Biography of the Incomparable Wolfgang Rachmaninoff

Wolfgang was born sometime in the 20th century on the border of Germany and Russia. (Don't look at a map! Just trust him!) The year, month and day of his birth are vague since the small village they lived in did not have access to paper and no one knew how to write anyway.

He was the youngest of ten siblings. The other nine died tragically in skiing accidents. Individually. Into different trees. Perhaps this was the cause of the tragic insanity that consumed Wolfgang and altered the rest of his life.

Just two years after the death of his last sibling, Wolfgang was found in a cafe shouting that people who back into parking spaces are wonderful no matter how much time they take, that the last Star Wars trilogy was the best one, and that asking for tips for simple counter service is perfectly legitimate. He was instantly taken into custody and remanded for mental review.

He was moved around from doctor to doctor for several months before finally landing at the Steckes Hinein Schnuckiputzi Schneller Institute in Bavaria. It is reputed that inmates are not permitted to leave the institute unless they can pronounce its full name without giggling. No one has made it out yet. 

Fortunately, one of the therapies applied at the institute is picture art: allowing the patients to fully express themselves with paint, watercolors, crayons, feces — whatever medium they wish.

And it was here that I saw an opportunity. 

I happened to see some of his artwork when I was touring Germany looking for horrific tales that I could steal and make my own in my novels. His imagery was striking. His blend of so many different styles — from daringly modern to disturbingly amateurish — were what attracted me to it.

Take, for instance, his cover for my novel The Shadows Beneath the Jungle (available at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com, though the latter forced me to increase the price, damn them).  Note the careful attention to detail of the central gate and the banner over it that stand as evidence of his professionalism.  Then note the palm trees on either side that look like they were drawn by a sleepy five-year-old.  Astonishing!

So, I continue to use Wolfgang's creations for all my books.  They let him out of his cell every six months or so and I suggest a few subjects he might consider painting.  And as I watch (from behind a reinforced barbed-wire fence; Wolfgang does like to bite now and then), I see a true work of genius begin to form in striking colors and designs.  (Okay, Catch the Devil was just a plain dark background, but he was a little depressed that day.) When he screams in tortured sobs, I know he is finished and lure him away from the canvas with a cookie.  Then he is wrapped up securely in his room and I must be patient for another six months or so until another spark of creativity ignites.

But in the end, it is well worth the effort.  The mad genius of Wolfgang Rachmaninoff will live on!