Painting the Unseen: Art as Portal
“Here—this is for you,” my friend and fellow fusion bellydancer student announced one warm afternoon just before the start of our bellydance class.
Our studio was an old English church, reborn as an arts centre.
It was also haunted.
She handed me what appeared to be a large painting wrapped in green plastic. I frowned, intrigued, turning it over, trying to decipher the image beneath. All I could make out were clusters of eyes and what seemed to be a ray of penises.
“What is this?” I asked, grinning.
“Oh, I found it in a charity shop—I thought you’d appreciate it,” she said, grinning back. “There’s a sister painting. I have it.”
She pulled out her phone and showed me a photo of another painting featuring a Star of Babalon, a sun, and, once again, an abundance of eyes.
After class—sweaty, tired, but determined to get the large painting home—I braced myself for the hour and a half in the depths of the London Underground. The thing was too big to keep by my side, so I tucked it between my seat and the small exit door. Each time someone had to get in or out, I lifted it out of the way, drawing a stream of annoyed stares and impatient grunts from the other commuters.
Once home, I removed the green plastic, revealing the design hidden underneath. The background was a collage of red, blue, and yellow geometric shapes. At the centre, a ray of penises, each crowned by a pair of eyes. In the very middle, an upward-pointing triangle and a white dove descending. The sexual theme was overt, with clear nods to the Ophanim, Enochian magic and Thelema.
The Enochian system is a magical system based on angelic conversations— instructions received from ‘angelic beings’ whose ultimate purpose remains unknown. Dee and Kelley used it to discover hidden treasures, though they were unsuccessful. The Ophanim, however, are not angels in the traditional sense. They are wheels—circles that appear in Ezekiel’s vision as beings made entirely of eyes positioned near the throne of God. The idea that such pseudo-angelic beings might exist fits within the Enochian framework. Crowley encountered the Enochian system through the teachings of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. His understanding of it, however, was sui generis. The Golden Dawn had already restructured the original system, divorcing it from its original context. Crowley took this fractured inheritance into the desert and engaged the system alongside his magical assistant (and lover) Victor Neuburg. This work, later recorded as The Vision and the Voice, marked a unique approach that incorporated sexual techniques but omitted the use of traditional sigils.
I adjusted my newly acquired painting near one of the large bay windows of the house. Whatever rituals it had been part of, this piece remained silent, its eyes darting in my direction as I typed this blog—curious rather than menacing. The sister painting, however, did not sit as peacefully in its new home.
“The painting keeps falling on its own at odd hours, and I honestly can’t find an explanation,” my friend told me. “The thing is,” she continued, “it can’t fall from where I have placed it without other objects falling to the ground with it!”
We decided to investigate the strange phenomenon further. Armed with a tarot deck, we initiated a conversation with the haunted painting. We examined it and noticed a peculiar glue stain at the very top of the piece. Something had been affixed there. It appeared as if a circular sigil had been stuck onto the surface, or perhaps the painting had once been laid flat with a candle resting on it.
The tarot reading offered fascinating insights. We drew the Hermit, the Magus, and the Tower. The painting contained incredible energy but had to be handled with care.
I have always been fascinated by the idea that paintings can hold spirits or energies, becoming icons capable of enacting change. That belief lies at the heart of my artistic approach. I have found immense value in planning a painting after performing a ritual or engaging with a magical system. It speaks to the idea that the sacred does not begin and end with a robe (or lack of it) and a circle—it echoes outward, filtering into the magician’s life and continuing to percolate long after the ceremony ends. My paintings are a visual diary of the places I have encountered and the friends and foes I have crossed paths with through my practice.
I can distinctly remember the time I evoked the goetic spirit Seere. According to myth, it can reach any place on earth to accomplish the will of the conjurer, bring abundance and find hidden treasures.
Reading from my diary, I recall:
London – 07/03/2023
Preparation went smoothly. Once the ritual began, a single light, left on deliberately, turned off by itself (later inspection showed nothing was wrong with it). Seere appeared in the black mirror, first as flickering lights, then as flowing lines and water, and finally as black tentacles extending from the mirror. We went to bed afterwards—no dreams of note. In the morning, we woke to snow. Oddly, my wig was standing upright on the second bed in the studio as if someone had been wearing it.
The painting of Seere took time to complete. It was a Sunday morning, and I was seated in front of the windows to catch as much natural light as possible. I was down to the final details.
Then, reading from my notes again:
THE PAINTING: Interesting. When I finished (Tradition depicts Seere as a man riding a horse, which is what I had painted), I looked outside and saw a man riding a white horse. It strolled down the road, then vanished behind the green bushes.
I had seen police on horseback in my neighbourhood, so the sight was not entirely unusual. The thing is, officers always rode in pairs and wore uniforms.
Something just as strange happened after I completed the painting of Asmodeus. We had been planning his evocation but kept putting it off. On the evening of October 31st, we visited the Society of Antiquaries, a learned institution of historians and archaeologists in London, founded in 1707. For the occasion, they opened their doors to the public and displayed a selection of occult tomes dating back to the 1600s.
As we strolled through the dusty wooden rooms of the building, our eyes fell on a small, beautifully crafted tome displaying the sigils of Goetic spirits. Drawn in by its intricate design, I turned a few pages and landed on the sigil of Asmodeus.
I gasped. It felt like a clear sign.
During the evocation, I saw the spirit gazing at us through the black mirror as if peering through a keyhole. Then it turned its back, revealing a door glowing with golden light beyond it. Inspired by this vision, I painted the spirit and the door as accurately as I could remember.
It was an evening after work when I decided to add the sigil of Asmodeus. I was tired but determined to finish what I had started. The piece was simple, but at last, it was complete. I placed it on my double cube altar.
About ten seconds later, every light in the house went out.
I looked around, confused, then glanced out the window.
The entire neighbourhood had gone dark, including streetlights.
Neighbours began filing onto the street with flashlights, wandering as if trying to piece together what had just happened. A few minutes later, the power returned.
I shrugged it off.
I turned back to the painting and froze.
I had painted a golden light spilling from the door. Asmodeus was staring back at me, his tiny eyes glowing. It was him, I thought. He drained the energy and turned the lights off!
These experiences are not uncommon, especially when we look across different cultures. In this case, thanks to my friend, I came across an account of similarly strange events from a Bengali girl who shared stories passed down from her artist grandfather.
I will share her account here in full:
My grandfather was a painter, not widely renowned, but known for his paintings of deities. He often painted Hindu deities on commission. Two stories connected to these paintings defy explanation, suggesting that something mystical may have occurred.
I don't remember exactly when this began, but I know the painting came first. A Hindu temple commissioned my grandfather to paint a full-body portrait of a deity. I do not recall which Goddess it was, but she was one of the many worshipped by Bengalis. For context, my family is Bengali, and my grandfather was known for meeting tight deadlines. This time, however, the temple gave him more time, as it was a full portrait.
He gathered his supplies, set up his canvas, and prepared to start, but his hands would not move. He was not inspired—he did not know how to begin. He sat there, staring at the canvas for days. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The temple reached out when the deadline passed, but he had no explanation for the delay.
Then, one day, everything changed.
Before I explain what happened, let me describe his workspace. He usually painted in our living room—a rectangular room with two doorways on opposite sides. His canvas stood in the centre, surrounded by paints and his stool.
That day began like any other. He sat in front of his canvas, staring at it. Alone in the house, he had the space to himself. He does not remember exactly when it happened, but as he stared at the blank canvas, the room grew brighter. He turned and saw both doorways glowing with a brilliant, unnatural light. Stunned, he sat frozen.
He saw a figure emerging from one of the doorways. As it grew clearer, he realised it was a woman. Before he knew it, he entered a trance and began painting. He painted and painted, lost in the motion, until the painting was complete.
It was a portrait of a Goddess—and it radiated strange energy.
Most of my family, who later saw my grandfather in a trance, noticed nothing unusual. No one knows how long the painting took, but it was completed quickly. My grandfather did not remember entering the trance. He delivered the painting to the temple, where it remains. The priests claim it holds a powerful energy. I will not speculate, but my grandfather believed the Goddess visited him to ensure the accuracy of her image, so no one would disrespect her.
The second painting carried a very different, darker energy.
This one was of our Goddess Kali—the Goddess of time, death, and destruction—painted in oil with abstract lines and shapes. It depicted her face with her tongue out, as tradition demands. Though she is a revered figure in our religion, this painting had an ominous energy.
I am not familiar with the process behind this one, but I do know it was also commissioned. At first, nothing strange happened. The painting was completed and handed over. But soon after, the person returned it. It was odd—no one ever returned my grandfather’s works. When asked why, they explained that unusual things began happening since the painting entered their home—minor accidents at first, then increasingly severe incidents. They could no longer take it and did not want to risk further harm.
They returned the painting without asking for a refund.
That was odd, but it got stranger. My grandfather sold the painting again, and the new buyer returned it within a week for the same reasons. They did not ask for a refund.
The situation escalated from strange to absurd. The same painting was returned twice, each time with eerily similar experiences. But it did not stop there.
Someone bought the painting only to return it. Finally, it landed in the hands of a police commissioner. The ordeal took its toll on my grandfather, but after not hearing from the commissioner for over a week, he felt the painting had finally found its home. Still, a lingering worry troubled him.
To ease his mind, he and my father visited the police station to check on the commissioner and the painting. When they arrived, everything seemed normal. A staff member confirmed that the painting hung in the commissioner’s office. They were told the commissioner was out but could wait in his office.
Once they entered, they immediately noticed something: the painting was upside down. No one knew who had done it. They claimed it had been untouched.
My grandfather saw this as an omen. He told my father to take the painting, and they left.
Once the painting was brought home, everything returned to normal. My grandfather believed the painting carried powerful energy and that placing it in the wrong environment could cause harm.
The painting now rests in the room that once served as my grandfather’s workshop. To this day, I have not noticed anything unusual. But who knows—maybe there is something special about my grandfather’s paintings.
To conclude, I would like to share something directly connected to the themes explored in this article.
A special event in London from July 17 to 19, 2025.
Together with two fellow occult artists, we will host an exhibition at the atmospheric Crypt Gallery for three days of encounters with the strange and the numinous, featuring our artwork and belly dance performances.
More details to come soon.