Harmony in Darkness

In a basement, in the dim light, in a home for hungry artists. 

Lies a painter, with a passion, and the will to spill her thoughts out.

See the easel in the dim light. 

See the palette by her right side. 

A lack of blue upon the palette, a hue the artist chose to banish. 

No morning skies or crystal lakes for this aesthetic’s special tastes. 

No gray as well. No pale or silver in her sights. 

No shades between the starkest black and white. 

Instead, red. Red for blood, for vile streaks. 

Every hue of scarlett: to highlight, lowlight, mix, and blend.

In this basement, in the dim light, stands our artist, named victoria. 

She paints in shadows, paints in contrasts, paints scenes of dire hopefulness.

Behind Victoria sits a vinyl player. And all the time these writer’s words surround her, a honeyed baritone voice promising terror:

There is a monster that lives on the hill. Its skin is like sandpaper, limbs like vines, mouth like storm drain, and eyes like lost stars. This monster nests high in a tree, watches the people below as they go about their lives. It’s never come down from its perch, and maybe it never will.

In the recessed corner of the basement sit some finished paintings. One shows a vast dark sea, black as a pool of oil. Another features a demon’s feast, their meal a mass of twisted flesh. The most common colors: black, white and red, the primordial colors of the earliest art. 

Black and white, pure and stark, defining lines and angles of mazes and dungeons. In between every shade of red, implying the blood component of construction and effort. Victoria paints landscapes: hallways and caverns, stairwells and spires, inhabited by ghostly figures or shadowy wraths. Her paintings sell best around Halloween.

There is a monster that lives in the sewer: poisoned by bleaches and covered in cleansing wipes. Its curses lift like gaseous toxins. All hurry by when they pass by the grates near where this monster lives. It has never come out… but one day it might.

A single patch of bright gold highlights every one of Victoria’s paintings. It might be from a candle in a skeletal hand, or the light under a heavy metal door. It might be the glowing eyes of a shade in a thick black cloak, or a nugget of aurum placed upon a ritual altar. Victoria has friends who ask her: “Why always that one patch of gold?” Sometimes she answers: “It’s a sign of hope.” Sometimes she answers: “To make you fear the light.”

There is a monster that lives in the subway-

We drift away, up through the ventilation system, to the attic. The space here is cramped, not enough room to stand, and cluttered with old boxes: Christmas ornaments forgotten by the previous tenants, luggage, even a box of fine china and silverware too fancy for modern gatherings. 

There’s also a desk where a young man sits. He writes with a quill, on parchment. He’ll later type the scrawled word, but prefers the medieval method to start. He invents tales of vice and monsters, some of which he’s even proud of. His name is Mikhail.

Ghostly images surround Mikhail. A host of dark paintings are pinned to the sloping attic ceiling like looming gargoyles. His favorite lies in his view at all times, hung by the small attic window behind the writing desk. 

In this painting, a gloved hand reaches from behind the viewpoint into the foreground, implying a first-person perspective. Our mysterious protagonist grasps a torch, featuring that distinctive flash of gold. In the background lies a perilous mountain path: steep, jagged, and narrow. Look closely and you can see a tiny shelter on the summit. Is it their home? The home of a friend? Or perhaps they’re going to burn the lair of a monster… This painting has proved an inspiration for our writer.

Mikhail has sold some monster stories, also most popular around Halloween. He also edits technical manuals to make ends meet.

One day he tried his hand at narration: “Perhaps I can read the audio versions of my books” he declared with sarcastic optimism. So he started recording his favorite passages on WAV files at first, but a few of his favorites on vinyl. 

In the spirit of sarcasm, he was displeased with his early attempts. “Do I really sound like that?” He asked his artist friends. “I sound like a brute.” Yet Victoria asked if she could listen to his recitations while painting, and in exchange offered to adorn his writing space with her work… if he was interested. He was.

So now he pens tales of monsters while surrounded by dark paintings. Victoria produced those paintings while listening to the opening paragraphs of monster tales written by Mikhail. And they found their work growing darkly delicious together. And they felt closer than they had to any other artist, even though they worked from the farthest points in the house from each other.

And while they remained hungry artists, they nourished their souls. And they usually sold enough in the fall to make up for leaner months. And they kept up the rent on the old house, shared by a rotating cast of artists.

We drift outside the open attic window. It’s late summer, and late evening. It’s not cold, but there’s a chill in the air. A lonely gazebo sits among red maple trees. Which previous owner added this particular adornment to the front yard? If anyone knows they’re not saying.

But it was inevitable, in a house possessed by artists, that one would take an attraction to the sad little structure on their property. Even with the slowly-warping wood and dimming, chipped white paint. 

It was Zelda, a newcomer to the house, who took an interest. For the moment, she sits cross-legged on the uneven wood of the gazebo as if meditating. But her mind isn’t blank, it’s swimming with musical notes.

Now Zelda rises, and strides to her music stand. She scribbles notes on a sheet of five horizontal lines: a simple and undetailed melody for now, but soon enough she’ll fill it out with variations. 

Zelda spent the morning staring at Victoria’s paintings, then spent the afternoon reading Mikhail’s stories. She’s had a dark tune running through her head ever since. Zelda may be new to the artist house, but she’s prepared to make her mark on their circle of inspiration.

She’s scrawled enough notes for now. She takes up her violin to play. She starts with a single, keening stroke, not loud, but enough to waft up toward the house, such that those listening closely realize they’re in for a serenade.

Alexandra has already opened one of the basement windows. And Mikhail has done the same from his perch at the top of the house. They both put down their work as Zelda starts to play. 

Soon enough the keening stroke turns into a striking melody, a singing sound of tones and overtones. The key is minor: thrilling and dark to match the work of her friends, but also slow and sad in a way that surprises even Zelda.

She has no lyrics yet, those always come last. She’s written some poems that might fit the melody. You’ve read one of them already, the rhyme isn’t tight but her friends found potential in the imagery, and Alexandra was thrilled that the poem described her basement studio. 

For over an hour, Alexandra and Mikhail sit and listen as Zelda repeats the melody, discovers and tests variations. Alexandra put down her palette and brush. Mikhail set down his pen. They shut their eyes and listened to the dark rhythm wafting over them. 

On that evening, Zelda only stopped playing when the sun’s light disappeared completely. A couple of their neighbors considered calling the cops with a noise complaint, mostly because they’d never liked having a group of hippies living next door. But neither of those neighbors called the police, because they secretly found themselves enjoying the tune.