Velvet Worm Worship: Why This Bug Inspired Art Across Continents

If someone told you their artistic muse was a squishy, slow-moving worm that shoots slime out of its face, you’d probably assume they were…. halfway through an acid trip. But nope. The velvet worm is real, and for reasons that will never quite make logical sense (to me anyway), it’s quietly earned a cult following among artists, poets, and designers from Costa Rica to New Zealand. The best part? The velvet worm doesn’t care. It’s just out here, doing its sticky little thing, completely unaware that it’s been immortalized in everything from surrealist paintings to wearable sculpture. So, let’s find out how this whole velvet worm worship even started.

What Is a Velvet Worm?

Let’s start with the basics: velvet worms (also known as Onychophorans) look like something you’d find in a fantasy video game. They’re stubby, squish-bodied invertebrates with dozens of stubby legs, ranging in color from dusty blue to coral pink. Imagine if a caterpillar and a tiny bear made a mistake together, and then you added slime cannons. That’s the vibe.

Despite the name, they’re not actually worms. They’re their own evolutionary branch, dating back over 500 million years. They live in moist tropical and subtropical habitats, hiding under logs or leaves, and have a very specific skill set: slow stalking, and then rapid-fire glue gun action. When they catch prey, they shoot a fast-curing slime that hardens midair and traps insects. And somehow, that turned into a symbol of beauty and reverence for artists worldwide.

But Why Do Artists Care?

Honestly, it’s a fair question. There’s no ancient myth involving velvet worms. No war started over one. It’s not sacred in any major religion (that we know of). But what it lacks in mythology, it makes up for in vibes.

For starters, there’s the texture. The “velvet” in velvet worm is no joke—they’re covered in a soft, matte skin that looks like living suede. It doesn’t shimmer or shine. It just absorbs light in a way that makes it feel oddly luxurious for a jungle invertebrate.

Then there’s the movement. Velvet worms glide like they’re being puppeteered by a director obsessed with slow, suspenseful tension. They don’t walk so much as undulate. Watching one in motion is weirdly hypnotic—like if ASMR had a mascot.

And finally, there’s the slime attack. It’s dramatic. It’s elegant in its own disgusting way. Artists love a good duality: soft body, violent finish. Nature’s contradictions wrapped into one tiny creature.

Across Continents, Across Mediums

In New Zealand, where velvet worms are native and relatively well-known, they’ve been featured in jewelry, sculpture, and even political cartoons. There’s something inherently defiant about loving something so objectively “unlovable.” It becomes a symbol of finding beauty in the overlooked.

Costa Rican artists have gone a bit more surreal, incorporating velvet worms into fantastical dreamscapes—places where the worm isn’t a worm, but a bridge, a protector, a metaphor. (Artists are gonna art.)

In Germany and the Czech Republic, they’ve shown up in small-run zines and eco-poetry collections, often with captions that frame them as “gentle predators” or “forgotten royals of evolution.” They’re treated like underground legends—less flashy than big cats, more mysterious than butterflies.