Lightspeed Issue 46

by Charlie Jane Anders

  The other elephant in the room is Maxfield Parrish. The elemental paintings such as Helium, skating on a wire above the beautiful forms of a fantastical metropolis, clearly have the dramatic lighting, saturated hues, and neo-classical feel of Parrish’s work. Talk to us about the influence of Parrish on your work.

  Maxfield Parrish had more influence on me as an experimenter in magical paint quality in my early days than he does explicitly on my compositions. Helium was one of the rare times when I deliberately flatten or cartoon elements of the composition, doing so with the radial streaks of sunlight—and I owe more to J.C. Leyendecker for that. I think you may be seeing the amount of Parrish which generally soaked into my DNA during all of my museum-haunting and poring over his reproductions in books. It’s hard not to be seduced by his sheer chromatic power, masterful gradients, hard contrasts, and perfect rounding of forms. I used to create tints out of huge dilutions with oil or varnish and put them on in transparent layers as he did, which is tremendous fun—even though I’ve long since come back to just plain linseed oil and mineral spirits. So if Parrish is an elephant in the room, then he is just as frequently out of the room, displaced by other acts in my circus—I challenge you to see any Parrish at all in Radon, for instance.

  You have worked on some of the most famous properties in science fiction, including Dune. Further, you were tasked with interpreting an existing visual interpretation, namely, David Lynch’s film version. Can you tell us about the experience of working on the card series based on Dune? I, like you, adored the David Lynch version. He made the narrative changes he needed to in order to make the film coherent as a stand-alone interpretation of a massive book introducing us to a sprawling world. And the visual interpretations that he came up with were astounding. The sandworms with their tripartite mouths have become iconic. The bald Bene Gessirit with their metal teeth. The outrageously Baroque architecture and costumes. The cackling Baron Harkonnen with his shock of bristle brush red hair. The subway trolley spice cradles for the Navigator. The little gold earring on the Padishah Emperor. The Atreides family royal pug. All Lynch’s innovations and contributions. How did you work under the weight of interpreting an interpretation that already achieved such wildly original imagery? And then, when the film license was taken away and you were directed to avoid Lynch’s interpretations as much as possible, how did you drag yourself out from under its weight when you had to?

  Through my natural capacity for flippantly second-guessing the mighty! I first read Dune in 1974, and the visions I came away with were ones a fourteen-year-old in that year might do. Safe to say that there were more things on Arrakis than were dreamt of in my philosophy, and David Lynch saw a few of them. The movie, when I saw it, quickly displaced many of my inferior visions, some of which you’ve named. Others were eerie in their correspondence: The casting of Paul and Jessica seem almost clairvoyant. On the other hand, Lynch made choices I didn’t agree with: His Baron was a very cardboard psychopath with pustules to boot, while in Herbert he was a more nuanced sybarite with a ruthless political sense. Lynch’s Sardaukar just looked like welders—no aura at all of the “terror troops” they were supposed to be. And Sting was not at any time Feyd Rautha. So with my awe perforated by a smattering of nerd grievances, I was well-placed not to feel too much of a burden. And it helped that the guys from Last Unicorn [Games], Christian Moore and Owen Seyler, were nonchalant about it. They encouraged me to draw from Lynch at will, but not slavishly, which is a way to work that is second nature to me. Later when they steered me away from the Lynchian stuff, it was not so much dragging myself out from under a weight as throwing off some mooring lines. It was no big deal. You also have to realize that I got paid very little for the Dune stuff, and it was literally the job I landed just before walking into a temp agency to investigate the prospective whoring out of my hours. So in terms of possibly shortchanging some creative legacy or other, I was definitely staring at a much more depressing alternative. Plus I had already done Ellison and Asimov, so I may have been a bit devil-may-care.

  With the Septimus Heap series, you are given the opportunity to be the first to create visual interpretations of a deep fantasy world with a wide readership. How much freedom do you have in interpreting these works and how much feedback or control does the author or publisher have? What has the reaction of Septimus fans been to your interpretations?

  The reaction of the Septimus fans has been uniformly wonderful. I’m flattered by the Septimus fan art on deviantART that is drawn from my work, and given the young ages of these artists, reminded me of the cyclical nature of life and of inspiration. As for creative freedom, every sketch and final drawing gets shown to Angie Sage, who is contractually entitled to utter control and approval. And so she has the ability to really make my life hell if she wanted. I also think Katherine Tegen, her publisher, has a lot to say in that brain trust. But I’d say that 99% of the time, she and Katherine are completely and supportively on board with what I’m doing. I do follow the manuscript carefully, and am an utter orthogonal geek about getting things right vis-à-vis directions, terrain, architectural layout, et cetera. Angie has been much sweeter than she needed to be on the occasions when I’ve stressed the need to have this to the Northeast and that due South, based on “facts” laid down in the first book. Thankfully it’s been a good alchemy—she is convinced that I “get” Septimus’ world, and I’m convinced that she’s writing a world that is crazily easy for me to envision.

  So many artists working in science fiction/fantasy illustration today are turning to or at least partially incorporating digital methods into their work. From what I can tell, your work remains strictly hand-painted using traditional techniques and materials. Is this because you simply have not explored digital techniques, or is it a deliberate choice to keep your work defiantly handmade and analog because you feel that something is lost by digitizing parts of the process?

  I’ve explored digital techniques since my first time owning a computer, around the year 2000. I’ve gotten some interesting and fun results along the way, and I also use it to quickly build color roughs for publishers. I have in fact published digital art, in the book Septimus Heap: the Magykal Papers. You can see some of it on my website: it’s the stuff that looks for all the world like watercolors—it’s actually Photoshop. I think there is more of that kind of digital in my future, where I use it as a way to color pencil or ink drawings. But whenever I am confronted with the job of facilely rendering a strongly dimensional form in paint, it is so much easier for me to work in oil paints than to fight with software. So, no, it’s not got anything to do with purity or with defiance, much less with digiphobia. I’m a science fiction devotee and a technology enthusiast who’d love nothing better than to see the invention of a perfectly compliant medium. But at this stage, it’s still an issue of sheer practicality, finished quality, and not messing with a good thing.

  Do you remember your dreams? Do you ever draw from your dreams for imagery in your works?

  I do remember some of my dreams, and I’m pretty sure they’re of interest to no one. And I almost never make art from dream imagery. I say “almost” because it’s possible I’ve forgotten one or two—but really, I doubt it. It’s probably because I don’t consider them terribly important. I do envy artists able to believe in and draw from this resource. Zdzisław Beksiński is one example; he has said that he wanted to give the impression of having photographed dreams, and at this he succeeds past all reason: His work is mind-twistingly arresting. My work however, is drawn almost always from daydreams, which I much prefer.

  What is your dream project?

  To illustrate an audiobook. I think the explosion of Audible.com is symptomatic of our thirst for a basic, primal storytelling, voice-to-ear, the same kind of storytelling they could have done 100,000 years ago. And we could see an accompanying slideshow of art on a listening device—I’m sure we have the technology. Speaking as a visually-occupied worker who could more easily spare a few seconds t
o look at a piece of art in the middle of an audiobook, than say, watch a movie, I want this both as creator and consumer.

  Henry Lien is an art dealer in Los Angeles (www.glassgaragegallery.com). He represents artists from North America, South America, Europe, and Asia. His artists have appeared in ARTnews, Art in America, Juxtapoz, the Huffington Post, and Time Magazine, and been collected by and exhibited in institutions and museums around the world. Henry has also served as the President of the West Hollywood Fine Art Dealers’ Association and a Board Member of the West Hollywood Avenues of Art and Design. Henry also has extensive experience as an attorney and teaches at UCLA Extension. In addition, Henry is a speculative fiction writer. He is a Clarion West 2012 graduate and has published work in Asimov’s and Interfictions. Visit his author website at www.henrylien.com.

  AUTHOR SPOTLIGHTS

  Author Spotlight: Charlie Jane Anders

  Robyn Lupo

  I found Rock Manning’s voice to be particularly vivid and bright. How did you come up with Rock’s voice?

  This story is an excerpt from a novel that I’ve been working on for a long time. And Rock’s narrative voice sort of evolved over the course of working on the book. I wanted a really energetic, reckless, crazypants persona, so that you could imagine this character being willing to pilot a flaming exercise bike off a tool shed without a second thought. I read different versions of this opening section at different spoken word events over the years, and hearing how audiences reacted was really helpful in figuring out how to make it “sound” right. I also based Rock’s way of talking a little bit on Lynnee Breedlove, spoken word artist, comedian, author, and former lead singer of punk-rock band Tribe8—in fact, years ago we experimented with doing a podcast featuring Lynnee reading the opening section, reprinted here.

  Two other excerpts from the novel, which together form a complete story, are going to run in the second and third volumes of the Apocalypse Triptych, if all goes according to plan.

  What was the element that started this as a story?

  I’ve always been fascinated with different types of humor, and this novel (and especially this chunk of it) came out of thinking about physical comedy and slapstick. I’d done a lot of humor writing that was more verbal, and based on people being quippy or silly, but I hadn’t done a lot of writing that was more based on describing mayhem in a funny way. I wanted to try writing more broad physical comedy.

  I was also thinking about the difference between slapstick violence and “real” violence: Someone can get knocked down, and it’s either horrifying or hilarious, depending on your point of view. And as the project developed, I think I got more interested in the mass psychology of laughing at something together versus fascism, and how those two things are similar or different. But hopefully none of that stuff comes through in a “hit you over the head” way, and I hope the story is mostly just a fun, silly read that gets scary as it goes along.

  I didn’t anticipate the change in tone, and then found myself swept up in the action. What prompted this narrative choice?

  I’m sort of hoping that the story has an element of scary weirdness lurking under the surface from the beginning—there are lots of hints that society is falling apart, even before we meet the red bandanas. I’m always a fan of things where the nastiness sort of sneaks up on you, although that’s hard to pull off. Mostly, I hope if Rock feels like a real (if cartoony) character, then the reader can accept the world changing around him.

  Sally’s force of character seemed to really clash with Rock’s laissez-faire attitude, but it really only became fractious when they were asked to do the red bandana gig. Can you comment on the nature of their friendship? Do you think their relationship could’ve recovered, if circumstances permitted?

  The Rock/Sally relationship is definitely at the center of this story—that was even clearer when I started carving out a roughly 20,000-word novelette to be published in the three Apocalypse Triptych volumes. I think Sally and Rock really need each other, and neither of them can really create anything without the other.

  Robyn Lupo has been known to frequent southwestern Ontario with her graduate student husband and elderly dog. She writes, reads, and plays video games. She is personal assistant to three cats.

  Author Spotlight: Sofia Samatar

  Bradley Englert

  In “How to Get Back to the Forest,” Cee is one of those people who appear in our life for a brief, wondrous flash and then disappear. Her character is incredibly intriguing. Was she based off of anyone in your own life or just the idea of these people who come into our lives and change our perspectives on the world?

  Cee was inspired by a number of people—some are people I’ve known, and others are writers I’ve read but never met. She’s that person who’s a little bolder than you are, the one who cares a little less what people think. A truth-seeker and a truth-teller. I was trying to get at the way these people affect others, even those who initially reject them. If you’re lucky, their passion stays with you, even haunts you, the way Cee’s passion haunts Tisha in the story.

  The Parent Figures were an interesting notion, because often kids are babysat or raised by television, video games, novels, or any other physical object. You completely took the parents out of the equation and replaced them with real, physical, and meaningless objects. What was your idea behind this concept?

  Well, basically, I was looking at the creation of lack, the creation of need. In a consumer society like ours, a sense of lack is extremely important, because need feeds consumption. The more people believe they need, the easier it is to control them. So in the story, I tried to expose that by imagining a society in which children’s parents are taken away and replaced with these physical objects, and the children are conditioned to constantly meditate on the objects, to think of themselves as irreparably damaged because they’ve lost their parents. This is a system of control: It creates a sad, uncertain, and malleable population. It’s really less a critique of kids getting raised by TV or something, than it is a critique of the way we tell kids that being raised by TV has ruined them. The story asks: Do you really need everything you think you need? Who convinced you that you need it—and why?

  The Life Skills quiz was funny to me because it gives off the idea that you can teach people or children how to behave in real life based off of some formulated exam. Do you think that you can actually teach skills about life through standardized tests? Or were the “Life Skills” quizzes more of a parody of real life?

  I don’t think you can teach anything at all through standardized tests, because they’re not designed for teaching, they’re designed for measuring. So the Life Skills—definitely a parody. Also of course it goes back to control, because the kids in the story are being raised in a state-run camp. Every aspect of their lives is supposed to be visible, measurable, and adjustable. They’re taught how to live; they’re not supposed to believe they already know, or could find out.

  Each class that graduates from the camp seems to be forced into a particular job or role in society. Do you feel that this is how we train people in real life? That if I go to college for this specific thing, then that is what I will do forever? There seems to be more leeway in today’s society, but could you see the forcing of roles onto people ever happening?

  I think it’s already happening. People are pressed toward certain roles based on their resources, where they live, what schools they attend. In the U.S. we tend to focus on the people who’ve “made it,” on those rags-to-riches stories, because belief in the American Dream is as important to our society as lack. But it doesn’t describe the majority. My story exaggerates, as speculative fiction often does, it takes things to their logical conclusion, but I certainly didn’t make up class divisions! I just sort of played with “class,” as in socioeconomic class, and “class,” as in graduating class.

  Also, I wrote this story when I was graduating myself—I was finishing graduate school and getting ready to start my current job, teaching l
iterature and writing at California State University Channel Islands. “How to Get Back to the Forest” grew out of my anxiety about that. What kind of teacher am I going to be? Am I going to be like the counselor in the story—always peppy, telling students everything’s fine, as I prepare them for the labor market? You know, as an English professor, you have these two conflicting goals: On the one hand, you’re supposed to introduce students to ideas, often radical ideas, and encourage them to think creatively; and on the other hand, you’re supposed to teach them to follow the rules—the rules of writing, and other social rules that will enable them to fit in and get a job. It’s an impossible project, which makes it very exciting, but also scary. This story engages the fear.

  Toward the end of the story there seems to be the idea that those who question society or their circumstances are “sick.” There are multiple references to Cee being unhealthy and needing to go to the hospital to be “fixed.” She also has to be physically ill to remove the bug that may or may not be in her system. It seems like you were playing with the idea that we drug our children and don’t really take care of them, so they have this emotional disconnect with reality. They need objects to be happy, in this case, the “Parent Figures.” Tisha even feels ill at the end of the story. What were your methods and goals in portraying this “societal sickness” throughout the story?