—David Hine, "Strange Embrace”
MANDINGOHOOD
__________________
A malevolent Mandingo psychic force—entered my life. I not only became obsessed with collecting ancient African carvings…
But these African masks had a life of their own—they searched deep into my memories, gradually taking over my mind and my dreams. I became a recluse--an alienated and hopelessly damaged individual.
My life was driven back into time where there is no time. I was no longer committed to stream-of-consciousness suicide time—back then in the troubled twentieth century. I began living in a Picasso-esque “Les Demoiselles d'Avignon” sort of time—with its strange embrace of darkness and its cartoonish flattening-out of everything.
I didn’t see people’s faces anymore—like I used to see them. Portraits were different now, photos just weren’t the same. Instead there was this strange pasting of various tribal African masks—onto the faces of everybody I knew. And beneath the twisted African masks—there were the faces of all these various young sailor-prostitutes I used to know.
The same with my own face in the mirror—not exactly something to laugh at. Life became a strange African mask-crafted graphic novel for me—with all the layers and nuances of an Edgar Allan Poe or H. P. Lovecraft horror story.
Novels that influenced me most when I was younger—came back to haunt me even more than before. I was captured once again by that gothic style of Poe and Lovecraft—where the spectral landscapes and ancient architectures reflected the deranged interior mind.
I was invaded by this weird Color Out of Space—there was this razor-sharp Pendulum down there waiting for me in the Pit… But even better or even worse than that—there was this Oblong Box in my mansion bedroom, waiting to be opened up. With a tall lanky young Zimbabwe Zombie inside—ready to embrace me in the night’s strange darkness.
__________________
A malevolent Mandingo psychic force—entered my life. I not only became obsessed with collecting ancient African carvings…
But these African masks had a life of their own—they searched deep into my memories, gradually taking over my mind and my dreams. I became a recluse--an alienated and hopelessly damaged individual.
My life was driven back into time where there is no time. I was no longer committed to stream-of-consciousness suicide time—back then in the troubled twentieth century. I began living in a Picasso-esque “Les Demoiselles d'Avignon” sort of time—with its strange embrace of darkness and its cartoonish flattening-out of everything.
I didn’t see people’s faces anymore—like I used to see them. Portraits were different now, photos just weren’t the same. Instead there was this strange pasting of various tribal African masks—onto the faces of everybody I knew. And beneath the twisted African masks—there were the faces of all these various young sailor-prostitutes I used to know.
The same with my own face in the mirror—not exactly something to laugh at. Life became a strange African mask-crafted graphic novel for me—with all the layers and nuances of an Edgar Allan Poe or H. P. Lovecraft horror story.
Novels that influenced me most when I was younger—came back to haunt me even more than before. I was captured once again by that gothic style of Poe and Lovecraft—where the spectral landscapes and ancient architectures reflected the deranged interior mind.
I was invaded by this weird Color Out of Space—there was this razor-sharp Pendulum down there waiting for me in the Pit… But even better or even worse than that—there was this Oblong Box in my mansion bedroom, waiting to be opened up. With a tall lanky young Zimbabwe Zombie inside—ready to embrace me in the night’s strange darkness.
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