“and its place remembers it no more” has to be one of the most satisfying stories I’ve read lately. I love stories about nature’s revenge, the balancing of the scales, and something like an emotion (or perhaps conscience) being given independent life, and this has all of that! What was the spark that eventually lit the fire for this story for you?

Thanks so much! I’m so happy you enjoyed it! The story is loosely inspired by the life of the real Franz Sieber, a Czech botanist who travelled around the world in the 1800s, collecting plant specimens along with various art and ethnographic objects. Sieber enjoyed considerable professional success during his lifetime and, in fact, a number of different plants are named in his honour. Sadly, the great botanist seems to have suffered from some undiagnosed mental health issues; both Sieber’s behaviour and his scientific publications became increasingly erratic and deranged as he approached middle age. Ultimately, Franz Sieber was committed to a Prague mental institution where he remained for fourteen years until his untimely death at the age of fifty-five. My idea with this story was to take the basic story of a botanist plagued by some inner demons as a jumping off point for a meditation on death, capitalist exploitation, and also my own struggles with mental health.

The opening of the story, where we’re with Sieber as he searches for and then finds the Hyacinth mercedes, reminded me of being a little kid watching David Attenborough specials and being fascinated by the levels of life that exist beyond our immediate awareness, specifically how those worlds of flora and fauna have their own sets of rules and behavioral expectations, though they might look like chaos to us. Your visual art is also expressive of a deep appreciation for nature. Has the natural world always been a creative inspiration for you?

Yes, natural history has absolutely been a huge influence on both my visual art and also this story. When I was a kid, I collected those old Peterson field guides about insects and plants and fungi. I would read those books cover-to-cover, as if they were novels, and I suppose that fixation left a lasting impact on me. There are also some elements of the story that draw directly from the natural world. For example: the idea that the Argian flowers owe their beauty to a parasitic worm is a direct reference to the tulip breaking virus—an infection that gradually kills the flower but also produces a beautiful flame-like colour pattern which was highly prized during the infamous Dutch Tulip Mania of the 1600s.

Speaking of your visual art, I was so taken by your detail of the creature. Can you describe for us the tableau as if you were to take this creature’s portrait as part of a photography series?

To be honest, I’m not sure if I can describe it in any concrete detail. I intentionally wrote the horde of Argian creatures to be somewhat ill-defined and blurry; the idea was that they represent a kind of descent into entropy, so I wanted that tendency toward disorder to be mirrored in their physical appearance. In this sense, the creatures’ design somewhat mirrors that of the flowers: they’re all broadly similar, yet they’re all unique.

What other works of visual art and literature is this piece in conversation with? Are there any pieces of art that you can point to that a reader might enjoy if they love this story?

At the heart of this story there’s a connection between flesh and flowers, which is an explicitly biblical notion. Indeed, the title of the piece comes directly from Psalm 106: “As for man, his days are like grass—he blooms like a flower of the field; when the wind passes over, it vanishes, and its place remembers it no more.” This same connection between flowers and mortality reappears in the floral still life arrangements of the Dutch Golden Age, which have been hugely influential on me as an artist. If any reader is interested in this subject, I’d suggest taking a look at the works of Rachel Ruysch, who was easily one of the greatest flower painters of her time.

In terms of literary influences, this story certainly owes a debt to Witold Gombrowicz and Italo Calvino, both in terms of its use of magical realism and in its playfulness and absurdity. Like those authors, I wanted to create a story that deals with heavy themes but is still, at its heart, a comedy. For anyone interested in those authors, I’d strongly recommend checking out either Invisible Cities or Cosmos, both of which are brilliant, in my opinion.

What does the rest of 2023 look like for Neal Auch?

I’m currently recovering from an injury, so in all likelihood 2023 is going to be a very quiet year for me. That being said, I have a few more short stories scheduled to appear and I’m in the process of putting the final touches on my first photography book, which will be a blend of still life and nonfiction essays.