By Atticus Solomon
New Yorker first and celebrity second, Fran Lebowitz said something that has stuck with me:
“Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.”
Although I may politely disagree with a highly established author such as Lebowitz, it does carry a certain weight when I look at the artists that came before us. There is something almost daunting in recognising that true artistic ability is not only rare, but fleeting, something bound to a particular lifetime; a particular voice that can never be fully recreated.
For me, Michael McDowell stands firmly in that rare category. His work is not merely written; it is constructed with a precision and imagination that feels unmistakably his own. He possessed that elusive quality Lebowitz spoke of.
In reading McDowell’s works, namely Cold Moon Over Babylon, The Elementals and The Blackwater Saga, you are left with a sense of jealousy, not of talent or ideas, but of time. I quietly wish that I could have lived during the time of McDowell’s writing. His books communicate an eerie atmosphere laden with gothic elements that he hauls all the way into the sweltering heat of the Southern states of America. From Alabama to Florida, McDowell juxtaposes the decaying elegance of Southern tradition with something far more unsettling: a quiet, creeping horror that feels both unnatural and entirely at home.
McDowell’s writing is camp. His novels feature virtuous families with unwavering matriarchs. The way McDowell establishes values and morals can be compared to Leo Tolstoy’s work in Anna Karenina, balancing characters of pure intent with sycophantic men who are haunted by corporeal entities. These figures do not simply exist within the narrative; they divulge its moral structure, exposing weakness, pride, and loyalty in equal measure.
While McDowell does not seek to rupture the horror genre’s expectations, his camp sensibility becomes more than just a stylistic choice. Camp becomes a vehicle through which generational conflict, social hierarchy, and corruption are magnified. You see it in Southern belles with slouched-back husbands, and young, adventurous girls and their soft-spoken fathers. What may at first appear as exaggerated caricatures gradually reveal themselves as something precise and deliberate.
Each heightened gesture or archetypal figure contributes to a world that feels both theatrical and disturbingly real. Even in a world where Victorian houses can be found on Florida beaches, women are prowled on by villains who seek to dominate their fates. McDowell’s critiques ring true even in the 1980s.
Regardless of the immorality possessed by the antagonists, I cannot stress the uniqueness, nerve, and talent McDowell conveys on the page. Stephen King described McDowell as the finest paperback writer of modern time. Other accolades include McDowell’s work on the film Beetlejuice, The Nightmare Before Christmas, and Thinner. For a career cut short, McDowell managed to flourish and make an impact.
To borrow more words from Fran Lebowitz, the famed author put it frankly:
“The first people who died of AIDS were artists. They were also the most interesting people.”
Michael McDowell died from complications with AIDS. At only 49 years old, McDowell is one of many artists that we remember during Pride Month, not only for the circumstances of their deaths, but for the lives and work that were cut abruptly short.
The AIDS crisis did not just take individuals, it erased futures. It interrupted careers that were still unfolding, still evolving, still shaping the landscapes of literature, film, and art. In McDowell’s case, what remains is already remarkable, a body of work that feels complete in its vision. And yet, it is impossible not to wonder what further stories he might have told, what forms his writing might have taken, had he been given more time.
To read McDowell now is to engage with more than just his novels. It is to encounter a piece of cultural history. His work endures not despite that history, but alongside it. Pride Month, then, becomes not only a celebration of identity and progress, but also an act of remembrance, a recognition of artists like McDowell, whose contributions continue to resonate even as their lives were unjustly shortened.
To read McDowell, then, is more than a recommendation. It is an invitation to experience a rare artistic voice, to recognise the weight of what was lost, and to ensure that it is not lost entirely. In that act, however small it may seem, his work endures.
