"Why Is All Your Art So Scary?"

If I had a dollar for every time someone asked why my art is so scary in some way, shape, or form over the years, I'd have enough money to add several new, top-tier human skulls to my collection.

Fake ones, probably. Maybe.

People started asking that question long before I was ever putting anything I made out there for other people's consumption. And they've asked it very consistently, whether I was doing traditional art, digital mixed media, or AI-assisted renders like I've been into lately.

Growing up, I was the kid who gravitated toward all the things adults hope a little girl will eventually grow out of:

• The ancient Egyptians fascinated me, particularly their obsession with the afterlife and detailed mummification protocol.
• I love ghost stories, gruesome fairytales, and nursery rhymes with grim origins. The grimmer, the better.
• Anything to do with gods, spirits, devils, angels, or what happens to us when we die is (and always has been) my jam.
• I loved old cemeteries, weird symbols, folklore, abandoned places, and anything that hinted there might be more going on beneath the surface than most people noticed.

Meanwhile, the adults in my life loved that I was smart, creative, and intellectual, but it was also very much a "no, not like that" situation. So they tried to steer me toward prettier things. Nicer, more feminine things. The sort of interests normal, well-adjusted little girls were generally expected to have.

And to be fair, I did like a lot of things that were "nice," like fairies and gardens and Marilyn Monroe.

But I'd still always wander right back to the mummies and ghosts and esoterica, especially as I got older. Those things also naturally started finding their way into the stuff I made as a creative.

And people still don't really get it. They still wonder why I can't "just" be sweet and stop making people uncomfortable. I think I know, though.

1. I'm not interested in other people's definition of beauty

I'm only interested in my own. And for me, beauty has always arrived wearing unusual disguises.

Some people admire perfectly manicured rose gardens that are just so at all times. I get excited about weathered gravestones, old churches, bird skulls, dead trees, and the way ivy slowly reclaims abandoned buildings.

My favorite flowers include the likes of morning glories and California poppies because they're exuberant little survivors that seem determined to bloom and grow wherever the hell they want, whether anyone else likes that or not.

Apparently, my aesthetic has always been "haunted botanical garden." I'm more than comfortable with that at this point.

2. I prefer a mystery to a clean answer

My favorite books leave me with tons and tons to think about after I'm done reading. My favorite paintings make me stop and ask, "What just happened here?" And if a movie doesn't spark days and days of existential discussion between my husband and I? Well... eh.

You can see a lot of that thinking in things I make and share, especially visually. I enjoy symbols more than clear explanations. And I'd way rather invite someone into a mystery than spell things out for them like they're 10. Some people call that creepy or even difficult. I usually call it Tuesday.

3. I'm still that kid who's full of questions

Most children eventually ask where people go after they die. I just never stopped doing that.

And as I got older, I started digging into different ways to keep asking those questions. I've explored all sorts of religions and spiritual systems, organized and otherwise over the years — theosophy, Catholicism, demonology, mysticism. That sort of thing is still a big part of my life.

Death in particular has never felt like a forbidden subject to me. In fact, it's actually a huge part of being alive. Bones don't make me think of loss or sadness nearly as much as they make me think of biology, history, memory, and the incredible fact that every living creature leaves a story behind. When those interests appear in my work, they're coming from a place of curiosity rather than gloom.

Usually, anyway. I have my gloomy days, too.

4. Horror taught me more than just how to jump at loud noises

I've loved horror for as long as I can remember, although probably not for the reasons people expect. I don't actually find horror stories truly scary, nor do I really "get" the appeal of deliberately wanting to make yourself feel scared. It's more about the way great horror asks wonderful questions:

• Who are we when everything familiar falls away?
• What do we fear losing?
• What parts of ourselves survive really difficult seasons or serious trauma?

Good horror is philosophy wearing dramatic makeup, and that belief shows up in my art all the time. I don't necessarily set out to frighten people (although it has its perks). I'm interested in exploring the places where wonder, discomfort, and uncertainty happen to shake hands.

5. I stopped caring whether other people approve of me a long time ago

There was a time when I low-key believed people when they'd tell me I ought to make brighter, sweeter, more conventionally cheerful work. After all, that's what people seemed to expect, and wasn't I supposed to care about meeting expectations and being liked?

I still can't really explain to you why I don't care about those things, but I don't. I have always felt compelled to share some of the things I make, but I'm more interested in getting ideas out of my head and expressing myself than I am in making friends.

Because there are already people out there focusing on lovely watercolor cottages, kittens, and breathtaking flower studies. And as much as I think my parents would have preferred it, the world didn't need me to become a slightly less convincing version of them. It needed me to become a more convincing version of myself.

6. "Scary" is a catch-all filling in for a lot of things

I've thought a lot over the years about what people probably really mean when they describe something as creepy.

Very often, they don't actually mean frightening. They mean unexpected, difficult to categorize, and outside their usual experience.

Imagery that combines a raven with religious symbolism or depicts a bride covered in blood asks the viewer to spend a little time somewhere unfamiliar and possibly even uncomfortable. In a world where people increasingly like things to come in neatly labeled little boxes, I get why that's not ideal to some.

But truly cool art and ideas have never been especially interested in neat little boxes. Neither have I.

So, what if your version of beauty doesn't match everyone else's?

Whether you paint, write, garden, build furniture, compose music, collect fossils, restore old radios, or knit sweaters for rescue chickens, chances are you've discovered that somebody has "opinions" about what you "should" enjoy.

Sometimes those opinions come from people who allegedly love you or to whom you may otherwise be close. Other times, they come from complete strangers on the internet who apparently woke up thinking somebody died and made them International Ambassador of Correct Taste.

Neither group gets to decide what fills you with genuine curiosity.

Interests that keep returning year after year are worth paying attention to, because they almost certainly have something to teach you about yourself. They shape your voice, your perspective, and the work only you can make.

Regardless of how influencer culture can make it feel at times, creative work doesn't need to be a popularity contest. It's better approached as a conversation. The people who are meant to connect with what you make will be capable of recognizing it for what it is.

Really, at this point, I would be disappointed if no one ever felt bothered by some of the imagery and ideas I put out there. Too much approval is usually my cue to add more skulls next time.