#noimport

There is, I think, no arguing that contemporary genre art has a character distinct from previous decades. I also think that while there are big shifts in aesthetics somewhat aligning with each decade of the 20th century, here in the 21st things have definitely slowed down — I feel like the look of genre art has fossilized somewhat in the last 20 years. I don’t have a good explanation for why. Sometimes I wonder if I’m blinded by nostalgia, and that there really aren’t any obvious objective differences at all.

Worlds Beyond Time: Sci-Fi Art of the 1970s (2023) is a compelling argument, I think, that there ARE definite differences. The book, by Adam Rowe (and spinning out of his social media accounts dedicated to, well, ’70s science fiction art) looks at both artists and thematic categories of art from the period, mostly from paperback covers, and offers commentary and historical context in the text. The result is startling: a body of work by a variety of artists working in their own styles that nevertheless seems visually unified. With the exception of a couple outliers, this stuff all feels of the ’70s. The fact that there are some inclusions from both the ’60s and ’80s makes this even clearer.

I think the most interesting thing about this is how bizarre some of the ’70s art seems to be. A lot of these artists appear to be entirely off the leash, delivering work they WANTED to produce rather than what they were directed to produce (you can see a shift toward clearly pairing the cover art with the content of the book in the later part of the decade). There was also more money in the work, then, so speed wasn’t quite so big a part of the equation as it is now.

Vermis I (2023) is a narrative art book by @Plastiboo. It’s a gorgeous and darkly layered homage to a variety of influences, new and old — Souls games, old videogames like Shadowgate, more recent ones like Shadow of the Colossus, perhaps Fighting Fantasy gamebooks, perhaps Warhammer. There are many possibilities. And yet it also stands as very much its own thing, a world unto itself. The book’s central question “Which flesh is your flesh?” goes a long way in establishing the sorts of horrors we’ll find on our journey.

There are two things that really make Vermis come to a diseased sort of life. The first is the decision to arrange the book as if it were a strategy guide for a videogame that doesn’t exist. This allows for the introduction of little icons and hints at mechanical systems without committing to building them, which is an enticement to brains like mine to figure out how they MIGHT work. And by providing level maps and strats for boss fights and profiles of magic items, I wind up playing the game on a meta level, reflexively, through the act of reading. This sensation is strange and unique and made for one of the most memorable book-experiences I’ve had in a long time.

The other thing is the texture of the art, the way everything is buried under pixelation, cathode grain, moire ripples and other distortions. It unifies all the book’s visuals in a sort of murkiness that add an almost painful sense of mystery and danger and inscrutability to the narrative.

Barlowe's Guide to Extraterrestrials was well received and won a couple of awards (and a second edition, I think in ’87?). It took a little while for the sequel to emerge: Barlowe’s Guide to Fantasy hit shelves in 1996.

Even though I am not super widely read in either fantasy or science fiction, Barlowe’s fantasy book is the one I really vibe on. Maybe because it allows him to do stuff like Grendel from Beowulf and Gorice from The Worm Ouroboros. Wouldn’t have expected Gideon Winter, the antagonist from Peter Straub’s odd novel Floating Dragon to be included, but he was. Other surprises are the Psammead from Five Children and It and the Saw Horse from Oz.

Barlowe's Guide to Extraterrestrials (1979) is a fun little book that looks at aliens from a variety of science fiction stories through the (slightly) in-universe framing of a field guide, complete with notes on ecology and biological functions.

Artist Wayne Barlowe’s selections are an interesting cross-section of the genre (I don’t recognize a lot of them, honestly) and his interpretations (of the ones I do recognize) always walk the fine line between capturing something essential that I pictured in my mind’s eye while also being surprising or unexpected in many ways. Among the beasties I did not photograph are the Overlords from Childhood’s End, the Puppeteers from Ringworld, the Izchel from Wrinkle in Time, the Masters from the Tripod books and Ursula Le Guin’s Athshean.

In a way, the Guide feels like an extension of the larger interest in fantastic art in the ‘70s, embodied most in the Gnomes, Fairies and Giants books. It, and its Fantasy companion (see tomorrow) certainly wouldn’t come out today, but for me, they’re just amazing. They gave Barlowe a whole book to draw monsters and aliens; monster and alien enthusiasts like me got a pile of rad illustrations to look at; and a stack of sci fi writers got low-key advertising for their works. Wins down the line.

The five-volume Chronicles of Prydain, by Lloyd Alexander, began in 1964 with The Book of Three, and saw new entries — The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer — appear annually until finishing with The High King in 1968. They’re set in a fantasy version of Wales, and draw from Welsh mythology, but the story is very much the tale of an assistant pig-keeper named Taran who, as he grows from boy to man, seeks adventure, finds responsibility and learns the terrible cost of glory. It’s one of the first works of fantasy I read as a kid and honestly, I don’t think any others, except Earthsea, have measured up in terms of emotional weight (and their refusal to indulge in power fantasy or other cliché). I re-read them recently and that remains true. You ought to read them if you haven’t. They’ll change you, I bet.

Sewers of Oblivion (1982) is a sort of sequel to my favorite Tunnels & Trolls solo, City of Terrors, in that it takes place under that city. You get mugged, you get pitched into the sewers, and voila. I guess that is one way of limiting your starting equipment. It’s kind of funny that you are expected to take solo characters through gamebook after gamebook, getting more and more stuff, but the later books recognized how impossible it was to balance for all these potential magic items, so they went to greater and more improbable lengths to take all your kit away at the start. The muggers, you’ll be relieved to know, are caught while you are on your sojourn and the city guard has your stuff waiting for you back at the precinct house.

Anyway. Lots of underwater combat here. Lots of potential for catching diseases (there is a two-page appendix full of ‘em to choose from). A surprising number of potential amorous encounters for a sewer adventure, too. You get a guide, which is neat. For the most part, its a by the numbers dungeon crawl. Which is fine, its just a little disappointing after City of Terrors, which so often feels like exploring a bustling, ever-changing city.

The Events at Poroth Farm (1990) was T.E.D. Klein's debut short story (first published in 1972) that formed the basis for his excellent novel The Ceremonies (1984). Despite being included in a couple of Year’s Best Horror anthologies, the story was difficult to find prior to this Necronomicon Press version (which boasts some minor revisions and corrections by the author). It’s one of my favorite horror stories ever and I think there is a solid argument for it being one of the best horror stories written in the second half of the 20th century (and it is, at least to my recollection, free of the controversial themes that mars some of Klein’s later work).

It sees a writer preparing for a course on Gothic literature by spending the summer in a rented room on a remote farm in South Jersey owned by a couple who practice an unnamed Amish-like religion that proscribes modern technology. The isolation is right there from the start, as is a light (an entirely unrealized) sexual tension between the young couple and their lodger. It almost feels like a different kind of story entirely, but then something crawls out of the woods and into one of the couple’s cats, then into more human lodging. Whatever it is does a good job of impersonating people, but it often forgets to blink. The result is catastrophic without ever losing the sense of intimacy and isolation (something the larger novel doesn’t succeed so well at, thought it’s still a banger).