PseudoPod 622: En Plein AirAuthor:
J. T. GloverNarrator:
Heather N. ThomasHost:
Alasdair Stuart“En Plein Air” first appeared in volume two of Nightscript, an anthology series edited by C.M. Muller that focuses on “subtle and darksome literary horror.” Stephen Jones subsequently picked it up for reprint in his Best New Horror anthology series, for volume 28.
Show Notes“A colleague in the English department at VCU, where I work as a librarian, gave it to the students in her Gothic seminar to read. I sent them the following notes: Writing and reading heavily, as well as being a librarian by profession, I found several years ago that I needed a pastime that was not about words. I have a longtime interest in the arts, and so I decided to try my hand at painting. As often happens, I rushed in headlong, taking classes and working late into the night. The more I painted, though, the less I was writing, and eventually I had to step back from the easel for a while. I still enjoy painting occasionally, but it’s produced an unexpected side effect. Some authors frequently use writers as protagonists, and I now have a similar tendency with artists, though I try to cycle through different media, with a sculptor in one story, a photographer in another. “En Plein Air” came along just after I’d been working on a landscape, as well as finally reading all of M.R. James’ ghost stories, so I expect both of those things influenced the story. I like to think that my art-inflected work fits into a lineage that includes The Red Tree, “Pickman’s Model,” “The Mezzotint,” The Picture of Dorian Gray, etc. These stories are a pleasure to write, in any case, and I’m always pleased when they make their way into print.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._R._Jameshttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iain_Sinclair
A gust of wind boiled off the James without warning, flattening cattails and clumps of spikerush as it swirled around the inlet where I was painting, and of course it caught my canvas. The morning’s work rushed away from me like a sailboat before a storm, taking my field easel with it. Just as I was sucking in breath to howl with frustration—it shuddered to a stop in midair. Two pale hands held it fast, reaching around from the back.
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I'd like to hear my options, so I could weigh them, what do you say?
Five pounds? Six pounds? Seven pounds?