tang of strawberry, and tempered–only slightly so– by a creamy vanilla drizzle of custard and scant dusting of oaty streusel. This is a scent brimming with cheeky, exuberant optimism that rips its tart heart right out of its chest and offers it to you immediately upon meeting you, no questions asked. This is what that drab stable of Strawberry Shortcake candles should have been!

Green Maraschino (peppermint-laced preserved cherries soaking in thick lime syrup, dashed with a sliver of yuzu) Have you ever wondered what the juice of a green traffic light smelled like? A vibrant emerald energy, an invigorating jolt of minty-metallic kisses and 1000% saturation sugar syrup highs, punctuated by the fleeting tang of the citrusy unknown; it’s the electrifying hum before the exhilarating rush.

White Chocolate and Taro Cream A dusty, earthy white chocolate that initially smells, texturally, like the nostalgic magics of those light, crispy, waffle-stamped wafer cookies.  A starchy vanilla-almond floral creme sandwiches them together, and suddenly it becomes something too pretty to eat. This smells both familiar and dreamlike in the way that pictures from half-remembered childhood storybooks still feel like familiar friends, so keep that in mind when I tell you that this scent smells like the art of Amy Earles.

White Chocolate, Orange Blossom, Sugar Crystals, & Champagne Talk about the unexpected! I was expecting a soft white chocolate and orange blossom water scent, but this one is unexpectedly nutty- toasty-malty with a bit of oaky-leathery-coffee and plummy-orchid-florals! But if you wait a bit…that’s when things get really good. On the dry-down, this becomes a velvety soft cocoa butter, warm brown sugar musk, and it’s just the perfect balance of intriguing/familiar and comforting/captivating, sweet-but-not-too-sweet, close-to-the-skin scent.

Roses, Pearls, and Sapphires (lavender rose petals, coconut husk, cerulean blue musk, agave, and blueberry resin) I smelled this one, and I thought so many things all at once! Firstly, this scent and its kin are inspired by one of my favorite fairy tales, “Toads and Diamonds,” by Charles Perrault. It impressed certain things upon me so vividly that to this day, I am not sure if I am nice to people because that’s in my nature, because it’s the right way to act, OR is it because who knows when you might meet a secret fairy and be gifted with pie-hole baubles because you were kind to them! I mean, you never know! So am I being nice to people so that it will result in material gain? That’s not great, right? Conversely, this made me think about how all of my life, even up until now, because I’ve never learned my lesson and I don’t know any other way to be, I give away everything I have. As a child, I’d give my classmates my pretty markers, my plastic jewelry, and my favorite Barbie dresses–all with the hopes of someone being nice to me. I do it still. I love my material things, but I will shove them in your face and shout, “Take them!” if I think there’s a chance it will make you like me. Just last week, someone I barely know DMed me and asked me for money to help pay their rent. I don’t have money to throw around, but I thought, “But what if not helping them makes them not like me!” Then I Venmoed them $200. I thought getting older meant caring less about stuff like this, but somehow it’s even worse now. You might think, hey, Sarah’s written three books; she must be making some kind of money! WRONG! Do you even know how many books I have just outright given away? I haven’t made money, friends. I have lost money. It all makes me feel very foolish, like a big joke if I am being honest, and also very small. And feeling small gets me thinking about little-Sarah and all the things she loved best but never really shared how or why, because she thought giving her things away was the silver bullet to making connections with people. As opposed to giving of myself, sharing things about me and who I am.  So, I will share with you now. Dolls with blue hair, the Mermistas and Frostas, the Ajas and the Stormers, the Blueberry Muffins and Lily Fairs and Sailor Mercuries. These were my favorites. I thought they were like me. Shy, sweet, maybe a little sad, definitely a little spacy. But your spacy friends are your dreamer friends! When you’re being mean to us, you’re being mean to this perfume, which smells of all of the gentle blue haired dolls that we channelled all of our love into, and then gave it all away.

Roses, Pearls and Emeralds (rose sap, gleaming ivy, orris root, sweet oakmoss, pine needle, lime rind, and juniper) In Tiffany Morris’ novella Green Fuse Burning, the author writes, “Spring was an assault that arrived at the door with flowers in hand…” and Roses, Pearls, and Emeralds is the olfactory equivalent of that neon green revelation. The lime, juniper, and pine comingle to create something surprisingly unarboreal, more oceanic, but also unnervingly electric. Massive bioluminescent algal blooms cause ocean dead zones, and ultraviolet radiation runs amok in wild grottoes and caverns. The rose, oh wily troublesome rose! (Me and rose have history!) is the unexpected, benevolent note-wrangler in this composition, reigning in the maritime radioactivity and lending a soft floral haze that settles and soothes and coaxes it back to land. A little cottage garden that sometimes dreams of kaiju.

The Serpent in the Carnations (Snake Oil-soaked carnation petals, spiked with a dash of clove and allspice.) Often times I get an idea in my head that one scent from these collections is DEFINITELY going to be my favorite, but I am often wrong because I’ll get surprised by something else along the way. I think this time, my prediction was correct. I had a feeling I would love this slithery scent, and I do–it smells exactly like being mesmerized by an art nouveau femme fatale sorceress, just like the gal in Karl Alexander Wilke’s artwork we see here on the label art.  The eerie mortuary spice of carnations alongside Snake Oil’s thick, heavily sugared incense makes for the most wicked avant-garde bohemian ghoulishness; I want to bathe in it, poison admirers with it, all the things.

Our Lady Of Pain (Sumatran patchouli, blood musk, white lavender, opium tar, and black orchid) Aloof and alluring, a cool, bitter metallic shiver, like poison painting the tip of a small curved blade; musk and throbbing darkness, like psychic muscles cramped around the remembrance of a wound. The scent of duels lost, blood on the ground, moonlight elegies–all impressively tragic stuff, outrageous melodramas played out on the stage of one’s own mind…as is the wont of those of us who are really good at hurting our own feelings. Our Lady Of Pain is the most beautiful, most diabolical of Mean Girls…but as they say, the calls are coming from inside the house. 

There Yet Shall Be Sorrows (white sandalwood, black cypress, wormwood, creeping willow, and rue) A damp, earthy green and cold minerality like a shroud of moss scraped from a frost-flowered gravestone. A soft, dusty herbal whisper, like crushed leaves scattered in wild, wet weather.  A path of long silence and deepening shadow.

The Shrine Where Sin Is A Prayer (deep purple Syrah, calamus, myrrh smoke, hyssop, opoponax, bitter clove, burgundy pitch, opium poppy, and violet leaf) Thinking about this perfume is akin to thinking about stars, or color; as in, the light we’re now seeing is from a star already dead, or how the color of an apricot is what we perceive it to be because some wavelengths of the spectrum are being absorbed and some are bouncing off and what we actually see in the end is all of the colors that it is not. Speaking of apricots– this is how I know that no matter how many perfumes I smell or reviews I write, I am still no closer to knowing anything at all. Despite not being listed in the notes, apricot is what I smell here. A thickly jelled apricot marmalade into which the slow poison of sweet herbs are suspended and inky drippings of wine swirl like smoke. Imagine dipping a quill into this sticky jam jar; envision penning your deepest buried needs and secret yearnings. Consider that each word preserved in these conserves comes at a cost; know that when you’ve emptied the pot, the bill comes due. Though much like million-year-old starlight and all the colors we cannot see, these are abstract repercussions, problems for future-us to solve. Let’s gather our marmalade wishes while we may, then. The pot is full for now.

Sister Death (pale gilded lilies and roses in the labdanum shadow of a yew tree, a sprig of forget-me-not, the dwindling memory of a genteel cologne, and the honeyed breathlessness of a kiss) A sharp inhale of florals with something, a sweet pang of memory, a tender, fruiting slip of dream, floating just underneath the surface, just beyond your grasp that you can’t touch no matter how you reach for it; the reflection in the pool that no matter how deep you swim, you can never close the distance.

Poets Hearts Break So (bourbon vanilla fougere, violet leaf, iris root, Italian bergamot, porcelain accord, and a trickle of red musk)Sun-leached bitter citrus, vanilla dust motes trembling in fractured light – lace curtains, cobwebbed and frayed. A single wilted violet bears witness to the fleeting nature of affection; a shattered porcelain angel weeps tears of melancholic orris-tinged grief; the air is thick with a euphoric effluvium of malefic ecstasy, the intense overripe sweetness of red musk and ravaged souls, beauty tinged with madness, a poet’s overwrought breakup sonnet forever immortalized in a single, gleefully melodramatic, flamboyantly maddening scent.

Delightful Gargantuan Vagina (red mango pulp, sugared orange blossom, mimosa, pink musk, and sweet incense)  There was a poem I once read that introduced to me how I now consider the mango. This occurred during the years of what I now like to think of as “another life,” and I don’t think of those years often or the person I shared them with because it was not a good time. At any rate, it was this person who shared the piece of writing with me quite early on in our relationship in that love-bombing kind of way where someone showers you with excessive, special attention as part of their arsenal of manipulative tactics. Starved for feeling special, I ate it up. This was circa 2000 or so when Flash websites were all the rage, and it was not an easy thing to copy and paste or print out or whatever, and so I don’t recall the whole thing, and I’ve never been able to find it again. I only remember the first line: “The flesh of a mango…reminds me of rot…” I never forgot that. I also came to the conclusion that mango’s musky, sweet, slightly sour pulp smells very much like kissing the mouth of the person who has just moments ago been intimately tasting you. I told my sisters about this realization a few years ago, and I was shocked at how upset they were hearing this… and, to this day, neither of them has ever forgiven me for it!  I find this absolutely wild because none of us are prudes, we talk about all kinds of stuff, so I honestly didn’t think I was saying anything beyond the pale! And being an obnoxious older sister, instead of apologizing, I have since doubled down on my opinion. I am rambling at this point because I think I am struggling to say anything coherent, let alone clever or poetic about this scent, so I’ll just leave it here: mango, with its unsubtle dissonance between desire and decay and overt suggestions of eros and thanatos…is actually quite subdued in this scent. What I smell instead is the zesty, juicy piquancy of a perfectly sectioned mandarin orange, and the complex, fragrant secrets of orange blossoms in April, and a fizzy, powdery vinegar shrub of mimosa honey. It’s quite lovely, and definitely more palatable than my mango analogy, I guess!

Encounter With A Female Ghost (cypress, immortelle, and white amber enveloping red spider lily petals, dragon’s blood resin, and black plum) A single, spectral bloom tucked amidst the cypress trees; rainwater which has caught the reflection of the moon; the shimmering peal of a cracked bell at the 13th hour–

The Shimmering Mirror (pine pitch brocade, amber incense smoke, Mysore sandalwood, myrrh, red benzoin, inky patchouli, and an oakmoss fougere) The red benzoin and amber incense smoke combine to make a strangely sultry balsamic floral scent that brings to mind some sort of supplication to a saint of dangerous sensuality, a prayer along the lines of, “Poppy crowned queen of night, patroness of thieves and robbers, friend, and light to all that burns.” I wish I could remember where I read that! Which has nothing to do with this next reference, but you know all those romantasy books that are all the rage right now? Like “A Court of this thing and those things?” This is a perfume that smells like the heady promises of those lavishly fantastical, come-hither book covers.

Chestnut Vulva (sweet chestnut, vanilla cashmere, toasted cardamom, and caramel) is an unexpected autumnal fantasy of comforting warmth and intriguing depth. Velvety chestnut puree, smooth and sweet, with a subtle hint of milky creaminess; a touch of unsweetened cocoa powder adds unexpected depth, grounding the sweetness with a hint of earthiness, like fallen leaves crunching underfoot, while geese fly low on the horizon. Cardamom’s delicate floral spice is whipped into a toasted meringue, a luxurious garnish in a thermos full of this enchantingly warming fall beverage in the dying light of an October afternoon when the spring sun showers seem a long way off.

The Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab 2024 Lupercalia collection is currently live and available for purchase. As this is a limited edition series, sample sizes imps are not available.

Need more Lupercalia scents? Have a peep at my Lupers reviews from 2023 and 2022 and 2021 and 2020. Looks like I skipped a few years but we’ve also got 2017 and 2016 reviews as well!

…PSSSST! Did you know I have collected all of my BPAL reviews into one spot? I’m about a year behind with adding new stuff to the document, but as it stands, there are over 60 PAGES of my thoughts and rambles on various limited-edition scents from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab over the years: BPAL REVIEWS BY S. ELIZABETH (PDF download)

If you enjoy these fragrant musings, 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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