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Started drawing some dp characters as ballet dancers because I'm trying to get better at drawing poses and and hands and expressions and ballet dancers are just fun to draw so yeah

I might make more later depending on motivation but y'all can request characters if u want I guess

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Art by Sofia Verigina

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The Wild Aguglia And Her Monkeys

by Djuna Barnes, gay icon

[ADHD translated, plain text under the cut]

Mimi Aguglia has entered into America as spice and pepper into a good pot roast. Into the world of cutlery has come a sharper knife. Into the well-ordered life of our society a human has catapulted some hundreds of pounds of passionate flesh. The devil is inadequate in his absolute grandeur when Mimi sleeps.

Back behind scenes, where the blue of Herod’s court lay chilly upon wilted palms that clung to dingy netting, the tropics just out of mothballs, Mimi Aguglia spoke of a temperamental world. “You have such Beautiful, calm Women in America; yes, and so simply gowned, and they do not have to marry because the family says so, and they do not have to stay in the house all day and wish they were born men that they might enter politics. The suffragist, ah!” The shoulders go up in a violent shrug. “The suffrage is not good for the woman; it is less good for the artist. Let the men do something, eh?” This very naively. “I have children. Off the stage I am a good mother; on, I am, I hope, a good actress. Always I love the animals, and oh! the lion Diaz gave me--I hug him so.

“I do not want the American to think I like only tragedy. I like the comedy; but the comedy depends upon the word, and I cannot make you understand. I’m going to begin with the less subtle emotions, so!”

The long, dark eyes, with their sudden flashes of white, glinted like the sun between two sullen borderlands. With the same inscrutable calm she watched the monkeys, the company’s monkeys, the company with six Aguglias on the program; the company which was entirely married and bids fair to become a Hippodrome production if multiplication continues at the present rate of speed.

In a quarter of an hour she was due as Salome, and yet she gathered handsful, armsful, of monkeys to her, and cried over them in Italian and spoke of the good spaghetti.

Then she stood before the public, palpitating in fine, small shivers, elemental emotions and spangled net. 

Slowly, with feet curled, she came, browned and spangled, and shaking with tinsel, blue in the blue light of the court, swaying prophetically. 

She took her balance on the brink of the well and offered John her soul in all the shapes that a heroically tragic woman could offer it, and was scorned. From every staccato scream, from every sudden-reached crescendo of misery, from every backward head shake and every troubled posture, in every lunge and the spasms of her dancing, she was getting her pride back. This was the epic of undulating spaghetti, turmoil of tragic chiffon, damp spurning feet. The back-thrust head, the lure and the scorn and the contempt and the desire of scarlet lips. And, then, the fight on the mat.

There wasn’t much left of John to gurgle over, only the matted, tousled hair that maddened her fingers into hazy shakings, and sudden darts and halts of the greedy palm. Then the cry and the tightening of the already taut body, with head and arms and passion in the platter. The very climax of Mimi Aguglia’s art of expression.

Silence, as she lies there, a figure before a head, contemplating the unresistance of resisting lips, and then the obeyed command, as twenty arms crash down upon her frail omnipotence. The overturned victory, the scream of death realized; woman-churned ether, and two straight, clutching hands dragging down sheer set jaws. The end of oblique eyes, the soft sound of a woman’s body threshing the inevitable, and--back to the monkeys again.

New York Press, December 28, 1913

I have Always Marveled at the way in which Barnes writes a story that is so poetically drafted it splits into two participating stories; here we read about a Dance, and about Sex, multiplied together upon the same line, weaving additional thematic harmony between Mimi the performer and Mimi the lover.

[readmore]

The Wild Aguglia And Her Monkeys

by Djuna Barnes, gay icon

Mimi Aguglia has entered into America as spice and pepper into a good pot roast. Into the world of cutlery has come a sharper knife. Into the well-ordered life of our society a human has catapulted some hundreds of pounds of passionate flesh. The devil is inadequate in his absolute grandeur when Mimi sleeps.

Back behind scenes, where the blue of Herod’s court lay chilly upon wilted palms that clung to dingy netting, the tropics just out of mothballs, Mimi Aguglia spoke of a temperamental world. “You have such Beautiful, calm Women in America; yes, and so simply gowned, and they do not have to marry because the family says so, and they do not have to stay in the house all day and wish they were born men that they might enter politics. The suffragist, ah!” The shoulders go up in a violent shrug. “The suffrage is not good for the woman; it is less good for the artist. Let the men do something, eh?” This very naively. “I have children. Off the stage I am a good mother; on, I am, I hope, a good actress. Always I love the animals, and oh! the lion Diaz gave me--I hug him so.

“I do not want the American to think I like only tragedy. I like the comedy; but the comedy depends upon the word, and I cannot make you understand. I’m going to begin with the less subtle emotions, so!”

The long, dark eyes, with their sudden flashes of white, glinted like the sun between two sullen borderlands. With the same inscrutable calm she watched the monkeys, the company’s monkeys, the company with six Aguglias on the program; the company which was entirely married and bids fair to become a Hippodrome production if multiplication continues at the present rate of speed.

In a quarter of an hour she was due as Salome, and yet she gathered handsful, armsful, of monkeys to her, and cried over them in Italian and spoke of the good spaghetti.

Then she stood before the public, palpitating in fine, small shivers, elemental emotions and spangled net.

Slowly, with feet curled, she came, browned and spangled, and shaking with tinsel, blue in the blue light of the court, swaying prophetically.

She took her balance on the brink of the well and offered John her soul in all the shapes that a heroically tragic woman could offer it, and was scorned. From every staccato scream, from every sudden-reached crescendo of misery, from every backward head shake and every troubled posture, in every lunge and the spasms of her dancing, she was getting her pride back. This was the epic of undulating spaghetti, turmoil of tragic chiffon, damp spurning feet. The back-thrust head, the lure and the scorn and the contempt and the desire of scarlet lips. And, then, the fight on the mat.

There wasn’t much left of John to gurgle over, only the matted, tousled hair that maddened her fingers into hazy shakings, and sudden darts and halts of the greedy palm. Then the cry and the tightening of the already taut body, with head and arms and passion in the platter. The very climax of Mimi Aguglia’s art of expression.

Silence, as she lies there, a figure before a head, contemplating the unresistance of resisting lips, and then the obeyed command, as twenty arms crash down upon her frail omnipotence. The overturned victory, the scream of death realized; woman-churned ether, and two straight, clutching hands dragging down sheer set jaws. The end of oblique eyes, the soft sound of a woman’s body threshing the inevitable, and--back to the monkeys again.

New York Press, December 28, 1913

I have Always Marveled at the way in which Barnes writes a story that is so poetically versed that it splits into two participating stories; here we read about a Dance, and about Sex, multiplied together upon the same line, weaving additional thematic harmony between Mimi the performer and Mimi the lover.

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WIP page for my book arts project. Every pair of polaroids caters to a specific aesthetic, and is captioned with a letter about life or smth.

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2017

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Undated. Unlocated. Unattributed.

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“Take a picture with me.”

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first dab

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The Ritual

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Joe