surreal art

by Bill Tiepelman

The Floral Jester's Solitude

Once upon a time—because everything always seems to start with “Once upon a time” and I’m not about to break tradition—there was a clown. And not the fun kind either. No balloons, no honking noses, just one seriously depressed jester sitting in a chair that looked like it was stolen from a 1950s grandmother’s house. You know, the kind with way too many flowers and that questionable smell of lavender and... regret. The clown, whose name was probably something ridiculous like “Bingo” or “Sparkles,” sat there for days. Or maybe it was years. It’s hard to tell when your only companions are flowers that smell better than you and shoes that are two sizes too big. He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in this floral prison, but he had a feeling it involved one too many tequila shots and a dare gone horribly wrong. Clowns, after all, weren’t known for their life choices. As Sparkles (we’re just going to call him that) slumped deeper into the overstuffed armchair—like a sad sack of potatoes in a velvet tracksuit—he sighed. Not a cute little sigh either. It was more like the kind of sound you make when you realize your credit card bill is due, and you’ve been buying “self-care” items from online influencers for three weeks straight. Yup, Sparkles was tired. And not just “I need a nap” tired—no, he was bone-weary, soul-crushing, existential-crisis tired. The kind that comes from a life of painted smiles and pratfalls, all while your internal monologue is screaming “Why do I even bother?” The flowers didn’t help. They were too bright, too cheerful, like those people who always tell you to “look on the bright side.” If Sparkles had a dollar for every time someone said that to him, he wouldn’t be sitting in this hideous chair. He’d be in a mansion somewhere, probably still miserable, but at least he’d have good Wi-Fi. He looked at the petals around him, blooming with obnoxious, vibrant joy, and wondered if they were mocking him. If flowers could laugh, these ones would sound like a bad laugh track from a 90s sitcom. “Oh look at you, Sparkles,” they seemed to whisper, “sitting there all mopey while we’re out here thriving. Pathetic.” But it wasn’t his fault. He tried, okay? He tried the whole 'happy clown' thing, but it turns out there’s only so much glitter and red nose-wearing a person can do before the crushing weight of absurdity sets in. And now? Well, now he was just a weird guy with face paint, sitting alone in a chair that screamed “I’ve given up” louder than his last relationship did. The flowers weren’t the only weird thing though. There was a strange smell. It wasn't coming from him—though let's be honest, he wasn't exactly fresh. No, this smell was more... floral? But also kind of like old socks? The kind you find in the bottom of your gym bag that have been there since the last time you actually exercised—which was, let’s face it, 2017. Sparkles wrinkled his nose and glanced around. Maybe it was the chair? Had the chair always smelled like that? It had definitely seen some things. He was pretty sure if it could talk, it would tell stories that would make him blush. And he was a clown. Blushing was practically part of the uniform. One of the flowers—a particularly smug-looking rose—swayed gently as if to say, “What, you thought this was going to get better? Honey, you’re a clown in a floral chair. Just embrace the weirdness.” And honestly, that was solid advice. Sparkles took a deep breath, or at least as deep as you can when you’re wearing pants made of satin that squeak every time you move. He decided then and there to stop caring. If the flowers wanted to mock him, fine. If his shoes were too big, whatever. If he was sitting in what looked like the living room of a retired circus performer who had an unhealthy obsession with floral patterns, so be it. He was Sparkles, dammit, and if this was his life now, he was going to make the most of it. He reached down, grabbing one of the overgrown dahlias next to him. “Hey,” he muttered to it, “you’re coming with me.” The flower didn’t resist (because, let’s be real, it was a flower). He placed it in the pocket of his garish jacket, giving himself a little flair. If he was going to be a sad clown in a ridiculous chair, at least he could accessorize. And that was that. Sparkles, now with a newfound sense of defiant apathy, sat back, crossed his oversized feet, and stared off into the middle distance, waiting for whatever came next. Probably more flowers. Or maybe a nap. Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The chair had claimed him, and honestly, he was okay with that. After all, it wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him. That honor went to the time he tried to juggle chainsaws at a bachelorette party. But that’s a story for another day.     The Ballad of Sparkles the Clown Oh Sparkles the clown, in his floral despair, Sits slumped in a chair that smells worse than the air. His shoes are too big, his life’s a sad joke, And his satin pants squeak every time that he spoke. “What the hell happened? Where did it go wrong?” He wonders while tugging his pant leg along. Was it the booze? The tequila? The shots? Or that one time with chainsaws? (He forgets lots). “The flowers are smug,” Sparkles whispers with spite, “They mock me, they taunt me, with colors so bright.” Those roses, those dahlias, those blooms full of cheer, He glared at them all with a cynical sneer. “Oh sure, you look happy, so plump and so lush,” But you don’t know crap about being a mush!” He pulled at his ruffles, adjusted his nose, And mumbled some insults at the damned happy rose. His hair was like cotton, his smile was a mess, But Sparkles the clown was done caring, I guess. He’d given up hope, tossed it all to the wind, And sat there like laundry no one bothered to spin. “Screw it,” he said, with a chuckle and snort, “I’m a clown in a chair. What more can I court?” He crossed his fat feet, leaned back with a shrug, And whispered, “Life’s short. Let’s all just say... 'bug!'” So Sparkles stayed put, in his floral cocoon, A clown in the corner, humming some tune. If you find him someday, don’t ask him what’s wrong— He’s busy not caring. (And the flowers? Still strong.)     Feeling inspired by Sparkles' floral-infused existential crisis? Or maybe you just need something to brighten up your home that screams “I’ve given up, but make it fashion”? Either way, you can bring a bit of that quirky clown energy into your life. Check out throw pillows that will cushion your own self-loathing, or grab a fleece blanket to wrap yourself in while you ponder your poor life choices. If you’re more of the artsy type (and let’s face it, aren’t we all pretending to be?), hang a wood print of Sparkles on your wall and let him judge you from the corner of the room. And for those who really want to take the clown on the go, there’s even a stylish tote bag—because nothing says 'I'm over it' like carrying your groceries with a sad clown by your side. Shop now and embrace the weirdness!

by Bill Tiepelman

The Butterfly Collector - Fragments of Forgotten Childhood

The Butterfly Collector Darla had always been a little... strange. The kind of strange that made her neighbors double-check their locks at night and whisper rumors about her creepy collection of antique dolls. But Darla didn’t mind. In fact, she relished in it. She had always been an odd duck, a proud owner of a taxidermied crow named Reginald and a wall of old doll heads with hollowed-out eyes that seemed to follow visitors around her house. One evening, as the light outside faded into a purplish dusk, Darla stood before her mirror, admiring her latest acquisition—a doll she’d found at a flea market, weathered by time and more than a little unsettling. Its eyes were mismatched—one blue and the other black as night. "You'll fit in just fine," Darla muttered, placing the doll on the shelf, giving it a prime spot among the others. That night, she went to bed, thinking about nothing in particular. Maybe what brand of peanut butter was superior, or why her neighbor still hadn’t returned her lawnmower. Just mundane things. But as she slipped into sleep, a faint scratching noise stirred her from the edge of a dream. “Probably Reginald falling off the mantel again,” she grumbled, pulling her blanket tighter. But the scratching continued. Louder this time. Darla sat up in bed, glancing at her door. It was slightly ajar, though she was certain she had closed it before sleeping. Then came the whisper. Faint, like a child's voice caught in the wind: "Remember me?" Darla froze. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, thinking she was still half-dreaming. But when she looked at the mirror across the room, she saw the doll—the one with the mismatched eyes—was no longer on its shelf. It was sitting on her dresser, one cracked wing slowly unfurling, revealing pale faces peeking through the tattered fabric. “Now… that’s new,” she muttered to herself, trying to stifle her panic. The doll—now somehow a moth—fluttered its damaged wings, each beat kicking up the dust of forgotten years. Faces pushed out from the wings’ surface—children's faces. Their tiny porcelain mouths opened as if gasping for air. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Darla said, rubbing her temples. “Moths. Of course. Why not? Let’s just add moth dolls to my list of issues tonight.” The thing fluttered toward her, the crackling sound of its brittle wings filling the room. It perched at the end of her bed, staring with its mismatched eyes—one wide and innocent, the other dark and sunken, like a tiny, doll-sized abyss. Darla sighed, rolling her eyes. “So, what, you’re here to haunt me? You’re a moth and a doll—kinda lame, don’t you think?” she quipped, reaching for the glass of water beside her bed. “Look, I’m not afraid of some freaky doll that looks like it moonlights in a bad horror movie. Just spit it out already. What do you want?” The doll’s wings twitched, and its little bow-tied body shifted as if preparing to speak. Its tiny lips moved, but no sound came out. Just the same whisper: "Remember me?" Darla squinted, leaning in. “Seriously, I don’t. Did I skip you at the flea market or something?” The moth-doll let out an exasperated little sigh—a sigh!—as if Darla wasn’t taking this haunting nearly as seriously as it wanted. One of the faces in its wing—a particularly creepy one with wide, staring eyes—whispered again, more clearly this time: "You forgot us... but we didn’t forget you." Darla blinked. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. This isn’t about that doll tea party incident from 1989, is it?” The moth fluttered its wings menacingly—or at least, it tried. Really, it just looked like it was having a mild seizure. Darla stifled a snicker. “You’re telling me this whole spooky act is because I abandoned a tea party? You guys need therapy. I was, what, six? My bad for moving on with my life. You should’ve seen it coming when I discovered Pokémon.” But the moth-doll wasn’t amused. It launched itself at her, tiny porcelain hands gripping her blanket as it flapped its decayed wings in frustration. One of the wings tore slightly, and a button fell off with a tiny plink. “Oh no, not the button. How ever will I survive?” Darla deadpanned, lifting the moth-doll by its scrappy little body. She set it gently on her dresser. “Listen, I’ll get you some super glue in the morning. Maybe a few stitches. But you’ve gotta stop with the ‘vengeful ghost of my childhood’ routine. It’s a bit much, even for me.” The moth-doll sat there, wings sagging, as if contemplating its entire existence. Perhaps it realized it had severely miscalculated its haunting strategy. Perhaps it understood that Darla—of all people—was not the best choice for a victim. “Good talk,” Darla said, fluffing her pillow and settling back into bed. “Now go sulk somewhere else. I have work in the morning.” The moth-doll gave one last pitiful flap of its wings before retreating back to its shelf, where it sat quietly among the other forgotten dolls. As Darla drifted back to sleep, she could’ve sworn she heard Reginald the taxidermied crow let out a cackle. Maybe he was just as amused by the situation as she was.

by Bill Tiepelman

Metropolis Mirage: The Chroma Confluence

It was a misty morning when Alex donned his smiley-face mask, the kind that unsettled more than it cheered. Beneath the facade, his eyes twinkled with mischief as he stepped onto the deserted streets of Eldritch Avenue. The city was unnaturally quiet, the silence punctuated only by distant echoes and his footsteps. The air was thick with fog, so dense that it seemed to swallow the crumbling facades of the buildings lining the street. Alex paused at a crosswalk, an ordinary place where something extraordinary was about to unfold. As he waited for the signal that never seemed to come, the ground beneath his feet began to vibrate slightly. It wasn't the tremble of the earth one might expect but rather a pulsation, like the heartbeat of the city itself. Without warning, from his back erupted a cascade of fractal wings, unfurling with a flourish of colors that cut through the grey morning. Each feather was a tapestry of vibrant hues, swirling in patterns that defied the dullness of their surroundings. Passersby, few and far between, stopped in their tracks, their morning dullness shattered by the spectacle. "Late for the masquerade, are we?" a voice chuckled from the shadows. Alex turned to find a figure leaning against the wall, shrouded in a tattered overcoat, face obscured by the hood. "Or just another day flaunting your colors in the grayscale world?" Alex's response was a grin, his mask's perpetual smile deepening with genuine amusement. "Just stirring up the morning commute," he replied, his voice muffled yet clear. "Care to join the parade?" The stranger pushed off from the wall, approaching Alex with a gait that matched the rhythm of the pulsing fractals. "Oh, I've been waiting for an invitation," they said, their voice a playful lilt. Together, they stepped into the crosswalk, the fractal wings illuminating their path, casting eerie shadows that danced along the abandoned cars and shuttered storefronts. As they walked, the city seemed to wake, stirred by the energy of Alex's vibrant display. But there was something more—a whisper in the shadows, a laughter that lingered a bit too long, as if the city itself was in on a joke that Alex had yet to understand. As they ventured deeper into the heart of the city, the fractal wings behind Alex fluttered with a life of their own, casting kaleidoscopic lights onto the fog-laden buildings. The stranger, whose presence now felt as integral as the mask on Alex's face, guided him through alleyways that twisted and turned like the patterns on his back. Every so often, the stranger would stop, point at a nondescript wall or a broken pavement, and whisper, "Watch." At their command, these ordinary elements would shimmer briefly, revealing hidden murals of swirling fractals that echoed Alex's wings, or emit sounds that turned the silence into a symphony of whispers. It was as if the city itself was transforming, shedding its dreary exterior to reveal a canvas of endless possibilities. "What is this place?" Alex asked, his voice a mix of wonder and wariness. "A mirage," replied the stranger, their tone both serious and mocking. "A place between the cracks of the real and the imagined. You bring color; I bring vision. Together, we wake the sleeping city." As they spoke, the air grew colder, and the fog thickened into an almost palpable curtain. The street lights flickered as if struggling to maintain their glow against the encroaching darkness. Alex felt a chill run down his spine, but his curiosity pushed him forward, deeper into the heart of the mirage. They reached an open plaza, where the fog suddenly cleared, and the cityscape stretched out like a monochrome ocean. Here, the fractals from Alex’s wings soared into the sky, intertwining with the clouds, creating a spectacle that blurred the lines between sky and stone. But as the display reached its crescendo, a low growl echoed through the plaza, twisting with malice. Shadows pooled around their feet like ink, and the smiley-face mask no longer felt like a shield but a beacon, attracting attention they no longer wanted. "The city likes your color, but it loves your fear," the stranger murmured, a smirk audible in their voice. "Don’t worry, it’s just feeding on the drama you bring. Dance, Alex, let the city feast on something other than grey." With a flourish, the stranger vanished into the shadows, leaving Alex alone in the plaza, with only his radiant wings and the creeping darkness as companions. The laughter returned, louder now, a symphony of eerie delight. Alex took a deep breath, and as he danced, his wings painted the darkness with light, each step a defiance, each swirl a challenge. The city watched, hungrier than before, but tonight, it would dine on a spectacle of color and courage. The night wore on, and the darkness receded, impressed or appeased, no one could tell. As dawn approached, the fractals gently folded behind Alex, and the mask’s smile seemed a bit wider. The city was quiet again, but it had tasted color, and something told Alex that grey mornings would never be quite the same.     Explore the Metropolis Mirage Product Collection Immerse yourself in the surreal and captivating world of "Metropolis Mirage: The Chroma Confluence" with our exclusive collection of products. From vibrant posters to functional art pieces, each item offers a unique way to bring this striking digital artwork into your daily life. Metropolis Mirage Poster Our high-quality Metropolis Mirage Poster transforms any room into a dynamic space. 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