Lovecraft Baby

H.P. Lovecraft is a difficult author to write about right now for a variety of reasons.  For one, his work was relatively obscure for quite some years outside of pulp circles and he has only recently garnered major critical attention.  But this attention has brought other, less savory elements to light, leading to number two: his work is incredibly racist and xenophobic.  This isn't the focal point of the majority of it, but it is an undercurrent through most of his works (https://lithub.com/we-cant-ignore-h-p-lovecrafts-white-supremacy/ is a great take on this particular topic).  Third, and not insignificantly, he was not a great writer.  He was imaginative, certainly, but he had a lot of difficulties getting his visions onto the page.  His writing is so heavy and repetitive that it is nearly impenetrable at times.
I am not interested in defending Lovecraft's legacy (or arguing against it for that matter), but I have two observations about his work that I think are significant.  One is a mainstay in his writing that, I think, is redeeming in his writing in some measure.  The other is something that makes me like his writing even less.  All of this came about during my latest reading of his work, a collection titled The Call of the Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories.
A lot of Lovecraft's stories are about isolation and trauma.  He writes many stories about a lone survivor who witnessed something that they are unable to assimilate into their normal frame of reference.  These witnesses are likely to have been present as violence was visited upon a friend or partner.  These witnesses often have difficulty reconciling their experiences with what they know of the world.  Knowledge of a certain kind sets them apart from others, and they often are distraught that others will now understand what they have experienced.  I actually find this element of Lovecraft's work to be sympathetic.  He understands the terror of isolation.  The trauma that his characters experience marks them in a way that we now understand trauma to mark certain people.
The other side of this is that knowledge is generally a bad thing for Lovecraft.  His characters go insane from their knowledge.  They kill themselves because they learn of things that others do not know and they make great attempts to hide knowledge themselves.  The whole mythos of Cthulhu rests upon the idea that knowledge of the the ancient alien race is enough to drive one insane.
One of the reasons that I like science fiction is that most of it wants to push the boundaries of what we know.  It can help us to look into ourselves to ask what is possible.  It can also look at the world around us and ask why it is this way.  Lovecraft isn't a sci-fi writer per se, but his weird fiction shares some elements with sci-fi that I came to it with some expectation of a similar ethos.  It wasn't there.  This collection of short fiction sought to teach me that the world around me was dangerous even to want to know about.  It tried to teach me that going to new places and exploring new ideas is dangerous.
I gave Lovecraft a few chances and I'm done.  He doesn't fill the bill for me because he wants to keep me fearful and small.  He can keep to his own small world with his likewise small-minded folks.  I want bigger ideas.
And better writing.

Here is a song by a band I really like about Lovecraft.  I do like this song (which is way creepier than anything Lovecraft wrote):
Lovecraft Baby

Primal Screamer

It has been couple of weeks since I finished this book, but I will try to give it a fair rendering here.
My key interest in reading this novel is in the author, Nick Blinko, who was the driving artistic force and vocalist in the British punk band Rudimentary Peni.  I have been listening to punk for a long time and have met a lot of people who are likewise interested, but I have run into very few people who know or like this band.  Rudimentary Peni was a "Crass band" in the sense that they were lumped into a broader category of anarcho-punk that emerged in England the late '70s and early '80s.  Blinko's band is cacophonous and, at times, deeply disturbing.  The songs will often over-dub Blinko's voice many times on the same track, singing, chanting, whispering, speaking.  The instruments often drone in a way to underscore disharmony.  Blinko's lyrics can be political, but they are largely gothic.
Rudimentary Peni disappeared in the '80s, but I have always remained interested in Blinko's work.  Beyond the music, I was drawn to the artwork on the albums.  Nick Blinko himself drew all of the artwork, and it is intense.  The cover of Primal Screamer was designed by Blinko, using his own drawing.  His artwork is dense, predominantly monochromatic, and simply ink-drenched.  Everything that I have seen of his is intricately drawn and shows deliberation at every step.  He draws skulls, screaming faces, and knives into his hatchwork.  The blackened areas show deliberate and closely-knit crosshatching.  He draws endless overlapping contours to fill in space.
I have been so taken with his style that I have adopted many of his techniques into my own drawing.

 To the left are two of my partially-completed drawings.  Another one of my drawing is below.  My style tends more toward the geometric and layered.  I don't add the same gothic elements that Blinko does, but I feel an affinity toward it nonethesame.  I am very much drawn to the detail and neatness of Blinko's work.  Instead of screaming faces, I draw tiny boxes and cross-hatchings in mathematical progressions.

Getting back to the book, it is a semi-autobiographical novel written from the perspective of a psychologist treating Nathaniel Snoxell, a young man who bears a strong resemblance to Blinko.  The novel is written as case-notes, or a treatment diary of Snoxell.  The psychiatrist becomes interested in Nat's artistic awakening, eventually spurring his own awakening.  Blinko's writing is most impressive when he seeks to psychologize Nat's artistry and particularly his place in the punk scene.  Nat and Blinko are outsiders in an outsider genre.  Their music fits only because it doesn't really fit anywhere else.  Their aesthetic isn't quite right for the counter-culture they engage.
The novel is worth the read, the music is haunting and definitely worth the listen, and the artwork is beyond memorable and, for me, moving.  This is a novel that might be best enjoyed by those who are already familiar with Blinko and/or Rudimentary Peni, but I would encourage anyone interested in outsider art, in a forthright self-reflection, in genuinely macabre interests, and so on, to check this out.