In that shadowy and ambiguous realm between pulpy commercial illustration and fine art, there lurks a master of the macabre whose very brushwork bleeds atmosphere. I speak of the enigmatic Victor Kalin, an illustrator whose work adorned the covers of countless paperbacks, whispering dark promises of things that are gonna make you feel weird in the best possible way.
Kalin’s artistry beckons to those who find allure in the twilight of human experience. His cover designs, gracing numerous gothic romances and gritty detective tales, showcase a remarkable talent for capturing tension and mystique. The figures populating his compositions, especially the women, embody a fascinating paradox – simultaneously enticing and forbidding, vulnerable yet poised for action.
These characters peer out from jacket fronts with gazes that linger in the mind’s eye, from a pensive brooding mood to a countenance completely aghast, their expressions hinting at narratives far more complex than a single image should convey. Through masterful use of color and shadow, Kalin conjures an ambiance that skirts the edge of comfort, drawing potential readers into realms where passion and peril intertwine.
What distinguishes Kalin’s craft is his knack for distilling entire plotlines into a single, arresting scene. His subjects aren’t merely decorative; they’re vital conduits for the mood and intrigue of the tales they represent. Each illustration serves as a portal, inviting onlookers to speculate about the mysteries concealed behind those cryptic smiles and penetrating stares.
And it’s not just his portrayal of the feminine that captivates. His backgrounds pulse with an almost tactile menace – gnarled trees reach out with skeletal branches, mist curls around ankles like ghostly fingers, and buildings loom with anthropomorphic malevolence. There’s a palpable sense of unease in Kalin’s work, a feeling that reality is but a thin veneer over something far more sinister. It’s this quality that elevates his illustrations from paperback art to something approaching the sublimely disturbing.
I think one of my favorite thing about Kalin’s ladies is that they bear an unsettling resemblance to those plastic paragons of mid-century femininity – Barbie. Their faces are mask-like in their perfection, with eyes that seem to say, “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.” These ladies are caught in a permanent state of “Oh no!” or “Oh yes!” – and half the fun is figuring out which. It’s as if Wednesday Addams, in a fit of delightful malice, raided her cousin’s toy chest and staged elaborate tableaux of the weird, carnal, Hammer Horror variety.
It’s this juxtaposition – the wholesome, all-American doll-woman thrust into scenes of Gothic horror – that gives Kalin’s work its frisson of unease. It’s a subversion of the suburban ideal, a glimpse of the rot beneath the perfect lawn. One can almost hear Wednesday’s deadpan voice: “This is Barbie. Barbie has just realized her dream house is built on an ancient burial ground. Run, Barbie, run.”
This unsettling blend of the banal and the bizarre, the plastic and the phantasmagorical, endears this artist to me enormously.
Or…picture, if you will, this fever dream of 1950s domesticity gone delightfully wonky. Our housewife, a vision of mid-century perfection with her coiffed curls and strands of pearls, gazes down at her cupped palms with an expression of serene bewilderment. There, purring contentedly beneath her manicured scarlet fingers, is a kitten that looks as though it’s been rolling around in the most lurid shade of shocking candy pink paint imaginable.
Is this feline anomaly the result of some clandestine government experiment, a Cold War attempt at weaponized cuteness? Or has the tranced-out houswife imbibed a bit too much of that “special” punch at the bridge club, resulting in a technicolor hallucination? One can’t help but wonder if this image isn’t a sly commentary on the artificiality of the American Dream – the pink kitten a garish intruder exposing the hollowness of picture-perfect suburbia. Or perhaps it’s simply evidence that even the masters of the macabre occasionally need to indulge in a bit of psychedelic silliness.
The genius of this piece lies in its stubborn refusal to explain itself. It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma, frosted with a layer of cotton candy creepy-quirkyness. I like to think that Kalin is reminding us that even in the midst of whips and skulls and gothic castles and feeling weird ways low in your innards about all of it, there’s always room for a touch of the absurd.
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?
It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these little life updates, and as we’re sliding past midsummer, it felt like the right time to share some thoughts and recommendations with you all.
It was almost a year ago that I learned of my father’s passing. It was complicated. But whomst among us doesn’t have a complicated relationship with a relative? Both of my parents were complicated situations for me. My father and I hadn’t spoken in two decades, but his influence on my younger self during one pivotal summer in Houston still echoes through my life in unexpected ways. From word games that sparked my love for language to a treasure trove of Heavy Metal magazines that forever altered my perception of art and storytelling, those memories have become a strange sort of inheritance.
As this anniversary approaches, I’ve found myself seeking comfort in the small rituals of everyday life – tending to my garden, discovering new scents, and losing myself in music. It’s funny how the things we surround ourselves with can become anchors in turbulent times, isn’t it?
So, I thought I’d share some of these anchors with you today. A bit of this, a dash of that – the odds and ends that have been keeping me grounded and inspired lately. Consider it a belated midsummer offering of sorts, from my strange little world to yours.
SUNFLOWERS
I’ve got a bit of a confession to make – and it might surprise you! Despite my love for all things dark and spooky, my absolute favorite flower is… the sunflower. Not very on-brand for someone who writes about gothic literature and horror, and dark fashion, I know, I know. And I know you know. I struggle with this disparity a lot, and it spills over into this blog quite frequently.
There’s something undeniably magical about these towering golden giants, these brazen yellow blooms, their faces turned unabashedly towards the light. They’re like nature’s own version of a Rorschach test – to some, they might represent pure, unadulterated joy. To others, they’re a reminder of the delicious contrast between light and dark, a symbol of life’s stubborn persistence in the face of entropy.
Plus, let’s not forget their slightly creepy ability to track the sun across the sky. It’s like they’re a botanical army of solar-powered sentinels, always watching, always turning. Sorry, had to make it weird. So there you have it, friends. My not-so-dark secret is out. Anyone else out there have any unexpected favorites that don’t quite fit their usual aesthetic?
TWO INGREDIENT BAGELS
So: two-ingredient bagels. No, no, no, I have not joined the ranks of the protein-obsessed gym rats or the preservative-phobic crowd, nothing like that. Sometimes you just want a bagel. Not those sad, freezer-burned discs masquerading as bagels from the grocery store. And definitely not the overpriced, underwhelming attempts at bagels that Florida tries to pass off as the real deal. Sorry, Florida (Bagel) Man, but you’re no Local New Jersey (Bagel) Man when it comes to bagels. And sure, I could spend hours crafting an authentic, complicated bagel recipe. But sometimes, you want a bagel without feeling like you’re auditioning for a baking show.
Enter the two-ingredient bagel: just flour and Greek yogurt. And seasonings and toppings, so it is not technically two ingredients, I suppose. It’s not terrible! It’s not going to win any awards in New York, but when the bagel craving hits, and your options are limited, it’s a surprisingly satisfying solution. I make extra to slice and freeze, and it’s a nice treat when you find a bagel buried at the bottom of the freezer underneath the frozen peas and the dubious pork chops!
I DON’T BELIEVE IN SEASONAL FRAGRANCES, BUT I DO BELIEVE IN SUMMER PERFUMES
I’ve always scoffed at the notion of seasonal fragrances. I wear what I want when I want! You can’t tell me nothin! Resinous incense and mossy stone castles and suffocating spices year round, please!
…Yet here I am, a prisoner of the merciless Florida hellscape, finding myself yearning for fragrances that offer respite from the relentless heat.
It’s not so much about capturing a bottled atmosphere as it is about survival. Those earthy autumnal and woodsy winter perfumes that once brought such cozy comfort and delicious decadence now feel like a weighted blanket in this sweltering humidity. They cling, they smother, they overwhelm – much like the soupy miasma of these endless summer days.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the ephemeral and the ethereal. I reach for scents that evaporate almost as quickly as they’re applied, leaving behind only the ghost of a proper perfuming. Fizzy floral effervescence, a fleeting joy in the sticky air. Crisp, soapy musks offer the illusion of a fresh start, even as the humidity threatens to undo their work. Citrus and ginger provide zingy, zippy zhuzh, their bright notes cutting through the muggy haze. And those elusive spa-like fragrances – all gauzy lavender threads and misty eucalyptus veils – conjure a spectral coolness that’s more memory than matter.
These aren’t summer scents in the traditional sense, with their sunscreen notes and tropical fruit medleys. They’re more like… olfactory air conditioning. These subtle, refreshing fragrances I once overlooked now feel like small mercies, in a season that shows no mercy.
Elizabeth W. Té smells like a gorgeous glass of Southern sweet tea
Jones Road Shower is good mostly because it reminds me of BPAL’s discontinued Danube, which smells like sinking to the bottom of the coldest, bluest swimming pool on the hottest day of the year, and seeing the sun’s glimmer wavering through the rippling water and thinking ha ha ha, screw you, sun.
Kyoto from Comme des Garçons is actually my all-time favorite, number one, anytime, anyplace scent. It’s the scent everything has to measure up to, and so far, nothing has ever surpassed it. It smells like a cool shadowy prayer in a dark forest temple, and it is especially nice on brutal summer nights.
LOUDERMILK, LISSIE, MOTHER, CHEESDUST
I recently traveled to Philly, where I spent a much-needed long weekend with my Best Good Friend. We, of course, did some urban exploration and perfume shopping and conveyor belt sushiing and some long drives in the countryside, and, weirdly enough, a surprise visit to Warby Parker for very gleefully ridiculous new glasses! (Ývan thinks I look like this guy in my new specs, but everyone else is pointing to her.) But the best part was just vegging out together, doing nothing. We basically barricaded ourselves in their living room for a solid 24 hours, binging the entire season of Loudermilk, decimating an unholy amount of Herr’s jalapeño popper cheese puffs in the process. My fingers are probably still slightly orange.
A blonde musician showed up in one of the later episodes, and it hit me: isn’t that the singer from the 2017 Twin Peaks: The Return? Isn’t that Lissie?! I was obsessed with that Wild West song, and then I was obsessed with her PERFECT cover of Danzig’s “Mother” forever, and now, thanks to this show about the misadventures of misfits in AA, I’m equally fixated on her song “When I’m Alone.” And also the beautiful kimono she is wearing in that scene!
The funny thing is, it’s over a decade old at this point. Isn’t it weird how you can re/discover music like that? One minute, you’re stuffing your face with cheesy puffs; the next, you’re having a moment with a song from 2011 that you never knew you missed out on way back when, but now you love it like you’ve loved it forever.
Anyway, I’ve been playing Lissie non-stop since I got back. It’s like my brain is trying to recreate that perfect moment of kinship, junk food, and unexpectedly poignant television.
REVISITING MY STEPHEN KING PROJECT
In early 2020, the world is still blissfully unaware of what’s coming, and I am armed with a Google Docs spreadsheet and a mission. The goal? To immerse myself in the Stephen King universe – reading the unread, re-experiencing the familiar through audiobooks, and diving into television and film adaptations I’d somehow missed.
For 80s horror kids, he was practically a god. The master of terror, the guy who could make a clown in a storm drain or a voice in a closet the stuff of lifelong nightmares. But if I am being thoroughly, painfully honest – as an adult, reading him can sometimes feel like listening to your out-of-touch dad try to be “hip.” You love him, but occasionally, you just want to gently suggest he stop talking before he says something so embarrassing you could die.
That said, there’s still this undeniable magic to his work. It’s comfort food for the horror soul. When he eventually shuffles off this mortal coil, I’ll be devastated. More upset than when my own father passed. Stephen King’s been more of a constant presence in my life, for better or worse.
Anyway, I’ve been picking up the threads of this project lately, diving into the Mr. Mercedes books and related stories. It’s been… interesting. There’s still that undeniable King charm, the way he builds a world and populates it with characters that feel both wonderfully and uncomfortably real. I’ve always loved the way he writes the relationships–the interactions, the dialogue, the bonds– between siblings, for example. I first read IT thirty-seven summers ago, but I still get shivers when I think of Bill and Georgie Denbrough. But there are also moments where I find myself thinking, “Oh, Stephen King, no…! When was the last time you talked to a 44-year-old woman? And have you EVER spoken with a Black teenager??”
So that’s where I’m at with the project right now. Detecting with Bill Hodges, solving crimes with Holly Gibney, and watching Stephen King try to navigate the modern world with varying degrees of success. It’s a strange experience, this literary time travel. Part nostalgic joy, part critical assessment, all wrapped up in the complicated emotions of revisiting a childhood hero with adult eyes.
As I sit here, writing these words, I’m acutely aware of the passage of time. It’s been a year since I learned of my father’s passing, a man I barely knew yet whose influence echoes through my life in unexpected ways. The games we played then shape the words I write now. The Heavy Metal magazines I pored over still influence my aesthetic sensibilities. And that tiny bird I cradled during the Harmonica Convention? Perhaps it was the first stirring of the caretaker in me, the same part that now tends to sunflowers and crafts imperfect bagels. Maybe that’s a stretch. Maybe I just like flowers and bread.
(Totally unrelated–I also like creepy antique dolls. The one above was a birthday gift to myself last month.)
As I navigate this midsummer, with its oppressive Florida heat and the bittersweet onslaught of memories, I find myself grateful for the small joys: the scent of lemon and ginger on my skin, the cackles shared over junk food and trash television, the rediscovery of a singer-songwriter that speaks to my soul. It’s funny, isn’t it? How life can be simultaneously mundane and profound, filled with both small pleasures and big questions. I’m learning that it’s okay to contradict myself sometimes, whether it’s in my fragrance choices or my relationship with authors I’ve loved since childhood.
As we head deeper into the feverish, overheated, and everlasting days, I’m looking forward to more unexpected discoveries. And Halloween! Always that. Summer can fuck right off straight into the sun.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I 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!”
The Gift, Annie Stegg Gerard
Moonlit March, Annie Stegg Gerard
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.
The Serpent, Annie Stegg Gerard
Journey’s End, Annie Stegg Gerard
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.
On Velvet Wings, Annie Stegg Gerard
Changing Tides, Annie Stegg Gerard
Fire Wyrm, Annie Stegg Gerard
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.
Rabbat, Annie Stegg Gerard
Moth Queen, Annie Stegg Gerard
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.
Stolen Harvest, Annie Stegg Gerard
Festival of the Toadstool Dance, Annie Stegg Gerard
Enchantress of Avalon, Annie Stegg Gerard
Wish, Annie Stegg Gerard
Autumn Apprentice, Annie Stegg Gerard
Flortoise, Annie Stegg Gerard
The Cabbat Version 2, Annie Stegg Gerard
I’m Afraid You’ve Got Dragons, Annie Stegg Gerard
Penelope, Annie Stegg Gerard
Calico Calimander, Annie Stegg Gerard
Lady of the Vanir, Annie Stegg Gerard
The Boggart, Annie Stegg Gerard
The Coveted, Annie Stegg Gerard
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?
R. Graves, The Ghost Story; girl reading a ghost story, c. 1874.
Have you ever stumbled upon a book that defies easy categorization? A story that blends genres in unexpected ways, leaving you both unsettled and strangely satisfied? I recently watched Elizabeth of Reading Wryly talk about the genres that define her taste on her YouTube channel, and it got me thinking about my own preferences and predilections.
Inspired, I decided to delve into my own bookshelf, unearthing a collection of contemporary tales that resonate with my peculiar tastes. These are the subgenres that keep me up all night, narratives that blend the familiar with the fantastical, the scholarly with the spooky, and the artistic with the unsettling. Think academia with a dash of the supernatural, secluded artists haunted by their creations, or media that becomes a chilling conduit for obsession.
These are all fairly contemporary titles, but obviously, stories like “The Yellow Wallpaper” or We Have Always Lived in the Castle, would probably be right at home on some of these lists. So, as always, when I make and share lists like this, if you feel there is something missing, I invite you to make your own! And I imagine it should go without saying, but I will say it anyway: I have indeed read every book on this list. I would never, ever recommend something that I have not experienced myself.
At any rate, see below for the hyper-specific subgenres that keep me turning pages…!
Engraving of a woman reading by candlelight by John Sartain, after a painting by Philippe Mercier. 1854.
The Academy of Shadows: Imagine academia’s hallowed halls, cloaked in shadows and secrets, where intellectual pursuits intertwine with the arcane. These narratives tantalize with their blend of scholarly intrigue and subtle (or not so much) supernatural undertones. Bonus points for clique-y cults and catty mean girls.
The Secret History by Donna Tartt: A murder unfolds at an elite college as a group of classics students delve into ancient Greek rituals, their dark secret binding them together.
Possession by A.S. Byatt: Two contemporary scholars uncover a hidden love story between Victorian poets through unearthed letters and journals.
Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo: A young woman who can see ghosts navigates the occult underbelly of Yale University, where secret societies wield dangerous magic.
Catherine House by Elisabeth Thomas: At an isolated, prestigious university with a dark secret, a rebellious student uncovers a shocking truth about the school’s true purpose.
The Lightness by Emily Temple: A teenager attends a summer camp where girls attempt to levitate, exploring the boundaries between reality and transcendence.
The Likeness by Tana French: Detective Cassie Maddox goes undercover as her former alias to lure out a killer whose victim looked eerily like Cassie. This painfully beautiful book is an atypical example of this genre, but I must insist.
The Cloisters by Katy Hays: A young art researcher at a gothic museum gets caught in a deadly web of ambition and intrigue surrounding a mysterious deck of tarot cards.
The Tenth Girl by Sara Faring: A young woman seeking refuge from a brutal regime finds herself battling a haunting presence at a remote Argentinian boarding school with a missing student.
Down A Dark Hall by Lois Duncan: The one that started it all! (For me, anyway!) A skeptical girl at a mysterious boarding school uncovers a dark secret behind her classmates’ newfound talents.
The Perilous Price of Artistic Refuge: Solitude breeds introspection, but in these narratives, it also invites unsettling encounters with the unknown. As artists and writers retreat into seclusion (or, sometimes, secluded retreats with a few other people) they find their creative sanctuaries infiltrated by eerie presences and mysterious occurrences. And murder! While this is not really an ordered list of favorites, “artist goes off to creation in isolation, weird shit ensues” actually IS my favorite!
The Writing Retreat by Julia Bartz: A struggling writer competes in a deadly writing challenge at a secluded retreat hosted by a famous horror author.
Fake Like Me by Barbara Bourland: A young artist, desperate to recreate her lost work, takes refuge at an isolated retreat shrouded in the mystery of a past artist’s death.
The Last Word by Taylor Adams: A reclusive woman’s negative online review of a horror author’s work spirals into a terrifying situation as she fears the author might be stalking her.
Wylding Hall by Elizabeth Hand: Decades after a British folk band’s lead singer vanishes in a haunted mansion, survivors recount the chilling events in conflicting narratives. BIG TIME FAVORITE!
The Dark Half by Stephen King: A writer’s pseudonym takes on a life of its own, manifesting as a malevolent doppelgänger bent on revenge.
Dark Things I Adore by Katie Lattari: A former art student seeks revenge on her manipulative professor thirty years after a dark secret emerged at a secluded art camp
Green Fuse Burning by Tiffany Morris: A grieving artist confronts her family’s past and the unsettling secrets of a secluded cabin residency in the swamp.
The Centre by Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi: A discontented translator achieves fluency in a mysterious program, but grapples with the dark secret behind its success.
BONUS: A few films in this vein!
The Strings:Cut off from the world in a snowy hideaway, a composer’s quest for inspiration turns into a battle against a malevolent force.
Black Lake:A red scarf, a gift, and a curse. Aarya’s escape to pursue art awakens a terrifying entity – the Churail, a South Asian witch hungering for vengeance.
BONUS BONUS: The soundtracks for both The Strings and Black Lake are fantastically haunting in very different but equally marvelous ways
Félix Hilaire Buhot Liseuse à la Lampe (Woman Reading by Lamplight), 1879
Media Maledictions: Books, films, music—mundane on the surface, yet in these narratives, they become conduits for obsession, curses, and the macabre. These stories delve into the transformative power of art and media, blurring the boundaries between fiction and reality.
Experimental Film by Gemma Files: A former film teacher investigating a lost filmmaker’s chilling work unleashes supernatural forces that threaten her family. ANOTHER BIG FAVORITE!
Night Film by Marisha Pessl: A journalist investigates the death of a reclusive cult filmmaker’s daughter, uncovering a world of dark rituals and macabre cinema.
Silver Nitrate by Silvia Moreno-Garcia: A disillusioned sound editor and a washed-up soap star team up with a cult horror director to break a curse tied to a lost film infused with Nazi occultism.
Schrader’s Chord by Scott Leeds:Estranged from his dead father, a man inherits a record store and cursed vinyl that unleashes a malevolent force from the land of the dead.
Universal Harvester by John Darnielle: A small-town video store clerk stumbles upon disturbing hidden content on rental tapes, unraveling a sinister mystery.
The Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte: A rare book dealer hunts for a legendary text while encountering characters mirroring those from Dumas’s “The Three Musketeers.” You may have seen the film adaptation, The Ninth Gate.
Ringu by Koji Suzuki: A cursed videotape leads to a journalist’s race against time to uncover its origins and break the deadly cycle before it claims her life.
Burn the Negative by Josh Winning: A journalist with a dark past as a child star in a cursed horror movie must confront the deadly remake and break the cycle.
Beholder by Ryan Lasala: A young art handler with the secret power to see the past in reflections gets pulled into a deadly conspiracy involving a supernatural entity and New York’s elite art scene.
BONUS: A few series in this vein…!
Archive 81: A cryptic trail of damaged tapes leads an archivist to piece together a filmmaker’s descent into the darkness of a hidden cult
Deadwax:A vinyl tracker is hired by a rich collector to hunt a legendary rare record that has driven all its former owners mad
Unhinged and Unraveling: Women pushed to the edge, their sanity teetering on the brink, colliding with supernatural (ish) (esque) forces that challenge their perceptions of reality. These narratives delve into the complexities of female identity, power, and the eerie intersections of the mundane and the supernatural–of, if not specifically, supernatural, just weird shit in general.
Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder: A mother’s transformation into a dog leads to a surreal exploration of identity, motherhood, and the supernatural (and art!)
Bunny by Mona Awad: A graduate student infiltrates a clique of eccentric classmates, leading to a surreal journey into academia, identity, and bizarre rituals.
Mona by Pola Oloixarac: A blunt Latina writer in California gets a chance to escape for a European literary award, but finds herself trapped amidst a pretentious competition, bizarre encounters, and a lingering threat of violence.
Mother Thing by Ainslie Hogarth: Desperate to escape a cruel mother-in-law’s ghost, a woman resorts to extreme measures to protect her husband and find a surrogate mother figure.
Maeve Fly by CJ Leede: Ice princess Maeve embraces her murderous urges after a handsome stranger awakens a darkness within her. Thinks Weetzie Bat x American Psycho/Takashi Miike x Lana del Rey
Earthlings by Sayaka Murata: A woman who copes with a traumatic childhood and societal pressures by clinging to childhood fantasies seeks refuge in the mountains to reconnect with her alien-believing cousin and fulfill their pact to survive.
Paradise Rot by Jenny Hval: A hyper-sensitive Norwegian biology student navigates a strange, decaying apartment and a possibly unhealthy relationship with her enigmatic roommate.
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?
In this video, I talk about why I collect tarot cards, four of my favorite decks, who I go to for my life-changing tarot readings, and some other extra fun tidbits, like if I were to commission a tarot deck, which artists I’d go to!
I really didn’t think I’d have much to talk about, but somehow this video is almost half an hour long! I imagine people think that because I have written about art inspired by the occult or arcane and esoteric practices, I myself am a practitioner of some of these things, but I am not, really. I pick up the odd tidbit of information here and there, but it’s something that fascinates me more in theory than practice. Just a heads up!
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?
Darla Jackson, This will hurt me more than it hurts you
When I was in the sixth grade, around 11-12 years old, there was a girl who made me very, very angry. We will call her Mary Jo.
Our grade was sorted into color groups, which didn’t make sense at first until you realized it had to do with what you were learning, how you were graded, and so on. I was in orange, and there was also blue, red, and purple. Turns out the oranges were the smarties. The purples…not so much. Mary Jo was a purple. She was also very popular. And very mean.
Children were bussed in fairly early, and before classes would start for the day, I would sit outside my homeroom door reading. That and along with the the fact I read during class, at recess and lunch, on the bus going home, naturally I was thought of as a bookworm, but I never thought it was a bad thing. I was actually really proud of how much I read! And then one day Mary Jo, who was in some sort of after-school thing with one of my younger sisters, said to her something along the lines of “your sister’s a NERD.” And not in an admiring way. In really nasty way, like she was trying to shame my sister into feeling bad about who and how I was.
I could handle being picked on myself, but using my sister as a punching bag? I was INCENSED. I was also a weenie and not being a confrontational or violent person, I never did anything about it… but for years afterward, I dreamed about walking up to Mary Jo and without saying a word, punching her square in the face.
Incidentally, it was around this age that I began getting cat-called and harassed by much, much older men. Freaked out and furious, I would daydream, in waking hours, about punching their faces, too.
Darla Jackson, This will hurt me more than it hurts you
When I first saw Darla Jackson’s birdie knuckleduster sculpt, This Will Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You, all of that long-ago anger and fear came back to me, all at once. Darla’s work resonates with that feeling of childhood unease – the disconnect between the safe, sunny stories we’re fed of what being a kid should look like, alongside the complexities of the real world.
Says Darla: “A four bird knuckle duster is where Snow White meets GhostFace Killah in my head. Cute but intimidating at the same time, it’s meant to offer ideas of protection and self defense that are so often needed yet usually suspiciously absent in portrayals of women in popular culture (I’m looking at you Disney movies!). The title, “This will hurt me more than it hurts you”, is a reference to the fact that women are often criticized for standing up for themselves.”
It’s one of those rare works of art that hit me in the gut and the heart simultaneously, and I was thrilled many years later when she permitted me to include the work in my book The Art of Darkness: A Treasury of the Morbid, Melancholic, and Macabre. And truly, there there’s something undeniably dark about this implement of fairy-tale violence both cute and intimidating. It’s saccharine and savage in equal measure, a weaponized quartet threatening both cuddles and carnage.
This, in a nutshell, is the captivating world of Darla Jackson’s sculptures.
Darla Jackson, Lost // The Water’s At Your Neck
Darla Jackson, The Nothing
This darkness lurks beneath the surface of Darla Jackson’s work. Not a brooding, gothic kind of darkness, but a sly, knowing one. It peeks out from the wide, porcelain eyes of her creatures, often rendered in clay with a disconcerting softness. These aren’t the friendly innocence of Snow White’s forest animal menagerie – they’re vessels for complex emotions, silent observers of a world, creations that are equal parts charming and disturbing. It’s a clever strategy – by using creatures as proxies, she avoids the baggage of human representation, allowing viewers to connect with the raw emotions on display, unfiltered by the pesky trappings of, well…people.
Darla Jackson, It All Comes Out Wrong AnywayDarla Jackson, A Dangerous Expedition // A Damned Fine Game
A shaper of narratives with a knack for capturing vulnerability through the animal kingdom, she meticulously collects fragments of inspiration – a photograph, a song lyric, a fleeting observation at the zoo – and molds this wellspring of ideas together into a cohesive whole, unquiet critters and foreboding fauna that provoke and compel in equal measure.
Darla Jackson, CHAMBER XIX Bring the motherfucking ruckus
I was extremely intrigued by Darla’s little avian iron maiden, that to my eyes, looks like its spiky insides are caked with coppery dried blood. If you ask me, this is where all cat-callers belong. About this one Darla says:
“As a kid, I was always obsessed with medieval torture devices…I couldn’t wrap my head around how people could do something like that to one another. The same goes for how people treat one another to this day, verbally, emotionally… I suppose I’m very interested in how people treat one another and even more so, how people treat themselves, often being harder on themselves than anyone else could be.”
Darla Jackson, Counterpoint
Darla Jackson, CHAMBER I You are born, ok
Whether it’s a rabbit in a crow mask or winged things packing a punch, Darla’s sculptures remind us that vulnerability doesn’t negate strength. By embodying complex emotions in these animalistic forms, she invites viewers to explore their own vulnerabilities and grapple with the realities of the world, both beautiful and brutal. Whether it’s the memory of childhood bullies or the ever-present threat of harassment, these sculptures give voice to the unspoken anxieties we carry within, and with a little Darla Jackson-esque grit, we can all face the world, birdy knuckledusters at the ready, prepared to defend ourselves and rewrite the narratives that try to limit us.
Darla Jackson, A Place To Come Home To
BONUS! I always love to get to know the artists in my books as whole people, with lives and interests beyond their art (as incredible and fascinating as that art might be!) I am going to make more of an effort to include an extra little tidbit or two in these artist spotlights in the future, and starting today, I thought I would ask Darla about…perfume! Because OF COURSE.
According to Darla, these are some of her favorites!
Ok, so one of my first favorites is Bourbon by Hans Hendley. I was drawn to the idea that it was oak aged and made me think of an old fashioned, which is my adult beverage of choice. I am also very fond of his Amora but Bourbon has my heart.
Trompette 8 is my very favorite perfume. Made by Filippo Sorcinelli, it has all the smoky notes I want in a perfume and his packaging is always stunning. His Unum Laavs is amazing too.
Darla Jackson, How it feels (Tiger’s Eye Edition)
Darla currently has a collaborative exhibition, along with Paul Romano at Arch Enemy Arts…
LAMENT + BLOOM is the second installment of HOLD SACRED, a multi-part collaborative series. It is a collection of sculptures, installations, and paintings inspired by “the idea of what is sacred” while navigating the emotional aftermath of loss. Together, Jackson and Romano ask what thoughts, objects, concepts and relationships do they hold dear; what do they cherish and sanctify while “growing through grief?”
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?
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.
Welderwings, The Eyes With Which I Observe The World
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?
When I was younger, from childhood through young adulthood, I was told I was slow, lazy, aimless, and lackadaisical. I often flaked out and had no follow-through. But I wasn’t any of those things. I was scared and anxious all the time, and didn’t know how to express that, so I would often procrastinate, drag my heels, and I agree to things I didn’t want to do (and then be a no-show or ghost people) because I was afraid to say no at the onset.
In reality, as an adult, I am a very hard worker, tireless, ceaseless, a perfectionist. But sometimes I wonder if that’s because I’m trying to prove something to people who thought otherwise? That I’m not lazy and worthless? And when have I proven myself enough? To people who are quite literally dead and gone?
I am still scared of everything. Everything. Even though I have almost reached the half-century mark. But if there is one thing I have learned, it is that the fear of actually doing a thing is outweighed by the dread of thinking about doing the thing. So I just pick the lesser of the fears and get on with it. And since no one is around anymore to see these small victories, I’ve continually gotta prove myself to myself.
This is how I have written three books. Thank you for coming to my TED talk 🤣
If you enjoy these ramblings, or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I spend a lot of time reviewing and recommending and celebrating the creations of others– and I love to do it! – but for the next few days leading up to my birthday, I am going to spend some time honoring and giving lots of love to my own work.
From the sheer number of people who say to me “I didn’t know it was you who did that!” it’s obvious that I need to toot my own horn a little more. I would say, “I hope you’ll indulge me” but that’s weenie-Sarah speaking.
Instead, I will step up and say WITNESS AND REJOICE IN MY TOOTLING FRIENDS! Because you wouldn’t be here if you were not my friends and you are happy to drink my own Kool-Aid with me for a little while! I think!
Anyway, going way back, in case you didn’t know…
-Did you know I began life, more or less, as akissofshadows on LiveJournal? Did we know each other back then? I changed usernames several dozen times, but that pilfered Laurell K. Hamilton title was the one that began it all.
-Did you know I have been blogging for 20+ years now, in some form or another? And I still do! I have written for myself in all my blog’s incarnations, and I have been a guest blogger and a staff blogger for: Coilhouse, bloodmilk, Death & the Maiden, Dirge, Haute Macabre, and Thespiai.
-Did you know I was the creator responsible for Skeletor Is Love?
This is a screencap of someone else’s TikTok account, but that someone is using a photo which belongs to me
The above is an image I screencapped from TikTok. If you are someone who has seen photos of my perfume cabinet over the years, you might look at it and think “…hey…that looks like Sarah’s perfume cabinet!” And then you might get confused because you’d think, “Huh, that username says “redacted” not “midnight stinks,” and, “hey, I know Sarah; she would probably never attach a GIF of Ben Affleck’s dumb face to any of her photos, what the heck is going on here?”
Friends, I saw that and was similarly confused. At first, before anything else, I saw my tacky pink sparkly skull and my great-great-grandparent’s antique photo, and I didn’t notice the other stuff. I thought someone had found one of my photos, wanted to know more about the owner of the photo, found my various accounts, and thought, “Aha! here’s a kindred spirit!” In this daydream, the person was posting my photo on TikTok in the spirit of, “Wow, I just found the coolest person! You should all like and follow them!”
Of course, I am terribly deluded and naive about how the world should work. It was just some throwaway post with a trending gif set on the backdrop of my photo, for which I was not credited. For proof ( I mean, you’re following my blog and probably don’t need/wouldn’t ask for proof, but just in case, here is the uncropped 2014 photo below:)
MY perfume cabinet, circa 2013-2014
If you know anything about me at all, forget perfumes, forget my books and blog, TikTok, and everything else. You may know and SHOULD know that I am passionate about making sure that artists receive credit for their works. I have built my entire writing career on it. Now, I am no artist, and I won’t pretend otherwise, but that was a photo I had taken of a space that belonged to me, so you can imagine how livid I was when I saw that this morning.
Long story short: I left a comment, and they responded. They DMed me and were intensely and genuinely apologetic, and you know what? I couldn’t stay mad at the individual. I am mad that laziness and incurious people exist in general, but I couldn’t be angry at this particular person. I am still marveling at what they said, though. I asked her where she found the image and she said she “got it from Google,” and it’s like…how can that be enough for you? If you uncovered an image that spoke to you so intensely that you took the time to upload it to social media and caption it and add Ben Affleck’s face to it…don’t you care enough to find out who was responsible for the photo? For the human behind it? I mean, what if they shared other photos that you might like? What if they SAID or WROTE things you might like? What if they were AN ACTUAL HUMAN PERSON that you might like? Don’t you want to find out? How can you not want to know more? I will never, ever, ever understand this. I just won’t.
Another photo for good measure, several years and several perfumes later
I was going to use the incident as a teachable moment or a form of behavior modeling and make a video about it on TikTok, but you know what? I am wasting my breath, my time, and my energy. I have seen time and time again that very few people are concerned with this. Also…I mean, the person did apologize, I don’t want to embarrass them. Also…the only reason I even saw it in the first place was because one of my friends reposted it, and I was flabbergasted… did they not recognize my perfume cabinet??? But also, how could this other person, a virtual stranger, whom I have never met in real life and only occasionally chat with on TikTok as of three months ago, recognize a photo of my perfume cabinet from 2014?? HA! I don’t know! But for a hot minute, I was mad at EVERYONE!
At the end of the day though, I am on that app because it’s fun to share my enthusiasm for perfume, and I don’t want to muck it up with something that makes me feel gross. Instead, I retrieved the original photo and several other photos of my perfume cabinet from 2009-2024, and on TikTok today, I shared a little perfume cabinet progression slide show, and I mentioned none of what led up to it. I reckon it will garner just as much attention and views as the passive-aggressive scolding video (which is to say not much at all, my views are abysmal), but at least it’s coming from a more pleasant place in my heart.
And if you have read this far, gosh, and thank you. It was quite a bitchfest.
P.S. Again, the issue has been resolved. I know you all aren’t the sort to find someone and give someone a hard time but there is absolutely no need. Apologies were made and accepted! If anything, go give a comment and a like to my video 🙂
