Unquiet
Things

Part I.

I was a little girl with a penchant for all things that bloomed, sparkled, or glittered. But for all my love of bold baubles and blooms, I was a timid soul, scared of her own shadow and just about everything else that crossed her path.

In those early days, the world seemed divided into two camps: the pretty things that delighted me, and the ugly, scary, angry, loud things that sent me scurrying for cover. And oh, what a rogues’ gallery of terrors awaited my trembling psyche! There was Lou Ferrigno’s horrific green grimace as the Incredible Hulk, looking like he’d eaten something that violently disagreed with him. My cousin’s KISS posters leered at me from her bedroom walls, their feral, alien visages promising a world of chaos that my fairytale flower garden-loving heart wasn’t prepared for. Helicopters, motorcycles, Scooby Doo Draculas, George Harrison in Love At First Bite — you name it, it made me cry.

As I grew older, though, something strange began to happen. That heart-pounding panic and fright regarding bloodsuckers and monsters from outer space began to give way to an inexplicable curiosity. It was as if the fear and fascination wires got mixed up in my brain. Suddenly, instead of hiding my face behind a pillow when something scary flickered across the TV screen, I felt an itchy urge to peek. This fascination with fearsome things lurking in the darkness slowly turned into an obsession. I found myself voraciously consuming every form of frightening or unsettling media I encountered. Literature, film, music, art – if it possessed an aura of the unearthly or strange, if it whispered of the ghastly or ghostly, if it dared to explore the gruesome or grotesque, I was irresistibly drawn to it. Like a scholar of the sinister – or more accurately, a C-student of the supernatural, because even with my most passionate interests, I’ve never aspired to become an expert or guru – I immersed myself in these dark waters. Each new discovery was a key to another door in the sprawling, shadowy mansion of horror, rooms I’d wander through with equal parts trepidation and delight.

My burgeoning fascination with the macabre found fertile ground in my unconventional home environment. My mother’s boyfriend at the time, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the weird, nurtured these budding interests with a steady diet of horror movies and cheap weird fiction paperbacks. These books, with their spectacularly deranged cover art that would probably be banned in several states today (I’m pretty sure some violated the Geneva Convention), became my first proper forays into the world of horror literature.

But it wasn’t just fiction that fed my growing appetite for the uncanny. My mother was an astrologer, a tarot reader, and a dabbler in an assortment of arcane practices. She was, for all intents and purposes, a witch, though I never heard her call herself that. Our home was a testament to her esoteric pursuits, a place where the mystical was as commonplace as morning coffee. Tarot cards were tucked into every nook and cranny, as if she were the Madame Fortuna of squirrels preparing for a psychic winter. Mysterious artworks adorned every wall, transforming our house into a veritable gallery of the weird and wonderful. Fabulous posters of Erté’s dramatic Art Deco fashions hung alongside large-scale reproductions of Lady Frieda Harris’ Thoth tarot paintings. I would lose whole afternoons gazing at these images, my imagination stepping into them, getting lost in their swirling colors and intricate designs. It was as if we had portals to other worlds right there on our living room walls, each frame a window to realms both beautiful and bizarre.

This immersive environment, rich with symbolism and the promise of hidden meanings, undoubtedly shaped my evolving taste in horror. As I matured, the simple scares of childhood gave way to more complex terrors. I found myself drawn deeper into the labyrinthine world of horror literature, discovering authors who could articulate the nameless fears and existential dread that had begun to take root in my psyche. Edgar Allan Poe’s psychological depths resonated with my burgeoning understanding of human nature, his stories of guilt, madness, and the thin veil between life and death echoing the complexities I was beginning to perceive in the world around me. H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror, despite the author’s problematic views, laid a foundation of existential dread that fascinated me. However, it was the contemporary writers who truly captured my imagination. These authors took Lovecraft’s concepts of cosmic horror and paranoia and rebuilt them, infusing them with diverse perspectives and experiences that reflected the world I knew. In their works, I found a horror that was at once more inclusive and more expansive, speaking to fears both ancient and modern.

I reveled in the gothic romance of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, where whatever walked there, walked alone. Stephen King’s sprawling universes and his characters, who feel like old friends, enchant me to this day. Clive Barker’s Books of Blood opened my eyes to the strange beauty that can be found in the grotesque. I delved into the works of classic British ghost storywriters, finding a different kind of terror in their subtle, atmospheric tales. M.R. James, with his scholarly protagonists and ancient curses, taught me the power of suggestion and the horror of the unseen. Algernon Blackwood’s cosmic wilderness horror showed me how nature itself could be a source of terror, vast and indifferent to human concerns.

But.  While I may have grown out of hiding behind the sofa during Scooby-Doo, I never quite outgrew my anxious nature. As a child, I was the kid who needed coaxing to join in games at birthday parties. As an adult, I’m the one who needs coaxing to attend the birthday party at all. Anxiety has been my constant companion, an uninvited guest who crashes every party in my mind.

But here’s the fun twist in this tale of terror: horror, in all its gruesome glory, has become my unlikely ally in facing these fears. It’s as if by immersing myself in fictional frights, I can better manage the real-world anxieties that threaten to overwhelm me. There’s a certain logic to it, I suppose. When you’re worried about tentacled monstrosities from beyond the stars or shambling zombies crawling through your windows, somehow mustering up the nerve to call the insurance company or make a request to your boss doesn’t seem all that daunting.

Horror provides a controlled environment where I can face my fears on my own terms. In my daily life, anxiety can strike at any moment, triggered by the most mundane of circumstances. My mind, ever eager to catastrophize, can spiral into worst-case scenarios faster than you can say …well…something creepy in Latin from a real gnarly book that you definitely should have left alone. But in horror – whether in books, films, or art – the monsters are contained. They exist within defined boundaries, and there’s usually a resolution, even if it’s not always a happy one. It’s like exposure therapy, but with more fake blood and crappy reboots, and fewer copays.

Moreover, horror often deals with outsiders, with those who don’t quite fit in. As someone who has always felt a bit out of step with the world due to my shyness and anxiety, I find a strange kinship with the misunderstood monsters and troubled protagonists of horror stories. Their struggles, albeit exaggerated and supernatural, sometimes feel like funhouse mirror reflections of my own.

There’s also something to be said for the catharsis that horror provides. When I engage with horror, my anxiety has a focus, a concrete outlet. Instead of worrying about nebulous future possibilities, I can channel that nervous energy into the immediate experience of the story. And when the book is closed or the credits roll, there’s often a sense of release, of having survived something intense – a feeling that can be hard to come by when dealing with the chronic, low-level anxiety of everyday life.

Horror, I have come to realize, is more than just a genre – it was a lens through which to view the world, a palette with which to paint the full spectrum of human experience. It offered a canvas to confront our deepest fears, to explore the shadows of the human psyche, and to grapple with the unknown. In a world that often demands relentless positivity, horror provides a necessary counterbalance, an emotional chiaroscuro, acknowledging the darkness that exists alongside the light, an interplay that gives depth and dimension to our understanding of life.

This fascination with the darker aspects of existence led me to curate and create The Art of Darkness, a treasury of the morbid, melancholic, and macabre in visual art. In this book, I explored how we all experience darkness, and why it’s crucial to embrace it. We can’t avoid it, and I don’t think we should. If we’re eternally trying to live in the light where it’s always bright and happy, where we ignore or evade our distressing, uncomfortable feelings, then we are starved of shadows, of nuance, and risk an existence robbed of the richness of contrast. When we only validate our positive feelings, we vastly restrict our tools for looking at the world. We are neither dealing with reality as it is nor adequately readying ourselves for the random pains and struggles that life has in store for us. It’s like trying to paint a masterpiece using only the brighter end of the color spectrum – you might create something cheerful, but you’ll miss out on the depth and complexity that the full palette of human experience offers.

This exploration of the darker side of art opened up new avenues of sensory experience for me. Just as a Goya painting or a Louise Bourgeois sculpture can evoke visceral reactions through visual means, I discovered another form of art that could stir the senses in equally profound ways – but through an often-overlooked medium. This invisible art form would become my next obsession, leading me down a fragrant path of discovery and self-expression.

 

 

Part II

In the experiential realm of human senses, scent often gets overlooked, relegated to the background behind the more immediate impressions of sight and sound. But for me, the olfactory world has always been front and center,  a vivid, visceral presence that perfumes my perception of everything around me. It’s not just a sense; it’s a vital conduit to memory, emotion, and imagination.

I can trace this fascination back to my childhood, to stolen moments in front of my mother’s vanity. The mirrored tray, cluttered with an array of gleaming bottles, was a forbidden wonderland that beckoned to me with an almost otherworldly magnetism. Each bottle held not just a fragrance, but a world of possibilities, a story waiting to be told. Despite stern warnings to leave them be, I couldn’t resist. In moments of daring defiance, I would embark on olfactory adventures, spritzing and spraying with reckless abandon, creating my own fantastical, if somewhat chaotic, perfume compositions. These clandestine experiments, always followed by unconvincing denials (as if the lingering cloud of scent didn’t give me away), were my first steps into the world of fragrance. Little did I know that those illicit spritzes were planting olfactory time bombs in my psyche, set to detonate years later in explosions of creative inspiration. This innocent fascination would ferment in the dark corners of my mind, brewing a potent elixir of perception-altering potential. Like a haunted perfume, it would trail me through life, leaving an invisible sillage that reshaped my reality.

As I grew older, my love for perfume deepened, intertwining with my other passions – literature, art, and storytelling. My tastes evolved dramatically; the sweet vanilla cake and marshmallow fluff-scented gourmands that marked my initial aromatic dabbling gave way to an appreciation for the dry, the bitter, the verdant, and the resinous. I found myself drawn to the complexities of vetiver, the smoky allure of incense, the sharp green of galbanum, and the mysterious depth of oakmoss.

This olfactory journey took an exceptionally exciting turn when I discovered there was a world of fragrance beyond the drugstore and department store counters. I stumbled upon independent perfumers crafting wild, weird, and wonderful scents that I never imagined could exist. I will forever blame (and bless) Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab for this Pandora’s box of alternative options, this irrevocable initiation into a hidden world of olfactory marvels. In the marking of my life in time before/after A Thing–I can say with utter conviction that my life has never been the same since I discovered BPAL; it offered me knowledge of things that I can never again un-know. And naturally, it was around this time that I began to see fragrances not just as pleasant scents but as narratives in their own right, invisible paintings that unfold over time on the canvas of skin and air. Each spritz became the opening line of a story, each waft a brushstroke in an unseen masterpiece. The development of perfume from top notes to base became a plot unfolding, revealing new facets and twists with each passing hour.

This perspective has guided my approach to writing about perfume for over a decade now. I’m not a chemist dissecting molecular structures, nor am I a seasoned industry insider with decades of experience. Instead, I’m a storyteller, an art enthusiast who happens to work in the medium of scent. My goal isn’t to provide technical breakdowns or expert analysis, but to capture the emotional journey that a fragrance takes you on, to translate the wordless poetry of scent into something tangible and relatable.

When I encounter a new perfume, I don’t just smell it – I experience it. I let it transport me to the arid deserts of a planet with binary moons or snowy moonlit forests where witches dwell in their chicken-legged huts, to the bombastic spice of bustling bazaars or quiet papery riffle of near-empty libraries. I listen to the stories it tells, the memories it evokes, the emotions it stirs. And then, I try to put all of that into words, to share that experience with others who might find beauty and meaning in bottled dreams.

This approach, born out of pure passion rather than professional expertise, has its own unique value. It offers a perspective that’s closer to that of the average perfume lover, unburdened by industry jargon or technical minutiae. It’s an invitation to engage with perfume on a more emotional and imaginative level, to see it as more than just a pleasant smell, but as a form of artistic expression accessible to everyone.

In my writing, I often draw connections between perfumes and other art forms. A fragrance might remind me of a particular painting, its notes unfolding like brushstrokes on canvas. Another might evoke a piece of music, its composition a symphony of scents. And many, of course, call to mind literary passages, their olfactory narratives as rich and complex as any written story.
This interdisciplinary approach reflects my belief that perfume is part of a larger conversation about aesthetics, emotion, and sensory experiences. It’s not isolated from other forms of art but exists in constant dialogue with them, each medium informing and enriching the others in an ongoing exchange of ideas and sensations.

My journey with perfume has been one of continuous self-discovery. Each fragrance I’ve fallen in love with has taught me something about myself, my perceptions, my memories, and my desires. It’s been a journey of exploration, not expertise – I’m still learning, still discovering, still being surprised and delighted by new scents and experiences.

And you know what? That’s okay. More than okay, actually – it’s wonderful. There was a time when I felt inadequate for not being an “expert,” for not having studied under master perfumers or created my own fragrances. I looked at those who had dedicated their lives to perfumery with a mixture of admiration and envy, wondering if my passion was somehow less valid because it wasn’t my sole focus.

But over time, I’ve come to accept that you don’t need to know everything about something to love it deeply and authentically. You don’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef to appreciate good food or a classical composer to be moved by music. And you certainly don’t need to be a master perfumer to find joy, meaning, and beauty in fragrance.

This acceptance has been incredibly liberating. It’s allowed me to embrace my role as an enthusiastic audience member, a passionate amateur in the truest sense of the word. I may never create my own perfume or run a fragrance house, but I can appreciate, celebrate, and share the art that others create. I can be a translator of sorts, putting into words the wordless experiences that perfumes create, helping others to engage with and appreciate this often-overlooked art form.

In fact, I’ve come to believe that there’s real value in this kind of enthusiastic, non-expert appreciation. It makes the world of perfume more accessible, more welcoming to those who might be intimidated by more technical or insider-focused discussions. It encourages people to trust their own experiences and perceptions, to engage with perfume on a personal, emotional level rather than worrying about whether they’re smelling the “right” notes or using the “correct” terminology.

This doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning or exploring. Far from it! I’m constantly discovering new things about perfume, diving into its history, its cultural significance, its connections to other art forms and disciplines. But I do so as a curious explorer, not as someone striving to become the ultimate authority. For me, each new scent is an invitation to wander through olfactory landscapes, to uncover hidden narratives wafting from each bottle, to indulge in a fragrant feast. I don’t need to be an expert or a guru; I’m just here for the sensory buffet. But now we’re getting into cooking and food…and that’s an origin story for a different time!

 

 

Part III 

Last month as I prepared to be a guest on an upcoming podcast, I found myself thinking of how the worlds of horror and perfume might seem diametrically opposed at first glance – one reveling in the grotesque and terrifying, the other celebrating beauty and pleasure. But in my experience, they’re more closely linked than one might expect, each offering a unique lens through which to explore the depths of human experience and emotion.

At their core, both horror and perfume are about evoking visceral reactions. One does it through fear, the other through scent – but both bypass our logical brain to trigger something primal within us. They speak directly to our subconscious, stirring emotions and memories that we might not even be aware of harboring.

Just as a well-crafted horror story can transport you to another world, so too can a carefully composed perfume. With a single spritz or a turn of the page, you can find yourself locked in an ancient crypt, adrift at sea on a ghost ship, or wandering the halls of a decaying mansion. Both have the power to conjure memories, emotions, and atmospheres in an instant, pulling you into a fully realized experience that engages all your senses.

There’s an intimacy to both horror and perfume that I find utterly captivating. They get under your skin, they linger, they transform your perception of the world around you. A haunting story can leave you looking over your shoulder for days, while a compelling fragrance can change how you perceive yourself and others. Both have the power to alter your reality, if only for a moment.

In both horror and perfume, there’s a fascinating preoccupation with decay and the passage of time. Think of those classic dark, gothic notes in perfumery – leather, incense, dark woods. They’re not just scents; they’re storytellers, weaving tales of abandoned monasteries, moonlit séances, forgotten rituals, and long-buried secrets. Similarly, horror often deals with themes of aging, death, and the inevitability of time’s march. Both invite us to confront our own mortality and find beauty in the ephemeral nature of existence.

Creating a perfume, I imagine, is not unlike crafting a horror story. You’re building tension, creating contrast, leading the audience through a carefully orchestrated experience. A perfumer, like a skilled horror writer, knows how to build anticipation, when to reveal a shocking twist, and how to leave a lasting impression. The nose, like the mind, can be led down dark and twisting paths, encountering surprises and revelations along the way.

In my perfume collection, you’ll find scents that could easily belong in a horror story: the metallic tang of blood, the damp earth of a freshly dug grave, the acrid smoke of smoldering ruins, or the otherworldly aroma of strange, alien flowers. These fragrances tell visceral and evocative stories, inviting the wearer to step into worlds both familiar and unknown. They complement the more traditional scents in my collection, each offering a unique olfactory journey and expanding the emotional palette of perfumery.

Ultimately, my love for both horror and perfume stems from the same place: a fascination with the full spectrum of human experience, from the sublimely beautiful to the hauntingly macabre. Both allow me to explore different facets of existence, to step into other worlds and other skins, if only for a moment. Whether I’m lost in a chilling tale or enveloped in an evocative scent, I’m chasing the same thrill – the excitement of discovery, the brush with the unknown, the expansion of my own perception.

About the artwork in this blog post: In a serendipitous twist of fate, I recently stumbled upon the haunting artwork of Masha Gusova. I thought that her pieces, which blend historical imagery with contemporary narratives to explore the human condition, resonated deeply with the themes of this essay. Like a perfectly composed perfume or a masterfully crafted horror story, Gusova’s art invites introspection and evokes visceral emotions, making it a natural visual companion to our journey through shadows and scents.

 

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