creepy

Regret

by

This is a painting about wasting time with the wrong person over 18 years and realizing at the end of it all that there’s no chance to find that one true love – she’s a ghost, gone in the corridors of time – the chance has passed, everyone’s jaded, you’ve more memories buried than prospects blooming, there will be no one to electrify every fiber of your being, and that the books and tales of chivalric love were a total lie. Of course you’ll go on, because you still have hope, and you can’t get the morbid irony in death that you can in life, but f**k.

Video of Recent Art

by

I’m truly sorry I’ve not done anything in the last couple of days. I’m working through proposals at work (to pay for my art!) and skin cancer to boot, but last night at 3ish, I made this video of recent art (going back to October (ish). I’ll get creative again soon! I kind of want to do a full length video of all the artwork I’ve done, but it would be significantly longer than 2 minutes – more along the lines of an hour. Maybe over the holiday weekend.

She Loves Me Not

by

The idea for this digital art popped up around 2am, when my mind was playing out scenes of queerly anomalous and calamitous theatrics that awoke me from my prodigious sleep. I dare not expose my eyes at such an unholy hour to the preternatural light of a monitor to render such visions into artwork. So, with patient resolve, I waited until the sun lifted the veil of night to present this to you.

The title is a reference to the inexpressible horrors enamored paramours inflict on flowers as ancient mythical superstitions of love circulate in their minds. “They love me, they love me not”, is often said, as they mindlessly pluck petals from the decapitated flower in hand; with the last petal attesting to the binary nature of ones feelings towards them. Then, assured of the result, they move on to the next flower or wander away, cheerfully humming, whilst leaving destruction in their wake.

This is all tongue in cheek, of course. I wanted to see if I could put a Lovecraftian spin on an innocuous action. Did I succeed?

Happy Reunion

by

There’s a movie reference in this one. John Carpenter made one of the quintessential horror movies in 1982, the Thing, with Kurt ‘Call me Snake’ Russell. In 2011 a prequel was made, starring Mary Elizabeth Winstead (sigh, heart). She survived the movie but we don’t really know if she was infected (aka the thing) or not. The dog that runs out of the Norwegian camp of the 2011 film towards the American camp of the 1982 err sequel is definitely infected. So I was like, “what if she was the alien and met back up with the other aliens at camp?” So, at heart it’s a girl and a dog happily reunited.

For those that are, like, “what’s up with this dude and horror?” I’m working through a thing. It’s called 2020.

Asenath Waite

by

“Edward was thirty-eight when he met Asenath Waite. She was, I judge, about twenty-three at the time; and was taking a special course in mediaeval metaphysics at Miskatonic. The daughter of a friend of mine had met her before—in the Hall School at Kingsport—and had been inclined to shun her because of her odd reputation. She was dark, smallish, and very good-looking except for overprotuberant eyes; but something in her expression alienated extremely sensitive people. It was, however, largely her origin and conversation which caused average folk to avoid her.”

From “The Thing on the Doorstep” by H.P. Lovecraft.

I was listening to the story on Spotify and decided to do a rendition of her. Ia!! And all that rot.

La Revolución

by

For generations they had hunted and exterminated them, through violence or chemical warfare. Violently, they had oppressed those who, at their core, merely wanted to see their children grow up in peace and darkness. But they had risen up, evolved technology to fight the giants. There would be no quarter, the giants would be treated as they had since the two species first met. It was time for revolution.

“Let Us Play“

by

Gracefully, like a cat after it’s prey, she glided about the darkened rooms. She could hear the beating of his heart and smell the richness of his blood; she knew exactly where he was hiding. As she walked around the ancient, magnificently carved dining table, she smiled. “There you are, Father,” she said gently, “Don’t fret, your friend were quite the feast and I honestly couldn’t drink another drop.” He was fervently muttering the Vade retro satana sweat pouring from his brow. “Come now,” she cajoled “We all know your faith in the cross is not that strong, you’re a man, after all.” She looked towards the window, the last rays of the sun were setting on the day. “We’ve all night together, so, as they say in your canon, ‘Let us play’,” adding subconsciously, “with our food.”

I like creating the story, then the visual representation of it. It’s not a form of art per se, combining writing with art, but it passes the time.

The Resurrection of Self-Doubt

by

The body lay buried for many years, sunk in a swamp of tears and anxiety. She didn’t know why she left the warmth and safety of her present to find the remains of the buried past, yet here she was. As she crouched down in the damp sadness of the woods and nervously reached out to the fetid water, she saw the glow of wicked familiarity intensify as the past reached out for her as well.