Page 291 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

found decorating a number of the grey lurchers, the public
seemed to lose all interest in the proposal.
It took my chance meeting with the shambling figures to
reflect a moment on my next adversary, to truly appreciate
his art for what it was. While I found the rearrangement
of skins to be a rather wasted enterprise, as Hide’s efforts
seemed less about revealing truth than merely fine-tuning
it, I began to see the dream in it. The Skin Switcher’s vision
wasn’t necessarily expressed within his product, but rather
through his process. It was my opponent’s ability to reshape
the humors of nature to match his dreams that truly intoned
the man’s creative power—a force that stitched morality to
flesh, simultaneously cultivating the lies and truths of his
subjects. In a way, the giant killer was like myself, if only on
the basic level of intent. We both would see the world dressed
in our dreams—but that was as far as the comparison went.
While his vision was fulfilled by sculpting flesh to reflect
scruples, my art was a tireless invocation of dream—to
unmake facts—moral or otherwise—and replace them with
the seamless wonder of lost worlds. So, I suppose you might
distinguish our dreams by their respective extents. Mine
tripped beyond the world, while Hide’s remained trapped
within it. Now, I’m certainly not fond of the qualification
of dreams, but I must admit—some dreams are better than
others.
Apart from the boundaries of his vision, the products of
Mister Hide’s process were marvels to behold, and would
dignify any nightmare in which you might encounter them.
It was perhaps the intrinsic limitations of his calling that
allowed for Hide to so completely encompass its nuances
and elevate its character, lifting the art of skin-swapping to
the level of visual philosophy. Skin should be so lucky as to
come under his knife.
Again, and likely not for the last time, the Shepherd’s
game would force me to destroy a kindred spirit, and my

294 | Mark Anzalone