The deepest hours of night pale in comparison to the abyssal depths of the artistic mind–a place where things unsafe and unmeant to be lurk waiting to be given life, shades of the horrors of Man that fortunately find little more than glimpses of life as a sparks extinguished as rapidly as they ignite. And we, the keepers of the arts, are the wardens of a great many mysteries. But for the tortured artistic mind, that soul in anguish and torn apart by the vices and vicissitudes of life and love, the monsters are real, and we become their servants. We are not misunderstood, we are not mad; we are simply not bound by the strictures of a world that does not want us or our creations, and cannot fathom the depths of our being nor decipher the ink that stains our souls. We are victims of our own making to the monsters we have freed, those abominations that those who are considered “normal” fear out of ignorance and misunderstanding. But they, our children, are our masters, and we, the makers of the unmade, their willing and condemned servants. We are the damned, confined to the world we create, limited only in our expression, consumed by the fires that we kindle. Yet it is truly only there, in the depths of the loneliness and despair thrust upon us by the rest of you that we, the forsaken wretches of love, find ourselves in what we create. And while we never ask for understanding, we dare you to peer into those depths and converse with we who burn the world. And in weighing your own limitation and finite existence, you will know us to be gods.
Rob Salem was born in Massachusetts* slightly before the infamous trials that sought and failed to capture his soul. Not content to rest on that infamy, Rob went a-Viking, traveling across the Atlantic (more than a couple times, just to make sure) before settling in the U.S. Midwest where he devoted himself to the peculiar melancholy that comes from still air and an unbroken horizon. After a lifetime of dabbling in “real jobs”, Rob settled down to the marginally more macabre task of building words he insists we call fiction. Not content to just bend language to his will, he indulges in other pursuits that include his band, Salem’s Childe, and freelance photography and graphic design under his brand The Stormworks. Like a storm powered by cigars, booze, and heavy metal (the music, not the elements, though the pun works too perfectly here), Rob is a force of nature fueled in full by nothing less than raw chaos distilled into its purest form. and is
*The actual history is a bit muddy due to poor record keeping, and with any good writer the line between fact and fiction is substantially blurred enough to leave us with only our best guess. So, while we’re pretty sure there’s at least some truth to this, we’re not inclined to get in the way of a good story by sorting out the truth from the embellishment…
Now that the fun bit is out of the way:
I’m a photographer, filmmaker, artist, graphic designer, musician, writer, poet, and other things just carving out my little piece of the internet. Well… actually, several, I suppose.
In addition to the work I do under The Stormworks, I also do social awareness work under the Nova Vox brand, utilizing the power of photography to tell the stories of those who have had their voices taken from by the a world rife with humanitarian crisis. I’m also the voice of underground metal radio-show-turned-station-turned-podcast, The Forge.
All content on this blog, not limited to but including poetry, short stories, photography, artwork, lyrics, and music, is Copyright © 2012-2017 Rob Salem, unless otherwise noted. Copying or redistribution in any form of any material on this site is not allowed without express written permission. For publishing or permissions of use queries, email robsalem6[at]gmail[dot]com.