There’s a trend in contemporary fantastic art so pervasive that I feel it needs it’s own genre: the casual hierophany.
A hierophany is a manifestation of the divine other. The name implies more than a mere appearance, however, which could come simply in a vision. A hierophany is an eruption of divine force in our world that brings both awe and terror.
In classic art and literature, hierophanies were often intentional conversions, an appearance of the divine intended to bring about a change in man. The classic case is probably the Biblical story of Saul on the road to Damascus, painted many times but most famously by Caravaggio in 1600.
Caravaggio’s manipulation of light and shadow is what makes this a masterpiece. The divine force which knocks Saul from his horse and blinds him is not depicted in the painting, but seems to pervade it nonetheless.
And yet, the focus is clearly on the man, both in the composition and in the story. Saul fills the painting from side to side. Not only is God is absent, His only reason for “appearing” is Saul, whose outstretched arms catch the divine light as well as the viewer’s gaze like a funnel, focusing them on him, on his face and breast. (The gaze and stoop of both attendant and mount do the same.)
This preoccupation with ourselves continued even into less explicitly religious eras. Take Caspar David Friedrich’s 1818 “Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog,” one of the defining works of the Romantic movement.
Once again, man is the focus of the image, which was supposed to be about nature. The standing figure is the largest element of the composition save for the precipice and the sky, both of which are devoid of any real detail and, as mirror images of each other, focus your attention back on the human being at the very center of everything. Even as your eye wanders, you are constantly brought back to the man, who stands noble above it all almost as if in command of the world (which is the reason this image was used for the cover of Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra).
Now compare those two images with the infamous cover of the classic D&D box set, with art by Larry Elmore.
Once again, the human figure is in the foreground and stands in sharpest relief. The dragon, although larger, blends into the wall and treasure. In the very center is the shield and glowing sword, whose stroke we can almost see moving. In conjunction with the brilliant use of white space (which creates a 3D-like effect where the dragon practically reaches out from the box to embrace you), the weapons serve as a promise: inside lies adventure. We are invited to identify with the faceless barbarian, whose features are completely obscured. “He” could be anyone, even — conceivably — a woman.
This image, besides being wonderful fun, is an utterly brilliant bit of marketing. It’s also the archetypal fantasy art, replicated many times over. There may be a basilisk instead of a dragon, a mage instead of a warrior, or perhaps even multiple figures battling multiple foes, but the fundamental themes are set. The magical Other is larger than life, but its attention — as with God in the Caravaggio — is on the players, who are human (even if the literal representation is of, say, elves or dwarves). The humans are the true focus of the action, the symbolic center.
And there is quite a lot of action. Those humans are not passive recipients of grace nor stoic observers of nature but are in active resistance against the Other, which has come to devour them. As players, we both are and make the world.
Now, contrast that image with this one by Bjarke Pedersen.
Or these of encounters with dragons by Mateusz Lenart and others. (Click for larger image.)
Or even this.
This morning I collected nearly 80 images like this, all with the same fundamental features, and yet, I only seemed to scratch the surface. Indeed, I had to force myself to stop looking because it seemed as if there were no end to this kind of thing!
Not all were explicitly fantastic. Some, for example, were whimsical.
Nor is this phenomenon limited to fantastic art (although it clearly flourishes there). This is work by fine artist Dawid Planeta, who has a whole series like this.
The significant features, as I’m sure you can tell, are fundamentally identical to each other and different from what’s come before. First and foremost, the human figures are very small. They still occupy the foreground and may often be “centered,” but they are tiny. They are not the focus. The god is the focus — or rather the encounter itself, which is nuanced rather than combative.
Even more important than their change in relative size, however, is how the people in these images are no longer active. They are typically standing in silence or otherwise going about their day. Occasionally, a weapon is drawn, but it seems fundamentally defensive. And also somewhat useless. There is no sense, as with the Elmore painting, that we could do the god any harm. Nor is it clear the god, dragon, monster, or robot has any interest in the puny mortals before it.
In the image below, the summoned god doesn’t even seem to care about the sacrifice its supplicants have prepared for it. Whatever it’s after, it’s indifferent to us.
That’s not to suggest these beings are harmless. Indeed, they could wipe us away with the swoosh of their pant leg and barely be aware. Rather, it’s that we are no longer the raiders of their treasure. We are not their foes, nor are they the object of our worship. They are, if anything, mere novelties whose movements have no real effect on our lives.
To be clear: for an image to qualify in the genre, I propose three essential features. First, it must depict an encounter. In other words, humans (or humanlike entities) must be present, otherwise it’s just a picture of a big monster.
Second, the god or monster or demon or whatever must be epic in scale and not, for example, an orc warily passing a man on a mountain road.
Third, the encounter between the two must be incidental. It needs to depict a fundamental disconnect between the participants. These are not images of worship, where people supplicate themselves before the deity. These are not images of attack, such as Godzilla destroying Tokyo. There can be (and often is) a sense of awe or terror, but there doesn’t have to be. The encounter must be unexpected and both parties must remain fundamentally unchanged by it.
The last point is tricky, for as I indicated, the god may sweep us aside, may step on our buildings, may burn us all to a cinder, but if so, it’s in pursuit of a higher aim. That is, mankind is not the focus of its rage, as in eras past. Indeed, the god may already be dead.
But if so, the man is not devastated by the discovery, nor is the god revived by his prayers.
The examples are legion and expand almost infinitely to include symbolic “gods,” such as in this now famous work by Yuri Schwedoff:
Or this work by Beeple:
where the “gods” are alien, are our creations, or are ourselves as we used to be, our lost potency.
Examples abound. Note in all of the images below the three fundamental features: the tiny, passive figures; the towering elemental force; the relative indifference between the two.
As I mentioned, at some point I simply had to stop collecting for it seemed there was no end to this kind of thing, which of course raises the question: Why?
Do we no longer fear nature? Do we not care whether it is living or dead? Do we not fear the past or the future? Do we not fear anything? Do we not feel anything? Is the world itself a mere novelty? Are we perfect and no longer in need of salvation?