A Legion of Unclean Spirits

Still Life with Mask and Candle, by Neal Auch

My essay A Legion of Unclean Spirits was recently published in Nightmare Magazine. The piece is a bit different from my usual fare, focusing mostly on media analysis. The basic premise is this: The Babadook (2014) and Smile (2022) are both horror films where demonic possession is used as a metaphor for mental illness. In spite of the many similarities between these two films, I argue that they imply wildly different conclusions about how our society ought to treat people who suffer from mental illness. You can read the whole article for free if you’re interested.

It seemed natural to present this essay alongside a recent still life arrangement (above). The centrepiece of the composition is a ceramic mask; this has been placed alongside a number of items which will be familiar to longtime readers. As usual, the bones and extinguished candle are reminders of the inevitability of death. The symbolic meaning of the fruit and vegetables is not so different; these are presented at various points in the decomposition process, reinforcing the message that everything rots and every pleasure is fleeting.

The inclusion of a mask in the Vanitas context might be new to some readers. There is, however, a firm historical precedent for this particular choice of prop. Consider the following painting by the great Flemish artist Hendrick Andriessen (1607-1655). Andriessen offers us a very familiar set-up where reminders of death and mortality (such as the pocket watch, soap bubbles, and skull) are juxtaposed against objects which represent transient earthly pleasures (such as the cups, books, and musical instruments).

Vanitas with a skull, mask, globe and bubbles, by Hendrick Andriessen

My guess is that the mask in Andriessen’s arrangement is probably a neutral theatre mask. It’s very likely that the intended meaning of this mask is not very different to the books or the violin which Andriessen has cleverly hidden behind the floral bouquet. Given all the heavy-handed death imagery in the painting, it’s very likely that the inclusion of these objects is meant to suggest that entertainment and artistic accomplishment are little more than vanity in the face of certain death. That being said, I personally find the mask to be a rather more interesting symbolic object than the items which surround it. Masks are not just a reminder of the transient pleasures of the theatre; they also associated with performance and identity. The mask suggests a distinction between the version of ourselves which we present to the world and the “true” self which is concealed by the mask. It’s no surprise, then, that masks are often used in art as a way of exploring themes surrounding mental illness. Indeed, this kind of figurative language for talking about mental health issues seems to commonplace that painted masks are often used in the context of art therapy.

Both The Babadook and Smile employ the horror trope of demonic possession as a metaphor for mental illness. At its core, the metaphor works because it suggests a fragmented persona, a mind divided against itself. The mask metaphor works for the same reason. Indeed, it could be argued that Smile actually employs both metaphors simultaneously, because the film’s signature creepy smile is meant to suggest that the demon’s victims are putting on a happy mask in order to conceals their inner trauma.

Both the possession and mask metaphors are well-trodden artistic terrain. Arguably, both are borderline cliché. I don’t say this to disparage, mind you. I’m certainly not opposed to either metaphor. Indeed, I included my own version of mask art above and I published my own version of a “the monster is actually mental illness“ story just last year. My point is that these framing devices have endured for good reason. I cannot speak for anyone else who has struggled with their mental health, but I can personally relate to both metaphors. There have definitely been moments in my life where it felt as though my thoughts had originated from some other mind.

In the Vanitas context, it seems to me that the mask suggests something deeper than the usual lament about the transience of earthly pleasure. It is also a reminder that our identities themselves are transient. Thoughts come and go, sometimes in ways that can feel foreign or invasive. Even without the weight of mental illness, we are all endlessly in a state of unmaking and remaking our inner selves. This is life, after all. Like most of us, I imagine that my younger self would struggle to recognize the version of me who is writing this essay. And, no doubt, the future version of me will find the sentiment expressed in this text equally foreign. I have been making art in public for long enough to be well-acquainted with sensations of discomfort surrounding my own self expression. I think this is why mask imagery—just like the possession metaphor in Smile and The Babadook—feels relatable to so many people. I think this is why the metaphor seems to resonate even for people who have never struggled with mental illness. There is an abstract sense in which we are all fractured personas, minds divided, strangers to ourselves. There is a sense in which we are all masked performers, putting on an act for the world, waiting for the curtain to be drawn.