The Moonlit Forest: Oil On Canvas. 20″ x 24″
This painting, titled The Moonlit Forest, was created to illustrate The Demons, a short play by Alexander Pushkin and translated by Irina Henderson.
For my painting, The Moonlit Forest, I opted for a very simple palette, primarily Prussian Blue, and used loose, impressionist brush strokes, to evoke a ghostly, moonlit forest scene.
The Project:
I was invited to join a number of other artists to contribute to Infinitheatre’s Macabre & Supernatural Halloween Spectacular, taking place Sunday, October 28, 2012 @ 8:00pm. Location: 5300 St-Dominique (Bain St-Michele (suggested donation: $5.00).
So come join the artists, musicians and actors for a night of spooky alarming art, mysterious music and spooky stories!
NARRATOR: Clouds are whirling, clouds are swirling; though invisible, the moon lights the flying snow while blurring turbid night and sky in one. On and on through broad expanses; Sleigh-bell tinkling—din—din—din . . . Casting fearful, fearful glances at the dark and eerie plain.
RIDER: Driver, hey there!
DRIVER: Can’t go faster. Drifts have blown across the road; heavy for the horses, master, and my lids together glued. For the life of me, beside us, tracks are nowhere to be found. It must be a demon guides us, as he circles round and round. Over there, see him cavorting, blowing, spitting in my face. Look—and now the horse is snorting.
NARRATOR: On the edge of the abyss; like some landmark without substance he stood out against the dark. Then he flashed across the darkness, disappearing like a spark. Clouds are whirling, clouds are swirling; though invisible, the moon lights the flying snow while blurring turbid night and sky in one. No more strength to circle barely, silent falls the little bell.
RIDER: What pulls up the horses?
DRIVER: Surely—stump or wolf? But who can tell?
NARRATOR: Raging blizzards, weeping, blowing; horses snorting in their fear.
DRIVER: See his eyes distinctly glowing, as he capers over there.
NARRATOR: Now the horses speed in frenzy, sleigh-bell tinkling—din—din—din . . .
NARRATOR: Demons whirling, flying, massing, like November leaves in flight.
DRIVER: Crowds of them!
RIDER: Where do they hurry? Why so pitiful their song? Goblin do they haste to bury? Witch to wed they bring along ?
NARRATOR: Clouds are whirling, clouds are swirling; though invisible, the moon lights the flying snow, while blur—
DRIVER: —ring turbid sky and night in one. Swarm on swarm, the demons fly—
RIDER: —ing sweep the sky in end—
DRIVER: —less quest, till their piteous screams and crying rend . . .
NARRATOR: . . . the heart within my breast . . .