Stumbled upon those eerie death paintings online last month during my nightly doomscrolling. You know those skeleton guys dancing or riding horses in old art? Yeah, those. Felt a weird pull, like I had to understand the artist behind it.
Tried digging first. Easy, right? Wrong. Searched “artist triumph of death” – got a zillion museums and random Wikipedia links. Felt like hitting a brick wall. Ended up down some deep art history forum rabbit holes past midnight. My brain was mush.
Okay, Time to Get My Hands Dirty
Figured the best way to get it was to try recreating a piece. Grabbed some cheap acrylics and a small canvas I had kicking around. Found a high-res image of one of the classic Triumph of Death paintings – skeletons everywhere, chaos, the whole vibe.
Started sketching. Damn, skeletons are hard to draw! My guy looked like a wonky stick figure on a bad horse. Redid the sketch maybe four times, erased so hard I nearly tore the canvas.
Painting phase was… messy.
- My black paint was too thin, looked like watered-down mud.
- Skeleton details? Forget it. My brush was too thick for those tiny bones. Felt like painting with a broomstick.
- Spilled coffee on my palette. Almost cried.
Pushed through anyway. Slapped on layers. Added a weirdly cheerful blue sky by accident – totally killed the grim vibe. Covered it with a gloomy grey wash. Much better. Took me like three hours just to get one skeletal horseman looking halfway decent. Exhausting.
The Lightbulb Moment
While waiting for layers to dry (forever!), kept reading snippets I’d found. Found out these painters weren’t just being edgy Goths. They lived through the Black Death! Saw half their towns die. No wonder they painted death winning. It wasn’t just scary art; it was therapy. Processing massive, unimaginable loss. They stared death down and put it on canvas. That hit different.
Looked back at my messy painting. Suddenly saw it as more than just bones. Felt the weight they were carrying. The triumph wasn’t death’s victory – it was the artist’s courage to face it, document it, stare back. Blew my mind. My messy painting felt like a tiny connection across centuries.
Finished it up, not caring so much about perfection anymore. Added some final dark washes for mood. Ended up with a wonky but kinda powerful little piece. Hung it up near my desk. It’s not museum-worthy, but every time I look at it, I remember those guys painting in the shadow of the plague. Makes my own problems feel pretty damn small.
