Having finished The New Yorker‘s profile of filmmaker Guillermo del Toro only this morning, I have a feeling the figure drawing session I’m attending after work might result in some fanged and winged anatomy. Del Toro keeps a mansion outside of Los Angeles called Bleak House, a shrine stocked with macabre collections made to inspire. The prospect of fetuses crowding kitchen counters and severed legs as fireplace accouterments makes me whimper in yearning. I devoured Pan’s Labyrinth, but I admit I am usually on the other side of the sci-fi and fantasy versus realism debate. The splendor of the everyday, I reason, revels in the subtle complexity of humanity that moves me in ways 3D aliens can’t even conceive. But when del Toro talks about conjuring monsters, I want to jump head-first into a thick, murky puddle of mysticism. “In the terror genre, an artist, unbound by ‘reality,’ can create his purest reflection of the world — the cinematic equivalent of poetry,” he says. On The New Yorker‘s website, a video tour through some of his notebooks is equally as inspiring:
What demons probe at the folds of your imagination?