Crimson Noctiluca emerged from an experiment with boundaries. For years, I’ve built my darks the way one builds a symphony, layering Payne’s gray with deep blues, purples, and forest greens until the shadows sang with hidden color. But this piece called for something different. Something absolute.
I reached for Musou Black, the blackest black commercially available, a paint that devours 98% of light that touches it. Full throttle. No safety net.
The result is a landscape that exists in contradiction: a crimson sun that seems to generate its own luminescence, suspended in a void so complete it challenges the eye’s ability to perceive depth. A solitary figure stands at the precipice with her animal companion, witness to something that feels both apocalyptic and intimate.
The Photography Paradox
Here’s what the camera cannot capture, the “highlights” you see in the photograph are not highlights at all. In person, those warm ochres, burnt siennas, and living corals pulse with an energy that 500+ megapixels of human vision can perceive, but my lens cannot. The Musou Black creates a depth that swallows the surrounding color in photographs, rendering them ghostly when they are, in reality, vibrant and warm. It’s the black hole of the color world. I probably will not be making prints of this painting.
What a frontal picture doesn’t capture.
I’ve tried every lighting configuration, every camera setting, every post-processing trick. Some art simply demands physical presence. This is one of those pieces. I apologize for the photograph, not the art.
Acrylic on canvas, 18″ x 24″, Available.
A Meditation on Black
This piece marks a departure, and likely a farewell. The absence of light (or is it the presence of everything absorbed?) feels antithetical to how I experience the world. I paint to illuminate, not to obliterate. Crimson Noctiluca stands as a singular exploration into the void, a testament to what happens when you push color to its absolute limit.
Some experiments teach you what you don’t want. Others teach you exactly what you needed to know.
There exists in the trade a quiet expectation, rarely spoken yet universally understood, that a painter who finds a worthy subject will return to it some three to five times before its interest is exhausted. Monet gave us his cathedrals at Rouen, the same stone façade rendered through the shifting hours until the architecture dissolved into pure atmosphere. Thiebaud spent a long career arranging pastries upon their counters, a single glazed donut becoming a meditation on light, pigment, and the American appetite. The logic is sound. A familiar form permits the hand to wander, freed from the labor of invention, attending instead to the subtleties of touch and tone.
Woman with a Dark Heart, Rob Medley
A difficulty presents itself, however, when the chosen subject possesses no form to begin with. The shoggoth was H.P. Lovecraft’s answer to a question few thinkers care to pose: what shape does horror take when shape itself has become the enemy? In the frozen record of At the Mountains of Madness, these creatures appear as heaving masses of black, iridescent protoplasm, bred by the Elder Things as beasts of burden and stripped of any fixed anatomy. Eyes form upon the surface and sink again. Limbs rise, perform their labor, and are reabsorbed. The thing is a viscous congeries of bubbles that throws up whatever organ the moment demands, then forgets it ever held one. To render such a creature is to paint the refusal of permanence, a study in the impossibility of study.
So one returns to the problem of the series. Tea and Tentacles stood as the first of these shoggoth studies, painted before an audience at the Akron Zoo Renaissance Festival, where the creature wore an almost domestic charm. Woman with a Dark Heart is the second. A third waits in the wings, concept defined, awaiting the horror of being brought to life. Three studies of a thing that cannot hold its own outline for the span of a heartbeat, the proposition borders on the absurd, which is precisely why it merits the attempt.
The composition descends from Johannes Vermeer, who remains the first name in my private canon, with Bob Ross holding second place and Larry Elmore the third. An honorable mention belongs to Han van Meegeren, the gutsy Dutchman whose teachers and critics pronounced him a mere imitator, a hand without an idea of its own. He answered that verdict with the longest insult in the history of the trade. Laying his own name aside, he painted Vermeers so persuasive that the foremost connoisseurs of the age wept over them as lost masterpieces, and one such forgery he sold to Hermann Göring himself, taking the Reichsmarschall’s looted fortune and leaving the man a worthless canvas for his trouble. The war ended, and that sale earned him a charge of collaboration grave enough to cost a man his life. To save his neck he confessed the grander crime, that the prized “Vermeer” had come from his own brush, and he proved it by painting another under guard while the prosecutors looked on. Half the country toasted the rogue who had swindled a Nazi. The older Dutch, who had endured the occupation in earnest, hold a colder view, and count him a collaborator who grew fat while his neighbors went hungry. A scoundrel, perhaps, though a scoundrel with nerve, and nerve is the rarest pigment on any palette.
The particular ancestor here is the Woman Holding a Balance, painted around 1664 and now resident at the National Gallery in Washington. In that quiet interior a woman stands at a window, an empty scale poised between her fingers, while behind her hangs a painting of the Last Judgment. The reading offered by generations of scholars concerns the weighing of souls, the measure of a life set against eternity, temperance triumphant over the pearls and gold strewn across her table.
Woman Holding A Balance, Johannes Vermeer
That theme of the weighed soul reaches back far older than the Dutch Republic. The Egyptians knew it as the psychostasia, the ceremony described in the Book of the Dead, wherein the heart of the deceased was set upon the scale against the feather of Ma’at. A heart grown heavy with wrongdoing tipped the balance, and the devourer waited beneath the beam to consume whatever soul had failed. The title of this canvas takes its meaning there. A dark heart is a heavy heart, and a heavy heart does not balance.
Where Vermeer placed the Last Judgment, this version sets a Solomonic seal in red, the old grimoire geometry that claimed to bind spirits and command the unseen. The window survives, its leaded grid admitting the same disciplined light that the Delft master guarded so jealously. A smaller framed picture hangs within the larger scene, and the face caught in its gold border is the Girl with a Pearl Earring herself, lifted from the Mauritshuis, which I visited early in 2026, and pressed into service here, a figure in blue and a single luminous pearl quoted in homage to Vermeer’s own habit of setting paintings inside paintings. The balance remains. The heart, however, has gone to shadow, and the formless thing has come in through the dark.
Girl with a Pearl Earring, Johannes Vermeer
This one resisted the hand for a long while, and the canvas carries the evidence of that struggle beneath its final coat. Modern imaging has taught us a great deal about Vermeer’s own changes of mind, for technical study has shown that he reworked his pictures more than once, adjusting the composition beneath the visible surface until the meaning satisfied him. Should anyone ever pass this newer canvas beneath a similar lamp, the scan would disclose a second figure, complete, standing nearer the left edge, and over it a moment of genuine doubt. The shoggoth now occupies that ground. A failed form lies buried under the one creature in all of literature that exists to devour form. The accident proved more honest than any plan.
Woman with a Dark Heart. Acrylic on canvas, 24 by 40 inches. $500. The second of the shoggoth studies. The void was never empty. Find the path within.
