The protagonist of this piece, if such a thing can be called a protagonist, is a shoggoth at his leisure. He has dressed for the occasion. A black silk topper sits upon the upper mass of him, a monocle is fixed to more than one of the more discerning eyes, and a pocket watch hangs by its chain from a tentacle that has just consulted the hour. It is teatime. The cup waits upon the cushion of the settee. Another tentacle clutches a slim volume, which any reader of Lovecraft should relate to at a glance: At the Mountains of Madness. The shoggoth, evidently, is reading about himself.
The thought animating the painting is what I would describe as post-industrial horror. The horror is not in the creature itself, which is rendered almost companionable. The horror lies in the smoothness with which the cosmic and the domestic have come to terms. The Outside has been invited in, has accepted a cup of tea, and has begun catching up on its correspondence. The wallpaper does not flinch. Nothing in the room registers an objection. That, more than any tentacle, is the unsettling part.
Painted during the Renaissance Festival weekend at the Akron Zoo, with all the cheerful clamor of the event going on around me. There is something fitting in that, I think. A shoggoth produced amid the noise of festival is a shoggoth properly placed.
Acrylic on Canvas, 18×24. Available.
