Yesterday was the birthday of Edward Gorey. If ever there was an artist and author whose work merited an absinthe toast, it would be he.
Here is an artist who received “negligible” art training and who yet created some of the most brilliant in surreal and macabre stories and illustrations ever to grace the page.
I first happened upon Gorey’s works completely at random when I stopped into Pages in Toronto and saw The Gashleycrumb Tinies sitting in a rather unassuming counter display. Any book that small that has Death on the front cover cannot be bad, so I bought it without even opening it.
Then I saw the first page.
"A is for Amy who fell down the stairs"
Something about the delicacy with which the illustration was made stirred me. The texture of the rug, the depth of the shadows, the blankness of the child’s face. There was something all so Lewis Carrol about the whole thing that I somehow fell in love with it. I memorized the names of all of the children and what happened to them with the same diligence of a grieving father cataloging the fates of his own.
Then I began to explore his works further. Hitchcock could barely manage such a subtle flavour of the mysterious with a fragile undertone of menace. I found myself being deeply inspired by the utter randomness of some of his passages; some of which had the illusion of being utterly out of context, some of which were complete and utter balderdash. Either way, there was something utterly delicious in the madness he presented to the world.
He was The Addams Family to Dr. Suess’s Leave it to Beaver and he was more grim than Grimm.
Much to my ill fortune, I found I had become fully acquainted with his work just after his death. I was more than a little annoyed at his impudence. I mean someone comes along who can truly appreciate your art and your sinister wit and you go off and die? jerk.
Nevertheless, I think you can be forgiven. Few artists have the potency and the power to be able to evoke Victorian austerity and eldricht horror with such romantic necromancy. Few authors can pen words that inspire one to run and play in the yard with skulls and umbrellas and grizzly bears.
I salute the spirit of Mr. Gorey, wherever he may be. His work has taught me much, in essence, if not in style.
The House of Wormwood 
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