In today’s retellings of classic stories, it’s become almost reflexive to modernize the female lead, even if the time in which it’s set is still long ago. She’s sharp-tongued, rebellious, often hilariously jaded. She kicks off her corset and calls out the patriarchy before breakfast. These updates can be bold, witty, and enjoyable—but they can also feel more like commentary than character.

It’s easy to assume that dolls, by their very nature, are vessels of comfort—ciphers for childhood, safety, and softness. Or super-creepy monsters, like Chucky. But in my Baby Talk series of paintings, I wanted to ask a more complicated question: what happens when those emblems of tenderness or terror are dropped into a different atmosphere?

They share a root word—and an aura of darkness—but “goth” and “Gothic” are not quite the same thing. Their relationship is not one of identity, but of affinity. When they do meet, the collision is oddly electric: a fashion subculture brushing up against centuries-old literature in velvet, lace, and shadows.

In an era where rapid narratives and concise storytelling dominate, one might question whether modern readers have the patience for the deliberate pacing and intricate descriptions of classic Gothic literature.

Classic Gothic literature has always been about the margins—of the map, of society, of the human psyche. And yet, despite its obsession with the “other,” it has often shied away from grappling directly with questions of race.

Snow in Gothic literature is more than a backdrop; it’s a character—quiet, beautiful, and terrifying. Sublime. Isolation, desolation.

In Gothic tales, a kiss is rarely just a kiss. Is it salvation or damnation, passion or poison, a bridge between the living and the dead? From the misty moors of Wuthering Heights to the shadowy crypts of Dracula, to the war-torn America of Mademoiselle Frankenstein, a touch of lips carries immense weight—and often, dire consequences.

To write a stillborn child into fiction is to write silence into sound, and absence into form. In Gothic literature, where the boundary between life and death is always porous, the stillborn becomes a potent symbol of lost potential, unnatural science, divine punishment, or the horror of maternal grief. Yet the subject is rarely written directly. It’s too painful, too quiet.

There’s something deliciously familiar about the tropes that define Gothic fiction. Maybe it’s the thrill of recognizing them as they appear—twisted corridors, tormented minds, darkly romantic obsessions. We know them, we expect them, and we love them all the more when a novel uses them well.

In Gothic fiction, food rarely nourishes in any straightforward way. It drips with symbolism, suspense, and moral ambiguity—an atmospheric device that reflects desire, danger, and decay. A feast in a Gothic novel isn’t just a meal; it’s a warning. Sometimes, a curse.

Children rarely take center stage in Gothic literature, but when they do, their presence carries a powerful emotional charge. They represent innocence lost, corrupted, or imperiled. Their fates are usually tragic, ghostly, symbolically loaded, or creepy.

Lovely, aren’t they…needlework, including embroidery? These delicate and homebound arts have long lived at the edges of Gothic fiction — crafts of patience, beauty, and gentility. Sometimes, though, they engender murderous rage.

In Gothic literature, beauty is rarely a simple virtue. More often, it’s a riddle—seductive yet suspect, radiant but rotten at the core. Beauty beckons, but ruin frequently trails behind.

Long before horror was a genre and Gothic fiction found its academic footing, a particular kind of story didn’t scream; it shivered. Rather than relying on jump scares or excessive gore, these stories crept in slowly—through candlelight, fog, nightmares, a shocking face in the mirror. These were shudder novels.

In literature, characters sometimes read books that serve as more than mere props; books can profoundly influence their decisions, beliefs, and transformations. These embedded texts act as mirrors, windows, or even catalysts within the narrative, offering readers insights into the characters’ psyches and the thematic undercurrents of the story.

Classics endure because they speak to fundamental human experiences, but they were also shaped by the cultural expectations of their time. Many traditional narratives assume fixed gender roles—men as creators, seekers, and decision-makers, women as muses, victims, or caretakers. When we switch these roles, the dynamics of power, agency, and perception shift in deeply revealing ways.

The halls of Gothic literature echo with haunted women—but rarely with mothers. 

Look closely at the genre’s most iconic texts: Frankenstein, Dracula, The Monk, Wuthering Heights, The Turn of the Screw, and Jane Eyre. Mothers are strikingly absent, dead, or dangerously symbolic. Their absence is a shadow that shapes the Gothic world.

In Gothic literature, weather is never just weather. It’s atmosphere, emotion, foreshadowing, and often a form of judgment. A sudden storm doesn’t merely inconvenience the characters—it reveals the chaos brewing inside them. Fog conceals more than the landscape; it hides truths and dangers. Soul-numbing cold can induce strange disassociations.

Sex in Gothic literature is rarely erotic. It is transgressive. A fever dream. A haunting. A punishment. It does not romanticize the bedroom—it drags it into the crypt.

There’s something deeply satisfying about writing a story set in a time before computers, phones, tablets, and television. A world where written messages travel by hand, news spreads by word of mouth, and deep quietude is as present as sound. Without the constant hum of technology, the pace of life shifts, and storytelling must follow suit.