There is a painting by the Serbian artist Dragan Bibin that has a hypnotic quality — it forces me to keep my eyes on it and stare into the darkness for at least a couple of minutes, no matter how many times I’ve already seen and studied it in detail.
It’s titled Deimos — an ancient Greek word that translates into Russian as “terror” or “dread.” And that’s exactly what seems to seep from the far room through the darkness toward us: a paralyzing, creeping dread.
Before we talk about what’s depicted in the painting, let’s consider the perspective from which we are viewing it. It’s not explicitly defined — everyone is free to interpret it in their own way. Personally, I imagine we’re seeing it through the eyes of the homeowner. I picture him sitting at a table, busy with his own affairs, suddenly interrupted by his pet’s strange behavior. This seems plausible due to the eye level in the painting — and it makes the moment more dramatic: Deimos caught him off guard, and from a sitting position, it would take him longer to react when danger crosses the threshold.
The main narrative element, I would say, is the dog. Try to imagine the canvas without it — and it instantly becomes less unsettling. As a creature with the sharpest instincts, the dog likely sensed the presence of something before anyone else. It’s through her behavior that the person in the room — and we, the viewers — become aware of the threat. But did she help by doing so? If not for the dog, could the intruder have slipped away unnoticed? Might they have left peacefully, thinking they weren’t discovered? Alas, now that we’ve stared into the darkness, we’ll never know.
The room we are in is cold and empty — there’s no furniture or décor visible, which makes it feel like there’s nowhere to hide. We’re exposed, vulnerable. There’s nothing to defend ourselves with either. The painting conceals whether there’s a second exit — or if escape is impossible, and we’ll have to face the threat whether we want to or not.
The most remarkable thing about the painting is the endless stream of questions it provokes. What is the person thinking? What will they do? Who hides in the darkness? A hostile intruder? A supernatural being? Or is it all a false alarm, fueled by imagination and the absence of light? And if someone really is there — what will they do next? That feeling of uncertainty — worse than any concrete fact — that dreadful moment of not knowing what to expect in the next second… that’s the essence of what the painting is named after: terror. If we knew what it was, we could prepare. But the unknown danger forces us to run through one scenario after another — without enough time to choose. A second in such moments can feel like an eternity, but soon it will pass, and the threat will reveal itself, whether we want it to or not.
But here’s why I’m telling you about Deimos: it’s a perfect example of how artists can create entirely new narratives and train their imagination by changing perspective and interpreting existing works differently.
Just imagine, for a moment, that we are viewing the situation from inside the dark room. Perhaps we’re standing behind the monster, seeing only parts of its terrifying shape, realizing — it’s ready to step out. In the distance, we see the petrified homeowner, unsure of how to react. He has yet to see the creature. We, the audience, know a bit more and understand what he’s about to face.
Now imagine the creature isn’t looking into that room at all — because something else caught its attention. Let’s say, in the hallway, the monster encounters a child staring at it in shock. From the corner of its eye, the creature sees the room with the dog and the owner, but they’re not its focus. Suddenly the situation becomes even more intense: the head of the household must overcome his fear and take the first step to protect someone he loves.
Now let’s flip the whole scenario. What if the monster isn’t in the darkness, but in the brightly lit room? And we, awakened by barking and strange noises coming from a part of the house where the lights shouldn’t be on, see the unknown creature exploring our home. The dog has turned toward us — perhaps trying to gauge our reaction. It hasn’t been harmed — maybe that means the creature isn’t aggressive, and we can resolve this without violence? But then the guest senses our presence and turns toward us. A better look reveals: only one of us is getting out of this alive.
Maybe you’ve noticed that in all these variations, there’s always a monster. But what if we removed them entirely? In that case, the painting becomes even more terrifying.
In the only lit room of a completely silent house, a man sits slumped at the table, his head resting as if he’d fallen asleep mid-task. In the pitch-black hallway, someone stands, not stepping into the light, still hoping the person they came to see will stir — lift their head, open their eyes, or shift slightly to prove they are still breathing. But it seems none of that will happen. And now it’s a story about someone trying to prolong the moment of uncertainty — refusing to confirm what they already suspect: that the person they loved is dead. Meanwhile, the dog silently stares, as if asking, “Why didn’t you come sooner?”
I’d be glad if any of these ideas resonated with you or inspired your own creative work. I hope the method itself proves useful to someone.
Deimos. On How to Create New Paintings from Existing Ones
There is a painting by the Serbian artist Dragan Bibin that has a hypnotic quality — it forces me to keep my eyes on it and stare into the darkness for at least a couple of minutes, no matter how many times I’ve already seen and studied it in detail.
It’s titled Deimos — an ancient Greek word that translates into Russian as “terror” or “dread.” And that’s exactly what seems to seep from the far room through the darkness toward us: a paralyzing, creeping dread.
Before we talk about what’s depicted in the painting, let’s consider the perspective from which we are viewing it. It’s not explicitly defined — everyone is free to interpret it in their own way. Personally, I imagine we’re seeing it through the eyes of the homeowner. I picture him sitting at a table, busy with his own affairs, suddenly interrupted by his pet’s strange behavior. This seems plausible due to the eye level in the painting — and it makes the moment more dramatic: Deimos caught him off guard, and from a sitting position, it would take him longer to react when danger crosses the threshold.
The main narrative element, I would say, is the dog. Try to imagine the canvas without it — and it instantly becomes less unsettling. As a creature with the sharpest instincts, the dog likely sensed the presence of something before anyone else. It’s through her behavior that the person in the room — and we, the viewers — become aware of the threat. But did she help by doing so? If not for the dog, could the intruder have slipped away unnoticed? Might they have left peacefully, thinking they weren’t discovered? Alas, now that we’ve stared into the darkness, we’ll never know.
The room we are in is cold and empty — there’s no furniture or décor visible, which makes it feel like there’s nowhere to hide. We’re exposed, vulnerable. There’s nothing to defend ourselves with either. The painting conceals whether there’s a second exit — or if escape is impossible, and we’ll have to face the threat whether we want to or not.
The most remarkable thing about the painting is the endless stream of questions it provokes. What is the person thinking? What will they do? Who hides in the darkness? A hostile intruder? A supernatural being? Or is it all a false alarm, fueled by imagination and the absence of light? And if someone really is there — what will they do next? That feeling of uncertainty — worse than any concrete fact — that dreadful moment of not knowing what to expect in the next second… that’s the essence of what the painting is named after: terror. If we knew what it was, we could prepare. But the unknown danger forces us to run through one scenario after another — without enough time to choose. A second in such moments can feel like an eternity, but soon it will pass, and the threat will reveal itself, whether we want it to or not.
But here’s why I’m telling you about Deimos: it’s a perfect example of how artists can create entirely new narratives and train their imagination by changing perspective and interpreting existing works differently.
Just imagine, for a moment, that we are viewing the situation from inside the dark room. Perhaps we’re standing behind the monster, seeing only parts of its terrifying shape, realizing — it’s ready to step out. In the distance, we see the petrified homeowner, unsure of how to react. He has yet to see the creature. We, the audience, know a bit more and understand what he’s about to face.
Now imagine the creature isn’t looking into that room at all — because something else caught its attention. Let’s say, in the hallway, the monster encounters a child staring at it in shock. From the corner of its eye, the creature sees the room with the dog and the owner, but they’re not its focus. Suddenly the situation becomes even more intense: the head of the household must overcome his fear and take the first step to protect someone he loves.
Now let’s flip the whole scenario. What if the monster isn’t in the darkness, but in the brightly lit room? And we, awakened by barking and strange noises coming from a part of the house where the lights shouldn’t be on, see the unknown creature exploring our home. The dog has turned toward us — perhaps trying to gauge our reaction. It hasn’t been harmed — maybe that means the creature isn’t aggressive, and we can resolve this without violence? But then the guest senses our presence and turns toward us. A better look reveals: only one of us is getting out of this alive.
Maybe you’ve noticed that in all these variations, there’s always a monster. But what if we removed them entirely? In that case, the painting becomes even more terrifying.
In the only lit room of a completely silent house, a man sits slumped at the table, his head resting as if he’d fallen asleep mid-task. In the pitch-black hallway, someone stands, not stepping into the light, still hoping the person they came to see will stir — lift their head, open their eyes, or shift slightly to prove they are still breathing. But it seems none of that will happen. And now it’s a story about someone trying to prolong the moment of uncertainty — refusing to confirm what they already suspect: that the person they loved is dead. Meanwhile, the dog silently stares, as if asking, “Why didn’t you come sooner?”
I’d be glad if any of these ideas resonated with you or inspired your own creative work. I hope the method itself proves useful to someone.