"Into Bondage" - Second in the three-part series 'Darkroom' - Mixed media on plywood. My 156th painting.

 

Pale yellow light from three large candles shimmers across the grimy, crumbling basement wall. An outmoded tape player hisses several feet away - impregnating the faintly-lit room with beastly chants over elongated sounds of back-masking.

 
Crawford, room-centered, is perched naked and backwards on an old wooden chair. At near three second intervals - the lashing of human flesh, accompanied by groans of heightening anguish. The tool - a Russian-style knout of small spiked chains, bearing an ash wood handle.

 
He had become involved with and driven by unclean forces, the sort which can only bring ruin to a man. Self-flagellation was just one of many punitive endeavors he was required to undertake to remain in good graces.

In follow of the flogging, he takes several shots of absinthe to dull the pain. With blood trickling down his back, he lights some dried plant material in a small clay bowl, whispers a few tangled words and cries out -

“Born of the black moon and dying sun!”

 
Three appeals, then silence. He snuffs out the candles and moves purposefully to the opposite side of the makeshift torture chamber. There, a small red light ignites and the dark room is brought to life. Completing the ritual, he pricks his right middle finger and drips blood onto the photo paper before exposure.

 
Then, the magic. Into a series of trays, finishing in the wash. Deliberately he removes each photo and hangs them to dry, marveling over his meticulous labor.

 
“Safe keeping my pretties.”

 
There have always been those who feared having their souls captured by way of photograph. Now, through acts of dark ritual, Crawford Sinclair has found a crooked and ungodly path to making that a reality.

Always in groups of three. Each shot careful to catch the eyes without the subject knowing. It was the eyes that were the windows inward, reflecting pools of one’s very essence.

Crawford, in all his profane disgrace, now stood lord and master over the eternal existence of these unsuspecting souls. Immortalized in photo form, captive to an infernal imp in a squalid, undisclosed Tennessee basement.


He was leisurely sinking in vile and wicked waters.

"And Ye Shall Find" - First in the three-part series 'Darkroom' - Mixed media on plywood. My 155th painting.

The perturbing clatter drones in irregular but metered fashion, a Morse code for the deranged. A small boy stands in the far corner of a dank, incongruous room - distanced from a ghoulish man guarding an isolated door.

 
The child takes several calculated steps in his direction.

 
Bald, gaunt-faced and pasty with rotting teeth and a lurid smile, he leans forward, bending ever-so slightly over as slimy black goo oozes from his mouth and down his chin.

The boy studies this wretched, gangly creature - keeping a cautious length between them. The obscene figure regains an upright posture - reaching out with his spindly fingers, taking hold of the door’s lever.

 
Creaking chirps of rusted metal cry forth - the boy’s eyes peel wide. Unseen torment punctures the atmosphere as the strains of a howling wraith claw its way into being. The man turns to the child, squints, chortles quietly - and with sudden force, throws the door wide as a thunderous cacophony of beating wings swallow the air.

 
The boy gasps, preserved in the terror choking the room.

 
Crawford jars awake with a hard, full-body spasm. A recurring dream sequence that pays very untimely visits. It is Thursday and the 7am train running the outskirts of Murfreesboro sounds off with a blast of its horn as it battles down the hundred year-old tracks.

 
A quick cold shower then breakfast - which was simple - coffee and a smoke. And for dessert, a couple shots of Jager.

 
Out the door and through his mostly condemned neighborhood with its aromatic squalor and falling-down shanties. The same stain of neglect, block after block, one street spilling hopelessly onto the next.

 
Finally, downtown. A park bench, another smoke and camera check. Morning foot-traffic just before nine was exceedingly ripe. Corvids often gather near him in unseemly presentation. An inky display of strange bedfellows. Careful of the company one keeps.

Crawford’s lustful gaze always finds exactly what he deems worthy. Several office buildings opposite the park - his hunting grounds. Professional women in their thirties occupy his top tier. They make it to film every time. Blondes and redheads take priority. Brunettes aren’t excluded but rarely end up in the trays.

 
He is careful with his aim, to veil his framing as though focused on the architecture, not the quarry. His tinted eye-wear also aids this act of misdirection.

Deep breath, then click. Dozens of shots and several rolls later - it’s time to go inspect his handiwork. The walk home is rushed and restless. The anticipation - overwhelming, euphoric.


These were the days Crawford Sinclair lived for.