Surreal Sorceress No More
Like erstwhile patron goddess Nyx veiling heavens in stars and velvet infinity come dusk, crepuscular salonier Nicette Rookwood lived solely for nights painting Paris phosphorescent through her infamous gatherings uniting luminaries across 1920s artistic firmament throbbing bright against looming wartime thunderheads. There the cultural moment’s most daring painters, poets and early cinematographers shared inflammatory aesthetic innovations paving radical style often at odds with bourgeois tastes clinging desperately to order amidst chaos lapping closer daily.
The long-secret Soirée Fantôme brought intercontinental minds exchanging abstract philosophies and sensual fruits from unlocked Jungian shadows - all chasing revelatory sparks rebirthing civilization from certain entropy themselves. Where fingerling movements fluttered firebrand manifestos by day, come midnight Nicette’s guests manifested true daring. Opiate-spiced debate surged till sunup crafting surrealist futures European dreamers were told achieving was sheer fantasy by pragmatic voices. But sometimes simply gathering fertile forces too long marginalized and dismissed could crack foundations of thought itself.
As 1930s societal anxiety mounted, Nicette’s salon soirees swelled exponentially featuring even more provocative presentations and radical performers. Guests required sharing some dangerous dream scarcely utterable safely on reactionary Parisian streets where suspicion prowled. Art itself became charged lightning rod as polarized conflicts sparked across the continent. Soon not only new ideas would burn threatening status quo - but their very architects as old worlds struggled against inevitability of change itself.
The 1939 Vernissage Rouge show fatefully featured several highly combustible experimental short films utilizing magnesium flares and chemical fogs exploring transient existence through self-immolation allegory on celluloid itself. Controversy followed when censors denounced letting artistic intent brandish “destructive acts” in a public theatre hosting impetuous youth elements threatening social cohesion through celebrating nihilism. Fear-provoking titles like L'Exécuteur’s "Le Chemin de Feu” (“Road of Flames”) faced open criticism for influencing sensitive minds negatively given martial law rumblings so nearby.
Yet Nicette’s cultivated mystical aura surrounding her salon’s perceived hedonism convinced both city officials and avant-garde defenders the event possessed deeper significance than surface interpretation allowed. Surely penetrating societal masks to expose suppressed aspects outside rigid social norms proved profoundly self-actualizing? Thus the momentous premiere proceeded with extra guards stationed discreetly. Behind bobbed hair and cloche hats, attendees titillated anxiously sensing the currents of an era cresting to climax soon.
At the stroke of midnight as surrealist reels washed screen through expressionistic flashes, a tremendous electrical explosion and chemical stench suddenly choked the crowd as the highly nitrated projection film stock erupted! Dazed witnesses trampling exit reported perceiving a colossal winged shadow manifest then vanish while flames swiftly overtook draperies and furnishings alike. Little distinction remained thereafter amongst victims or icons. Rekindled conflagration completely immolated the notorious Paris Excelsior and its damned celluloid by dawn, sending staff, performers and patrons alike to charnel pit in hour’s horror.
After sluggish investigation yielded only sabotage as likely accelerant, inevitable conspiracy theories flew against the decadent artisans’ clique or more subversive outside elements. Some survivors even described the perceived demonic presence looming as flames erupted, claiming spirits channeling through the experimental films unleashed forces beyond their intended purpose when continuity was disrupted. But rational minds dismissed these paranormal explanations.
Today the Excelsior’s excavated foundations lie buried beneath cold magnesium fill and warning signs discouraging exploration near massive electrical lines. Yet construction crews and police report bouts of shared synaesthesia phenomena or phantom scents of ozone and lavender oils wafting unexpectedly down inky corridors very late on some anniversary evenings. Ritual Satanists whisper other odd incidents suggesting reality's veils still thin strangely there when stars align just so. All speak obliquely of this incident in hushed tones.
For hasn’t catastrophic tragedy darkened that cursed block enough without foolish minds awakening further restless entities? If primordial powers once rode celluloid dreams into worlds unprepared, perhaps some incantations stirred that remarkable midnight should remain prudently buried under more decades of soot and cinders. Materialism alone may seal breached realities lest they spill further into habitable existence still so fragile...
