Unquiet
Things

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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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.

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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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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