Check out the recently shared "Magical Calendar" book illustrated by Orazi here.

The Dragon and the Beasts Cast into Hell 

The Beast Wages War against the Saints 

Saint Michael Defeating the Beasts 

 The Opening of the Fourth Seal, Pestilence 

The Army of Horsemen 

The Locusts Wage War 

Satan Released from Prision 

An Image of the Beast of the Sea Fashioned 

The Beast of the Earth 

The Unclean Spirits 

The Beast of the Sea 

The Dragon Wages War 

The Woman Escapes 

The Dragon and the Woman 

The Beast of the Sea and the Dragon Worshiped 

The Worshipers of the Beast Receive His Mark

 The Fifth Trumpet Sounded, The First Woe

 A Storm; The Woman and the Dragon 

The Opening of the Book 

 

"The Apocalypse, or Book of Revelation, was, according to European medieval tradition, written by John the Evangelist during his exile on the Greek island of Patmos. The opening chapters recount God’s instructions to the bishops of the seven churches in Asia Minor. The following chapters describe John’s extraordinary account of events to come at the end of time. The colorful illustrations of this manuscript bring these dream-like prophecies to life." 

Art and quotation taken from The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Astrological & lunar chart / Sorciere 

 Intro / Witch Within Magic Circle

 Solar system / January 1896 - Sabbat

 Sun compass / February 

 Imprecation / March 

 Horoscope / April 

Love potion / May 

Once upon a time, I was promised a beautiful / June 

 Transmutation, the Alchemist / July

 Black Mass / August 

The Harvest of Herbs / September?

 The Sorcerer / October; Evocation 

 Bewitchment / November 

 Judgment of Sorcerers / December; End of Wizards

 All things good or bad for each day

 O You who leafed through these pages / MDCCCXC 

"An occultist calendar illustrated by Manuel Orazi and printed in an symbolic edition of 777 copies to commemorate magic for the coming year of 1896. Each double page emulates the Christian calendar (name days, iconography). The document presents itself as a type of pagan-style almanac to chart the year of magic. The illustrations by Manuel Orazi combine nouveau art imagery with references to occult ceremonies, horoscopes, and tarot. The accompanying text is by Austin de Croze, a French food writer, who was also fascinated by esotericism." - quote source 

Artworks found at the Cornell University Library.

 

Altar of the Charterhouse of Villeneuve-lès-Avignon. 

Images found thanks to Jean Louis Mazieres.

Mad House - Wraparound Cover Art

Tomb of the Forgotten King - Interior art for "Cave Evil, War Cults" board game

 Thomas Ligotti - Grimscribe, Wraparound Cover Art

 Thomas Ligotti - Songs Of A Dead Dreamer, Wraparound Cover Art

 Monster Sheet

 Invasion of Zanadane, "The Complete Cthulhu Mythos Tales of Michael Shea" Wraparound Cover Artwork

 Possession

 "The Devil's House, Cover art for "Lost Ghosts: The Complete Weird Stories of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman" Cover Art 

Popeye Comic Cover Art 

 Baba Yaga 

 Space Vampires (Inspired by Tobe Hooper's film, Life Force) 

 

 Starting now through the rest of the week, until midnight on Saturday night, December 4th, I'm offering buy 2 get 1 free on all of my 13x19 inch art prints and smaller. Just mention which third print you want and it will be included with your order. 

See all 19 prints available here! 

 https://aeronalfrey.storenvy.com/collections/1963540-buy-2-get-1-free-print-sale-ends-december-4th

Film Still 

 

Learn more about the film at Wikipedia.

- source

Sam Moore / November 18, 2021

When an older piece of art comes back into the world, one of the first impulses is to scan through it and look for the ways in which it has aged: outworn ideas and attitudes, characters who might be seen as quote-unquote bad representation. Lynne Tillman’s Weird Fucks — originally published in 1982 and recently reissued by Peninsula Press — is instead striking for how prophetic it is. And while it might be easier to simply assume that a novella about relatively anonymous sex with a revolving door of partners would mostly speak to the ways in which cruising and hooking up have gone digital, the truth of the matter is much more complex than that. 

Each one of the novella’s chapters centers on a different relationship that the nameless protagonist has. Even as she moves from one partner to another, the supporting cast — friends, discarded boyfriends — float around in her orbit. Early on, she catches the eye of an ex, and when their eyes meet, she thinks, “George looks guilty and embarrassed. I feel wanton and he is history.” The idea of history floats as aimlessly through Weird Fucks as its cast of characters; it’s only in the latter half of the book, when the 1972 Olympics are mentioned, that the story/ies are rooted in a specific moment in time. What’s fascinating is that, rather than taking the personal and writing it large, Weird Fucks takes the macro — the relationship between power and desire; the deliberately vague references to “murders, ‘the political situation,’ as it was called” — and draws it deeply into individuals, making these people pieces on a chessboard too vast for them to comprehend, and the center of the universe all at once. 

As she moves between men and around the world, what’s interesting isn’t just the way in which this kind of shuttling between partners — while old ones still exist in the background of your life — prefigured the ways in which technology changed the way we look at, and for, desire, but also the things that have stayed the same. The tension that exists in a contemporary (re)consideration of Weird Fucks is both how much the world has changed, and how little it has. One of the narrative cores of the novella  — which informs so much of its (mis)communication about sex and desire  — is the double standard existing between men and women when it comes to sexual agency and freedom. Tillman writes: “It was difficult, very difficult, for men to understand and appreciate how someone could fling herself around sexually and not know the terms, the ground, on which she lay,” a line that could be repeated ad nauseum decades after first appearing in print and still capture something true about the ways in which men expect women to behave. The language of “the terms” here captures something that runs through much of the book  — that these relationships are microcosms of a kind of conflict, that the terms in question are really rules of engagement. 

It’s easy to oversimplify any story about the relationships between men and women as being a “battle of the sexes.” The term is most frequently applied to romantic sitcoms that have the genders of their casts divided down the middle; shows like Friends in the US and Coupling in the UK draw a line between man and woman, trying to understand what it is that keeps them apart, even when they’re endlessly getting together. But in Weird Fucks, the word “battle” feels most emphatic and important; less a battle of the sexes than a battle of sex. So much of what defines the relationships in Tillman’s novella is power — as it relates to BDSM, consent, gender. All of this is rooted in the experience of the protagonist; there’s something liberating about diving this deeply into the experience and feelings of an individual, rather than using sexual tastes and dynamics exclusively as a way to make a broader, more abstract statement. As much as these things all work across multiple levels, TiIllman never simply leaves something as merely an intellectual idea; everything is felt deeply, and that’s what gives the book the power to speak both for and beyond the experiences of the characters. 

The protagonist is full of contradictions: narcissistic enough to see herself as the center of the universe, and naïve enough to make her deeply uncertain about why her relationships go the way they do. As a lot of contemporary fiction struggles to grapple with the ins-and-outs (so to speak) of sexuality that’s informed explicitly by ideas of power and violence, there’s something striking about the acknowledgement of how these dynamics work, and the way people struggle to understand their own place in them, all packed into this one line: “I couldn’t understand why a man would want a woman in pain. I wasn’t sophisticated about sadomasochism.” In a way that’s both liberating and surprisingly naive, carrying with it an air of innocence. She often seems uncertain of how the games around her need to be played, existing outside of expectations for better or worse.

This lack of understanding goes both ways, and underscores the melancholy that runs throughout Weird Fucks. It isn’t that the novella’s protagonist is sad because of the fleeting nature of her relationships. The thing that makes the book work so well as a kind of dispatch from the frontlines on power, masculinity, and desire as something performed, is the fact that these relationships are brief but vivid — seemingly through a shared lack of the ability to communicate and understand one another. That gulf between man and woman is a dangerous space to try and move between. The other women in the book are seen as backup performers in one way or another by the protagonist, who says of one of them: “I felt she had some sympathy for me, and had watched, from her position in the chorus, other, similar young women.” If men and women can’t understand each other, the protagonist of Weird Fucks is insistent, desperate, to understand herself. In a small moment of revelation near the end of the novella, prompted by the idea that not being attracted to a certain type of a man is a personal failing, she says, “I tend towards men who aren’t as nice.” 

And it’s fair to say that the men in Weird Fucks aren’t as nice; they seem more than willing to use the women around them, and have a fuzzy understanding of how consent works: “he thought, because I hadn’t resisted, that I liked it.” This lack of understanding, and the stripped back brutality of its consequences, capture the loss of innocence, and the price of knowledge, that defines the protagonist’s journey through these strange relationships. Early on, she’s more than willing to describe herself in ways that are performative, saying “I was a slum queen and in college” in an early story, before saying, at the beginning of the end of the book: “I should have known better.” These five words echo through a lot of Weird Fucks: what she should have known, what her partners should have known; it speaks to a lack of knowledge, obviously, but also an inability to learn about one another. Knowledge doesn’t come easily or freely in Weird Fucks. Across so many of these stories, knowledge is power, and the characters are constantly trying to work out if it’s a price worth paying.

The men of Weird Fucks, as much as they simply strut and fret their hour upon the stage, are all vividly drawn through Tillman’s eye for minute details. It’s this ability to create specifics for the men that move in and out of the orbit of the protagonist — one “looked something like Richard Burton,” another is simply “blond and weak” — that makes them explicitly different, but also magnifies their similarities. The specter of violence goes beyond those not understanding consent when the protagonist has a strange entanglement with a married man: “his enthusiasm grew as I retreated inside, and as if to draw me out, reach me, he whispered bloodlessly, “‘I’d like to kill you with my cock.’” What’s prescient about Weird Fucks is how everything both is and isn’t a matter of life and death; violence is an undercurrent, and every breakup may or may not be the end of the world. The world is ending and being remade seemingly every moment, from the nameless political tension to the endlessly changing ways that people define themselves and their relationships to each other. The surface of the world changes, but all the things that lurk beneath the surface stay the same. Weird Fucks captures the world that Tillman was writing in, the world the book is set in, and a new world — that isn’t that new — all at once.

Sam Moore‘s writing on queerness, politics, and genre fiction in art has been published by the Los Angeles Review of Books, Little White Lies, Hyperallergic, and other places. Their poetry and experimental essays have been published in print and online, most recently in the Brixton Review of Books. If their writing didn’t already give it away, they’re into weird stuff.

- source

Eratniki 

Pyakel'niki 

Gartsuki 

Younik 

Tsmok 

Mara 

Chort 

Sheshki 

Zlydni 

Vampire 

Baba Yaga 

Little Witch 

Valasen 

Lazavik and Lozniki 

Durny Chort 

Badzyulya 

Lyadashtsik 

Zmyainy Tsar 

Dzikiya Lyudzi 

Klikun 

Gayovy Dzed and Gayouki 

Balotnik 

Hihitun 

Tsuda Yuda 

Shatany 

Stryga 

Balamutsen 

Pavetnik 

Arzhaven 

Dzedka 

Nachnitsy 

Zhalezny Chalavek 

Hapun 

Twilight 

Dragon 

Pleasure Trip

Survival 

Visitors 

Hollow 

Ball Game 

Pagan 

Way 

Genetics 

Race 

Winter Hunt 

Forest 

In the Trees 

 Conversation 

Tree

Arena 

 

See more artworks by Slauk at Saaatchi Art.com and Mythology.by. 

 The higher resolution version of "Arena" shared by Sergio Almendro.

Eve Tushnet / November 8, 2021

Dangerous Visions and New Worlds: Radical Science Fiction, 1950 to 1985
Edited by Andrew Nette and Iain McIntyre
PM Press, 2021

Disclosure: This collection includes an essay by Kelly Roberts, editor-in-chief of We Are the Mutants.

In troubled times, we must be grateful for every touch of the ridiculous. And so let’s raise a glass to psychologist and pop scientist Steven Pinker, who in his most recent book burbles forth: “Rationality is uncool.” Pinker pledges fealty to Reason, the chaste goddess, even though he “cannot argue that reason is dope, phat, chill, fly, sick, or da bomb.” This delightful complaint evokes a vanished era in which we all were just vibing on reason, knowledge, hexagons and vaccines and supercolliders and, I don’t know, eugenics. But this timeline, if it ever existed, ended long ago. For the authors whose works are explored in PM Press’s new collection, Dangerous Visions and New Worlds: Radical Science Fiction, 1950 to 1985, cool rationality was the old religion — and they were the acolytes of the strange new gods who displaced it.

Dangerous Visions is the third in a series, edited by Andrew Nette and Iain McIntyre, exploring the radical elements in pulp and genre publishing of the Cold War era. (We Are the Mutants has reviewed the first volume, on postwar youth culture, and the second, on revolution and the 1960s counterculture.) Like the first two installments, this one combines short essays with plentiful examples of weird, enticing cover art — such as a 1955 cover for 1984 that looks like nothing so much as a juvenile-delinquency pulp. The book is punctuated with little round-ups, less like essays and more like annotated lists of sci-fi on subjects like nuclear war, drugs, or animals, which show how cover illustrators could depict similar themes as dream or nightmare, action-adventure or inner journey. The “dystopias” list, for example, includes a threatening cover for Stephen King’s The Long Walk (1979) and an eerily seductive one for Mary Vigliante’s The Colony (also 1979).

The book begins with the opposing open letters published in 1968 in Galaxy Science Fiction, one supporting the war in Vietnam and the other protesting it. This contrast offers an obvious political gloss on the word “radical” in the book’s subtitle: “Radical” means left-wing politics; it means the antiwar stance of Samuel R. Delany, Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Kate Wilhelm set against the conservatism of the pro-war Marion Zimmer Bradley, L. Sprague de Camp, Robert A. Heinlein, and Larry Niven. But an early mention of the transition from the term “science fiction” to “speculative fiction” is a more accurate guide to the kind of radicalism Dangerous Visions celebrates. Both Heinlein and the pro-war R.A. Lafferty get thoughtful essays in this volume, suggesting that they, too, were in some way radical visionaries.

There’s little explicit effort to tie the works together or nail down what makes something radical, dangerous, or new. It’s a wise choice that allows the essayists to avoid fixed narratives and Procrustean politics. The new world is a place where a new kind of person lives — although many would argue that this new and dangerous person was always the only kind of person around. The old SF hero was that rational man you used to hear so much about: the imagined actor in liberal political philosophy, the person without dependents or dependencies, who confronted the stars with reason, self-control, and a spirit of adventure. He travels, as the introduction puts it, “from the suburbs to the stars.” The old guard’s heroes were white, even when they were green. The old SF hero might die, but he’d never worry about getting pregnant. Mind and body were manageable; desires were reasonable, inspiring, and above all intelligible, both to the hero himself and to the reader. Whether this is a fair description of the old-school hero, I can’t say. I only like this kind of guy when he’s played by William Shatner — in a book, I just can’t see the appeal. I can say that the works explored in the PM Press collection are rebelling against this hero. These books are populated by mystics and criminals, artists and threatened children, even animals and creatures who are some blend of human and Other. The political apparatus of the state does not enable constructive action; it provokes fear or anger. In these books knowledge is less like an equation and more like a hallucination.

Speaking of Samuel R. Delany, Dangerous Visions avoids the more thoroughly-trampled pathways in his work in favor of a 1979 memoir of his brief stint in a commune called Heavenly Breakfast. Daniel Shank Cruz highlights not only novel sexual arrangements (“they all get gonorrhea […] because intra-commune sexual encounters are commonplace”) but the group’s economic strategy of drug dealing, and its belief — perhaps even more touching and necessary now than then — “that people have value aside from their financial status, and that it is worth living with someone… even if they are unable to contribute their ‘fair share.’” “It is inaccurate to say that its members shared funds,” Cruz writes, “because many of them had no funds to share, but they all shared in the work of caring for one another.” The whole thing only lasted one winter, which the book’s subtitle calls The Winter of Love. Cruz argues that the winter with Heavenly Breakfast taught Delany that he could live in a fully new way, and infused his later work with communal values and greater “sexual openness.” Delany always insisted that the polymorphic sexual community, no matter how perverse, can offer a postsecondary education in love. Sex is his means of reasoning, not his means of getting beyond rational thought; it’s his language, not his apophatic and apocalyptic self-immolation.

And so he is the happy radical, whereas J.G. Ballard and Philip K. Dick represent more lacerating visions. Erica L. Satifka’s essay suggests that Dick’s work “reflects the at times bizarre course of his own relatively short life more than any radical political beliefs” — but if you’re literally approached by the FBI to spy on your fellow students, it’s not your life that’s weird, it’s your times. Dick lived out many of his age’s forms of altered consciousness, from psychotherapy to amphetamines; his experience with alternative homemaking was also harder than Delany’s, as he went through five divorces and found himself “invit[ing] hippies and/or junkies to live with him on a rotating basis,” which is sweet but not nostalgia fodder. All this touched his work with a poignant separation between the self and some true hidden knowledge. Ballard, by contrast, led a stable domestic life, deranged only by the surrounding culture. He expressed this derangement in funhouse-mirror worlds, dreamscapes and projections, where the shock of the real could only be attained through technology-enabled violence. And these worlds were not future but present, because, as Ballard said in the 1960s, “We live inside an enormous novel…The fiction is already there. The writer’s task is to invent the reality.” The more your world is manmade, shaped by technology and terraforming, the more you live in dreams and fetishes: the substance of our inner lives. (I’m sitting in my bedroom and I can’t see a single object I know how to make.) Delany probes wounds and bruises with his tongue and likes the taste; Ballard gets a mouthful of blood and chromium menace, the taste of a self-discovery that’s also a self-loss. Delany winds up a contented eminence grise, replete with memory like a bee with honey; Dick possibly broke into his own house, blocked out the memories, went on a paranoid tear against fellow SF luminary Stanislaw Lem, and a year later entered rehab after a suicide attempt. I love Delany’s work but his luck is too good — it veils some of the harder truths.

As with any collection, Dangerous Visions is uneven, both in the quality of its own essays and (more intentionally) in that of the works it surveys. The experiments in rebellion and discovery conducted by the books’ motley heroes (and by the authors) brought results that were sometimes exhilarating, sometimes disturbing, and sometimes both at once. An early essay on “sextrapolation” includes a lot of taboo-breaking that just seems silly or gross. The best I can say for the quotes here from Bug Jack Barron is that without them maybe we wouldn’t have actually good stories like “Aye, and Gomorrah…,” in which sex is less of a Sharper Image store and more of a mystery play. Meanwhile, a few essays in Dangerous Visions show individual style, like Nick Mamatas’s feverish, slightly aggro tribute to R.A. Lafferty, but the entire first column of Maitland McDonagh’s essay on gay adult SF is bland boilerplate. Stronger editing would have allowed McDonagh’s camp humor to emerge earlier and with less padding. Scott Adlerberg offers an essay about the radical SF of Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, authors of Roadside Picnic (later adapted by Andrei Tarkovsky as the 1979 film Stalker). The critical assessment emerges through biographical data about the grinding, increasing conflict between the brothers and the Soviet censorship apparatus: the Strugatskys seem attuned to fun, adventure, and playful anti-bureaucratic humor in the Douglas Adams vein, but the censorship and fear of a totalitarian system, including a harrowing encounter with the KGB, led them into sharper satire and more hallucinatory blurs of dream and reality. But Michael A. Gonzales’s similarly biography-focused essay on Octavia Butler avoids any real critical engagement with her work’s themes. Her mentors within the genre are listed, which is useful as part of the collection’s overall portrayal of radical SF as a community relying on particular institutions (New Worlds magazine, the Women’s Press) and central figures (in Butler’s case, the author and writing teacher Harlan Ellison). No effort is made, though, to place Butler in dialogue with larger movements, from Afrofuturism to Afro-pessimism; there’s no real exploration of her work’s vision of the body’s metamorphoses, her portrayals of youth and inheritance, her prose style — the texture of her work dissolves and she’s left as a generic Black Woman Pioneer.

Dangerous Visions, as its understanding of “radical” SF emerges, suggests unexpected links between authors: Mamatas’s essay on the gonzo Catholicism of R.A. Lafferty finds a home beside Iain McIntyre’s homage to the anti-imperialist mysticism of William Bloom, whose Himalayan action-adventure hero Qhe is a “cosmic [James] Bond.” A late essay by Donna Glee Williams contrasts the visions of anarchism in Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed and Robert A. Heinlein’s The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress. These two novels suggest possible syntheses between old and new. They both offer metaphysics and political reasoning, while still being recognizably “radical”: both take place in criminalized communities and depict alternatives to the liberal state.

The anthology opens by noting that the radicalism of its authors didn’t vanish, but disseminated itself throughout mainstream SF, suggesting a longing for some synthesis; some recognition of the poignant beauty of human reason and the quest for knowledge, alongside a taut awareness of reason’s propensity to serve violence; some hope for new communal forms of life, new mysticisms in the face of new apocalypses.

Eve Tushnet is the author of two novels, Amends and Punishment: A Love Story, as well as the nonfiction Gay and Catholic: Accepting My Sexuality, Finding Community, Living My Faith. She lives in Washington, DC and writes and speaks on topics ranging from medieval covenants of friendship to underrated vampire films. Her hobbies include sin, confession, and ecstasy.

- source

Image sources include David Whitman and Wikipedia.

Triple-Faced Demon

Season of the Witch

 Demon 

The Bogeyman 

Deformed Monster, 1980's 

Monsers and Space, 1970's 

Colorful Demon, 1970's 

San Francisco Comic Book, front - No.1, 1970 

San Francisco Comic Book, back - No.1, 1970 

Invitation to Death, Bogeyman Issue 3, 1970 

Radical America Komiks, 1969 

 Bogeyman #1, front, 1969 

Bogeyman #1,back, 1969 

Art from Bogeyman Issue 3, 1970 

 

Untitled 

Self Portrait, 1980's 

Bear and Monsters, 1970's 

 Joy Machine, Mirror of Truth 

Interior Art From Bogeyman #3, 1970 

 It's Only Pen and Ink! 1980 

Bizzare Science Fiction 

Electricity 

Stairway to Spiritual Awakening 

Bleeorp! 1975 

Insect Fear #3 "The Midnight Monster" Page 1 

 Insect Fear #3 "The Midnight Monster" Page 2

 Insect Fear #3 "The Midnight Monster" Page 3 

Insect Fear #3 "The Midnight Monster" Page 4

 The Wrath of Mazor Storn, 1971 

 Major Storm, Insect Fear no.1 (page 1) 1970's

  Major Storm, Insect Fear no.1 (page 2) 1970's

"Rory Hayes was one of the artists in the underground comix scene of America in the early 1970s. A protégé of Robert Crumb, he contributed to various underground comix magazines, such as Arcade, Bijou Funnies, Insect Fear, Snatch, Cunt Comics, Hydrogen Bomb and Skull.

Fascinated by horror since an early age, he published his own comic 'Bogeyman' in 1968. Hayes made a contribution to the comic book 'Queen of Hairy Flies', to which other underground artists like Spain Rodriguez, Brad W. Foster, Michael Roden, Ed Dorn, S. Clay Wilson, Bill Shut and others also made contributions. The book claimed to be a loose interpretation of an 18th century occultism book.An avid experimenter with drugs, Rory Hayes died in his sleep from an overdose on August 29, 1983, only 34 years old. " - quote source

Rory Hayes was previously shared on Monster Brains back on Halloween day of 2006.

My friend Sean is running a kickstarter to fund a Halloween themed book full of his fantastic Halloween artwork, check it out!

Cover art by Arthur Johnson, June 1932 

Interior art by Werner Sahmann, 1922 

Interior art by Oskar Garvens, August 1937

Interior art by Werner Sahmann, 1921 

Cover art by Arthur Johnson, September 1931 

Interior art by Arthur Johnson 

Interior art by Arthur Johnson, 1914 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1938 

Interior art by A.L?, 1907 

Cover art by Arthur Johnson, February 1940 

Interior art, 1921 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1940

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1931 

Cover art, January 1913 

Interior art by Werner Sahmann, 1921 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1921 

Cover art by Oskar Garvens, January 1931 

Interior art by Werner Sahmann, 1922 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, August, 1914 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1938 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1936 

Interior art by Moller, 1903 

Cover art by Arthur Johnson, 1923 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1931 

Interior art by Gustav Brandt, 1902 

Interior art by Werner Hahmann, 1934 

Interior art, December 1916 

Interior art, 1922 

Cover art by Arthur Johnson, 1919

Interior art, April 1916 

Cover art by Arthur Johnson, 1932

Cover by Arthur Johnson, based on Arnold Bocklin, November, 1913

 

Kladderadatsch (onomatopoeic for "Crash") was a satirical German-language magazine first published in Berlin on 7 May 1848. It appeared weekly or as the Kladderadatsch put it: "daily, except for weekdays." It was founded by Albert Hofmann and David Kalisch, the latter the son of a Jewish merchant and the author of several works of comedy. Publication ceased in 1944." - quote source

- Images source

There are a few documentaries on Niki on youtube, "Niki de Saint Phalle Instrospections and Reflections" the other "Niki De Saint Phalle - The story of a free woman" both great ways to discover her larger body of work, including literal buildings in the shape of her art.