I have had a lifelong fascination with horror movies, scary

Hear now the words of Cindy Sherman, the artist of masks and illusions, who declared: “I have had a lifelong fascination with horror movies, scary movies, how they work.” In this utterance lies not mere curiosity about the play of shadows on a screen, but the deeper yearning of the human soul to confront its own fears, to gaze upon the abyss and yet remain unbroken. For what are horror movies but mirrors of our hidden anxieties, and what is fascination but the spirit’s recognition of a truth too vast to be ignored?

The meaning of these words dwells in the secret bond between art and terror. The ancients knew this well, for in their myths they painted monsters and gods to embody dread. Medusa’s gaze, the Furies’ cries, the ghostly shade of Patroclus—these were the scary images of their time, crafted not for idle fright but for wisdom. Sherman reminds us that in every age, humanity seeks out scary stories, not because it delights in fear, but because it must learn to understand fear—how it works, how it moves the heart, how it shapes the mind. In this, terror itself becomes a teacher.

Consider the tale of the Greek tragedians, who set forth their dramas before the people of Athens. In the Theater of Dionysus, men and women wept and trembled as Oedipus discovered his fate or as Agamemnon fell beneath the knife. The audience did not flee from these horrors but embraced them, for through such staged terrors they learned pity, they learned humility, they learned the frailty of human pride. Just as Sherman peers into the mechanics of horror, the ancients too sought to understand why fear shakes the soul, and how art may transform dread into wisdom.

But there is also a more modern tale: recall the age of the Cold War, when fear of destruction hung heavy over nations. During that time, films like Invasion of the Body Snatchers or Night of the Living Dead arose—not merely as entertainments, but as dark parables. They embodied the terror of invasion, of conformity, of annihilation. The people, trembling in their seats, confronted in fiction the fears they dared not name aloud. Here again is the truth Sherman speaks: to study horror is to study the pulse of human history, the secret tremors of the collective heart.

The lesson to draw is not that one should delight in monsters or fill the mind with gloom, but that one must not turn away from fear. For fear unexamined becomes a tyrant, while fear understood becomes a servant. The artist who studies the mechanisms of the scary does not become its prisoner; rather, she learns its patterns, its timing, its subtle grip upon the mind. And by doing so, she transforms fear into insight, shadow into illumination.

So let each who hears these words practice this wisdom in their own life: do not flee from what unnerves you. Do not bury your anxieties in silence. Instead, study them, examine them, trace their roots, and see “how they work.” Whether it be the fear of failure, of rejection, of loss, or of the unknown, look upon it as Sherman looked upon the scary movies—not with trembling alone, but with curiosity, with fascination, with a hunger to learn.

Practical action follows from this teaching: keep a journal of your fears, as one might keep a gallery of phantoms; speak of them to a trusted friend, as audiences once gathered to face dread together; or confront them through art, through story, through symbol, until they lose their sting. In this way, fear becomes no longer an enemy but a pathway to growth.

Thus remember: the one who studies horror learns not only of monsters, but of men. And the one who dares to face the scary finds that terror, when unmasked, is but a teacher in disguise, guiding the soul toward courage, wisdom, and light.