#but stylised beyond recognition

[intheconfessiondial]

Seaforth

12 months of 12 - January

[nememachine]

BLOODHOUND.masterpost (WIP)

A terrorist attack has left Britain in the midst of a zombie pandemic. The ‘Disease’ turns humans into monsters - mutants beyond recognition, turning cities to dust and drawing innocents into their evergrowing hivemind.

Enter the Bloodhounds; a superhuman spec-ops unit, and one of the country’s last hopes.

When one of their members loses their memory during an arson attack, the Bloodhounds are determined to locate the group responsible. During their investigation, however, they learn of a much darker terrorist plot that could not only destroy them, but what little remains of society.

~

Tldr; I've been writing a book for 10+ years and I'm finally posting it!

If you like action, body h0rror, and B-Movie cheese, please consider giving it a read.

Trigger warning for violence and gore.

Currently available on Wattpad!

What is BLOODHOUND?

Bloodhound (stylised as BLOODHOUND.) is a post-apocalyptic sci-fi project. It revolves around a group of superhuman soldiers - the titular Bloodhounds - fighting a biomechanical plague and the terrorist group that spread it. The project has been in the works since late 2013, and is primarily a novel series.

The lore of the Bloodhound universe is inspired by the works of Digital Extremes, Gen Urobuchi and Hideo Kojima.

The book is currently unfinished, but I don't know if I'm ever going to finish it, so I'm putting the current draft up for everyone to enjoy (ironically and unironically). Any feedback is appreciated, as I have a lot of passion projects in my backlog that I'd love to share with the world as well.

The Story

The year is 2048. A terrorist organisation has infected the world with a biomechanical virus, known simply as the Disease. Victims are dragged into a hivemind, skin hardening like steel, their bodies twisted and warped beyond recognition. These Diseased have only one goal; to continue its spread.

Scientists around the world began to collaborate, in search of a cure. Britain - the first target of the Disease - managed to reverse-engineer the virus while trying to create a vaccine. The nanites in this ‘Anti-Disease’ not only acted as immunity against its counterpart, but granted superhuman abilities and protected hosts from injury by hardening the skin, without permanent damage. 

And so, the Ministry of Defense came up with a unique proposal for defending its citizens. They transformed this early vaccine into a Psionic system that grants powerful abilities, through a neurolink that connects to complex military technology. The result was the Bloodhounds - a special operations unit dedicated to fighting the most powerful Diseased thralls and saving what remains of humanity.

One day, however, one of its members is lured away by the same terrorist group that started the pandemic. He awakens with no memory of his past life, only to discover he’s been infected, the virus having slipped through his Psionic’s defence system. The group bands together to get their revenge, only to discover that their enemy is planning something far greater - something that could wipe out all of them.

Characters

The protagonist designs were initially inspired by AT's Secret Weapon line of theme park rides, and later on took inspiration from gods from greek mythology. Originally conceived in 2010, the cast was repurposed with their own lore, setting and story.  

Unfortunately, I don't have character refs for all of them at this time, but here's the best I've got of the main four: Jesse, Andrew, Chloe and Zora.

There are other characters with the same design principles, but I won't be including them in the post until later updates.

The villain of the story - an entity known as Lynx - doesn't follow the same design trend as the other characters. Instead, they're based on biomechanical entities such as the technocyte plague from DarkSector and the WAU from Soma.

(TBC)

[cemeterysgirl]

ㅤㅤsasha was an immature girl. twenty-six, but still a girl. too many missed childhood years, too many core memories never formed, for her to ever truly make up for. if such a thing was possible. from immaturity stemmed an inability to address her addictive personality; easily growing obsessive over sex, theft, violence, substances, and, most recently, him — but to name a few.

ㅤㅤadvances had been far from subtle, always knowing exactly where to be and, most importantly, when. the perks of being self-employed. so much empty time that sasha was just begging to fill. even if there was one, girlfriend-shaped obstacle standing in her way. she was wearing one of the shirts from their merch, nearly stylised beyond recognition into a taut-fitting bra, complimented by snug, pvc skirt, and paired with thigh-high boots made of the same material as her skirt. she didn't look like she belonged, but she never really did.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ" says a lot, doesn't it? that i'm here, and she's no where to be seen. "

ㅤㅤlong, black, coffin-shaped nails traced along his chest; inky eyes hooded by thick, batting lashes as she gazed up at him. standing dangerously close despite the risks of being seen. " i just hope that nothing bad has happened to her. i mean— you'd have to lock me up and cuff me to keep me away from you... "

closed starter for @athl3tes, based on.

[jessnipperessresearchportfolio]

Part A Artist Statement Block 1

In that strange way that things become crystal and warped at night, once the bustle and performance of the crowds has trickled away, familiar spaces can become stranger, subtler, almost otherworldly…

I’m fascinated by liminality and transitory spaces in our commercial, modern world. To me, ‘sense of place’ in our modern, digital and post industrial world is a distorted idea, as people feel increasingly placeless and drifting. I have chosen to explore this idea through a series of surreal photographs set in a supermarket, which is an ideal instance of a hypermodern environment.

Supermarkets, late at night, once the facade is seemingly dropped, always evoke this strange sense of liminality in me. My perspective becomes similar to that of a Bauderlian flaneur, drifting and disembodied. For this reason, I wanted to use photography, which feels flaneurial and immediate, but to stylise the supermarket scenes almost beyond recognition with colour grading and imposing juxtaposing figures and scenes into the world. I want to further elaborate on the idea of disembodiment and a loss of self through some slow shutter portraiture, which distorts people’s features and gives them a sense of ghostly impermanence.

[skustudioo]

Make a Strong First Impression with Headshots That Work

In a digital-first world, your photo often introduces you before you've even said a word. Whether it's for LinkedIn, a business profile, an acting portfolio or a website, your headshot is part of your personal brand. A well-composed image speaks volumes about your professionalism, confidence and approachability. In industries where credibility and personality matter, a headshot isn't just a formality—it's an asset. Choosing to invest in this aspect of your image ensures you're not overlooked in a competitive space, both online and offline.

What to Expect from a Headshot Photography Service

A specialised headshot photography service goes beyond simply taking a photo. It's a collaborative process where lighting, background, expression and wardrobe are carefully considered to match your goals. Whether you're aiming for a corporate look, something creative, or more casual, the photographer helps guide you to ensure the result fits your purpose. The setting may be in-studio or on-location, depending on the mood you're after. More than just capturing your face, the right headshot service captures the essence of how you wish to be perceived.

Headshots for Different Professions and Needs

Not all headshots are created equal. An actor's portfolio requires a different style from a business consultant's LinkedIn profile. Creatives might lean into more expressive and stylised images, while professionals may opt for polished, straightforward portraits. The nuances in expression, lighting and framing matter. A good headshot feels natural and effortless, even though there's a level of planning involved. This is why working with someone experienced in adapting to different professions can make the entire process smoother and more result-driven.

Elevate Your Image with Headshot Photography Toronto

There's no shortage of talent when it comes to headshot photography Toronto, but choosing the right studio can make a significant difference. From corporate professionals to artists, clients across Toronto seek photographers who understand their individual needs. It's not about producing cookie-cutter results but rather creating a headshot that aligns with your goals. Toronto's creative energy and diverse industries demand a thoughtful approach to headshots that stand out in busy professional spaces without feeling overproduced or artificial.

How a Strong Headshot Supports Your Brand

Beyond first impressions, a great headshot is a strategic part of your personal branding. It builds recognition across platforms and adds consistency to your digital presence. People trust faces they recognise, and a clear, confident image fosters that connection. Whether you're job hunting, networking or building a business, a strong headshot reminds people of who you are and what you represent. It communicates your personality and professionalism in a single frame without saying a word.

Where to Begin Your Headshot Journey

Getting your headshot taken can feel daunting, but the right environment makes all the difference. It starts with a photographer who listens, offers guidance and creates a space where you feel comfortable. If you're considering a headshot photography service or looking for headshot photography Toronto, the journey begins with understanding your goals and capturing them visually. For tailored, professional headshots that reflect you, visit skustudio.ca to book your session today.

[chestnut-b]

Himawari Chapter 8

Beneath a masked smirk, the letter found a comfortable home in his breast pocket. 

Note to self. Iruka is truly a man of extremes. A Hashira offers him a souvenir, and he asks for Orochimaru’s head or nothing at all.

Chapter 8 of a Demon Slayer AU

In the blink of an eye, summer had passed.

Iruka looked out into the vast forest as the winds of autumn blew past. The colours were already well in the midst of changing; green giving way to golds and reds. The lush soundscape of summer was no more, instead, the winds carried crisp, dry notes that only served to accent the chill that settled in his bones.

He sat now in what was a certain Hashira’s preferred napping spot, high above the school grounds. It had been a few months since the man had left, but now, in the teacher’s lap, a tired hound was napping, warm and content.

Iruka gazed at the slip of paper in his hand. He had to keep a good grip on it, lest a sudden gust of wind carried it off. Admittedly, he’d gone over its contents five times by now, but surely, he thought, one more time couldn’t hurt.

Iruka-sensei,

At the time of writing this, I’m still alive, isn’t that nice?

If you are too, then I’m glad it wasn’t a wasted trip for Bisuke.

You’ve spoiled him, and he’s pickier about his treats now, but I guess that’s fine.

Not much excitement where I am I’m afraid, and not much good tea either.

If you’d like a souvenir, you need only ask, though Guruko can’t carry very much. Please be reasonable, sensei.

It was signed off with a gracefully brushed henohenomoheji.

Iruka’s other hand rested in Bisuke’s fur. He stroked it absentmindedly, sighing.

“Bisuke, what do you think I should ask for?”

The hound in question merely whined, and nestled his head deeper under the sleeve of his haori. With a chuckle, Iruka carefully folded the paper back up, his fingers running over each fold and crease, before tucking it into his breast pocket. He let his palm linger on his chest.

It’d gotten just a bit warmer.

--------------------------------------

“Sakura? What’s the matter?”

The next morning, Iruka had seen Bisuke off, well fed and rested. He was in the middle of making his afternoon rounds when his ears picked up the sounds of soft crying. The school had been set up in an abandoned shrine compound, and he’d found her behind the aged offering box, below the large twisted ropes and bells.

“I-Iruka-sensei.” She lifted her head, her cheeks red and tear stained.

He crouched before her and placed a hand on her head.

“I’m here. What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?”

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “I miss my parents.” She cried.

Iruka looked at his surroundings.

That’s right...her parents were shrine keepers.

Iruka hadn’t met them, but he knew they’d sheltered many slayers over the years, more than a few who were only alive today thanks to their intervention. The Harunos had been talented herbalists, and he’d come across their books on numerous occasions in Sarutobi’s library.

“I’m scared, sensei. I know we’re supposed to fight, but when I think about demons, all I can think about is running away.” She admitted, clutching her knees closer.

Iruka’s chest tightened. The child had only been here for half a year.

“Sakura, it’s only natural to feel that way. We’re human.” With the edge of his sleeve, he started to dry her cheeks. “Until you’re able to take care of yourself, we’re all here to protect you.” He’d say it as many times as he needed to.

“But the selections-“

“If you don’t want to take them, you don’t have to.” That was really the only saving grace in all this, he thought somberly. “If you want to follow in your parents’ footsteps, there are other ways to do it, Sakura. You don’t have to fight.”

“R-Really?” The relief in her eyes was apparent.

Iruka smiled gently, nodding. Getting up slowly, he offered her his hand.

“We’re teaching you to fight so you can protect yourself. Even if you don’t join the corp, there will always be a place for you.” He explained. Taking her small hand in his, he helped her to her feet.

Truth be told, it was something he always wished he could say to Naruto, but even he wasn’t sure those words would hold up under the weight of his destiny. Sakura at least, he didn’t have to worry for. If the Senju wouldn’t take her in, Sarutobi would. He’d see to it himself if it came down to it.

Hand in hand, they started to walk back into the compound. The rest of the children were playing catch, and their laughter echoed through the pavilion. By now, picking out Naruto’s voice amidst the chaos was second nature to Iruka.

Feeling a little more at ease, Sakura tugged gently on his hand, prompting him to face her.

“But sensei, fighting with swords, it’s a little fun.” She smiled sheepishly.

Iruka laughed and winked at the girl.

“Isn’t it? Sakura, don’t lose out to the boys. If they get out of hand when I’m not around, you’ll have to knock some sense into them for me.”

The smile widened into a returning grin.

“Ok!”

--------------------------------------

Months he’d spent ranging and searching, only to reach another dead end.

I should be used to this by now. How many years has it been?

Kakashi stepped back to lean against a tree, his hands resting on the hilt of the blade propped before him. The moon, previously obscured by a sea of clouds before the battle, finally revealed itself, casting a soft light on the surrounding area.

It was a scene of pure carnage.

A small rural village had been wiped out by a single demon. The bodies left uneaten were strewn about, marred beyond recognition. The women and children had been taken first.

They were always taken first.

If he’d arrived just two days earlier, he could have saved these people.

Stop it, Kakashi. If you carry on like this, you’ll-

Shut up, Gai.

The Hashira sheathed his blade. He’d found a spot upwind, away from the stench of blood and decay. Taking a seat at the base of the tree, he brought his fingers to his lips, and soon a sharp whistle cut through the dead silence of the night. It wasn’t long before a crow descended, landing on his arm. With its usual beady stare, it waited for instructions.

“Call for the kakushi.”

The support members from the nearest outpost would need to deal with the aftermath. He couldn’t afford to be held up by the local authority. After all, the demon slayers didn’t have any kind of recognition from the governing powers.

The crow crooned softly before taking off into the sky. With a tired, hooded gaze, Kakashi watched as its dark silhouette melted into the night.

You aren’t too fond of them, are you?

An amused voice echoed in his head.

Exhausted, Kakashi didn’t resist the inviting pull of the recollection.

The teacher had watched him send off another report one late afternoon. He sat under the shade of the large tree that stood between their rooms. Unlike the cold glow of the moon, the light that fell was a warm gold, dappled. Bisuke had taken a liking to being curled up in Iruka’s lap, a habit he’d apparently picked up from Guruko, and the youth had been engrossed in a book that was decidedly not Icha-Icha.

It was true, he admitted. Kakashi wasn’t overly attached to his assigned crow messenger. That was why he had his hounds. Traveling on a plane of existence humans had no access to, they were only marginally slower than the birds. Impending tragedies, proclamations of death and loss. Any time a crow cried, it could be sending a slayer to his last battle.

No, unlike some of his comrades, he couldn’t find a reason to be fond of his messenger, exactly.

He walked up beside the teacher and leaned against the trunk of the tree.

“When was the last time a crow brought you good news then?” He’d challenged.

Iruka put down his book and closed his eyes with a considering look. His lips slowly turned into a smile, the kind that broadcasted thoughts of unabashed wickedness. Propping his chin with his hand, he looked up to Kakashi with a gleam in his eyes.

“Hmm. Obviously, when it told me you’d be coming here!”

Kakashi’s visible eye twitched incredulously.

Iruka tried to keep a straight face, but quickly ended up turning his head away, bringing a hand to his mouth in a sorry attempt to stifle his laughter.

“Oi, don’t laugh so hard at your own joke.” he’d sighed, exasperated.

It only served to have the opposite effect. Bisuke, awoken by the shaking, looked up, blinking at Kakashi blearily.

After a few more awkward moments, the laughter finally settled.

“But you know, in hindsight, it’s not a joke. I really do mean it” Iruka sighed with a soft expression.

Kakashi didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed he felt pleased by the admission, weirdly enough. He’d been sent to do a job, and while he’d dreaded it at first, being away from where he was most useful, he couldn’t say it was a complete waste of time. Iruka had proven to be a patient teacher in the art of fuda seals. It was also undeniably interesting to watch him at work; the paper coming to life with scriptures composed of inky, stylised crows.

Regrettably, the techniques used for the bounded field required a deep knowledge and understanding of the terrain, far beyond what he had time for. While he couldn’t hope to achieve the same level of expertise by a long shot, he’d been taught a few tricks, and he always appreciated the opportunity to pick Iruka’s brain.

“You don’t have a crow of your own?”

Iruka shook his head. “You know I don’t get sent out on missions. Even the sword I use now belonged to my father.”

Another curiosity.

“Well, I can only say you’re not missing much. They’re supposed to be for official use only.” He’d said ‘supposedly’, remembering at the back of his mind, the numerous occasions Gai sent his just to annoy him.

Loud and brash, just like its owner. It even had a bowl cut to match.

Iruka leaned his head back against the tree. A group of starlings had soared by after emerging from the surrounding forest, their cries echoing in the evening sky.

He looked up at them wistfully, an expression that reminded him painfully of Tenzou. He’d often done the same.

“You may be right about that. I’d probably just grow to become envious of it.” He chuckled.

Kakashi watched the last of the birds disappear.

“Envious of their freedom?”

“Hmm...You think they’re free just because they can fly, Kakashi-san?”

Ever the casual philosopher, he’d come to know Iruka’s fondness for throwing him questions like these.

Kakashi thought of his own situation. Unlike the other Hashira who watched over their own territories, after Tenzou’s death, he’d been granted leave to move as he pleased, to retire from his post, if he so wished to. He could go anywhere he wanted.

But no, he didn’t think of it as freedom in any sense of the word.

“I suppose even a bird needs a place to rest its wings.” He said after some consideration.

After a long pause, Iruka bowed his head, eyeing the sleeping hound in his lap. Then he whispered, with a voice that spoke of wishes, of places far beyond his reach.

“Maybe true freedom…means having a place to return to.”

“Maybe.”

--------------------------------------

The approaching human presence pulled him from his rest. The moon still hung in the sky. It hadn’t been long.

Dressed in the uniform blacks, face obscured by a headdress, a corp member stood at attention before him. He looked just a bit nervous.

“Kakushi, reporting for duty, Hashira-sama! Do you require any medical attention?”

Kakashi shook his head, and took to his feet.

“Carry on with your duties. They need to be given proper burials. I’m heading off. I don’t sense any other demons, but stay alert.”

“Understood! May you see victory on the battlefield, Hatake-dono.” He bowed. He passed a satchel of fresh supplies to Kakashi before joining the rest of his comrades.

A thoroughly unpleasant job, but someone has to do it.

An hour later he found himself enjoying the hospitality of an elderly pair of bamboo cutters who had spotted and hailed him from the road. Sitting around a small fire, they offered him a bowl of hearty stew and to his surprise, a small cup of sake. He’d refused at first, but the couple had insisted.

“A small token for those who risk their lives protecting us.” The lady said, pressing the cup into his hands. The man with her explained that they too, had once been saved by a slayer on the road.

The Hashira didn’t have the heart to tell them they’d very nearly avoided a death trap not too far away. He would stay with them tonight, at least.

After the couple had retired for the evening, Kakashi stationed himself in the trees above. He would have fallen asleep too, had he not sensed Bisuke’s presence nearby. It had been nearly a week since he’d been sent off to the Forest of Death.

The hound materialised before him, and after receiving a grateful scratch, turned around to allow Kakashi to retrieve his quarry.

The first, a letter in a familiar, careful script.

Kakashi-san,

It is good to hear that you are alive. I do hope it remains so.

My thanks for sending Bisuke, the children enjoy his company, but not nearly as much as I do. Working for you, he deserves every bit of spoiling he gets.

As for a souvenir, I would have requested for Orochimaru’s head, but you did ask me to be reasonable. Instead, should you find yourself visiting headquarters again, I would ask that you find time for a detour. A selfish request, I know, but it would be appreciated. Naruto was just a bit disappointed that he didn’t see you leave with his own two eyes.

Having heard of your unfortunate circumstances, I’ve sent a small consolation. Should it run out, you’re more than welcome to send one of the hounds. I hope it brings you some comfort in your time of need.

Lastly, while you’re out there, why not take the opportunity to pick up some better quality reading material? Jiraiya-sama sends his regards, but also asks me to tell you he’s disappointed that you didn’t listen to him. Whatever that means.

Stay safe, and may fortune go with you.

Iruka

It was only too easy to hear his voice narrating it.

He chuckled as he read it one more time.

Note to self. Iruka is truly a man of extremes. A Hashira offers him a souvenir, and he asks for Orochimaru’s head or nothing at all.

Beneath a masked smirk, the letter found a comfortable home in his breast pocket.

Accompanying it was a small pouch holding a small container. He didn’t have to look to figure out its contents, but he did so anyway. The earthy fragrance of tea; a precious portion of Iruka’s personal stash.

It brought to mind quiet afternoons in amicable company, the warmth of a hearth, and shared, amused laughter.

“Bisuke, don’t go gloating about this to the rest. They’re going to get jealous.”

The hound grinned before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Alone, Kakashi looked up at the moon.

It seemed to glow a little warmer now.

One more thing to add to my list of duties, he sighed.

He’d have to find something good enough to send back for the tea.

--------------------------------------

End of Chapter 8

--------------------------------------

Author’s notes:

Woo, can’t believe we’re already at Chapter 8! What started out as a joke drawing has exploded into a completely, unexpectedly long fic with over 14 illustrations planned so far. I’ve never written anything longer than 2k words the past 15 years or so, so this has been a real brain stretcher. Thank you all for your kudos and comments so far, I always enjoy reading them! (They certainly encourage me to keep this on a regular schedule!)

Sometimes I also forget that not everyone is familiar with Demon Slayer, but I hope it’s been easy enough to follow along! Even if you aren’t, I don’t think you’re missing too much since I’ve made changes to certain parts of it. : )

Terminology and Fun facts:

Kakushi - ‘Hidden’ brigade (sounds very similar to Kakashi huh). They do all the clean up work following a battle. Typically staffed by non-combatants.

Fuda (Seals) - Protective charms that were, in real life, distributed by Shinto and Buddhist priests. The inspiration for Iruka’s is directly taken from the Kumano Hongu Taisha Shinto shrine in Japan. Googling “crow ofuda” will give you a good idea of what it looks like.

Again, thank you for following along so far! I’m having a lot fun writing and drawing for this : ) (at least, before I crank the pain factor up to 11).

See you in the next chapter!

[grimsauce]

3 things I want to know about you, tho obviously not anon. 1: If you could talk to young you as you started your art journey, what would you tell her to help her along the learning process? 2: What aspect of art do you feel you struggle the most with currently and what helps you with it? 3: What aspect is your strongest and what would you suggest for people who struggle with it?

1. Honestly, I'm not sure beyond 'Just do something and practice more'. Just be consistent as much as possible.

2. I struggle with motivation and recognition more than anything, because whilst my skill may drop or waiver, it can always be linked to my lack of doing. Like most folk, my drive is linked to my mental wellbeing, and as that fluctuates, so does my ability to create. That combined with my Autism and BPD means I often go for long periods where the idea of creating anything is just too much. I had a mental breakdown back at the start of 2017 that left me with no energy to draw to completion for almost 2 years. Then there's the recognition bugbear. We're always told as artists that we should create for ourselves, and that we shouldn't care who does or doesn't see our work, but life doesn't work that way. We all want others to see and enjoy our art, to interact with it, to make someone smile or think, so when you share your work and it repeatedly gets ignored and lost to the void, it's disheartening. I'm not a social person, and have always struggled to garner a following or community anywhere I go, be it in person or online, with this blog being my most successful at 5k (How I managed that is beyond me) but even here I'm lucky to get 3 notes. Just for a laugh I thought I'd check my DA notifications, of the 12 interactions since May, 8 of those accounts have been deactivated. As for what helps, I try to surround myself with inspiring books and imagery. I recently picked up a book of colour palettes, and just flipping through it and seeing the colour combinations makes me want to create. Also, sites like Unsplash, just scroll through and look for images that evoke a mood and go from there.

3. Ah strengths, the hardest part. Honestly I haven't a clue. Maybe that I'm not locked into one style, and that I have studied the foundations and anatomy rather than just learning from others stylised art. This means I can produce both realism pieces as well as more stylised pieces. Getting anatomy books or reference images is a massive resource that are an immense help. People need to be less scared of using reference, don't listen to the dreadful art teachers and online opinion that doing so is cheating or makes your art lesser. All artists use reference, especially the greats of history, they'd literally have people flopped about the place to paint and draw from. /if they could have snapped photos, they would have.

[loyally-unfaithful]

—; hey, i don’t need any love or future , (3)

word count: 3.1k

pairing: sky high | keith goodman/gn!reader

genre: angst, hurt-no-comfort

summary: even if it meant that he spent more time away from you, than with  you—for the safety of everyone living in this city, including you, he will keep going. if it were to protect everyone here, if it were to protect you, he will keep going. for your smile, for your laughter, his sun.

if it were for your happiness, he will keep going.  

a/n: i have literally never written an action scene send help ,,,, there is only so many ways for me to describe air in a threatening way dkslfjalkfjand

also, wiki says sky high's hobby includes thinking,,,, hmmm he thonking

he is surprisingly perceptive and oblivious at once, in equal measures, scary haha

he was heading home, so how did he even get here in the first place?

he’s not as naive as people may think. sure, he has his moments; sure, his airheadedness may have been an integral part of his personality. perhaps keith could even be qualified as foolishly optimistic. but the hero’s occasional obliviousness is what made him him, it was what made him charming. it was what endeared him to you. but clueless and lacking tact he was not. it was hard to be when one has been in the industry for as long as he has. certes, he may not have as many years under his belt as wild tiger or rock bison, but he has gone through his fair share of rodeos. enough time for the novelty and the lustre to wear off. enough times for him to get acquainted with the notion that being a hero isn’t all that simple and evident—not that the blond was looking for an easy way to further his own reputation or to revel in the limelight. but after enough times, once the glitter and sparkle has worn off, the personal sacrifices made often outweighed what was won as the career grew to become increasingly demanding.

it isn’t just as easy as appealing to sponsors and scoring points. it’s not just as effortless as repeating the speech you prepared beforehand and rehearsed out loud in front of your own reflection. it isn’t just a matter of apprehending “bad guys”, branding yourself as the paragon of virtue and justice by capturing what people would label as scums. after all, he knows better than to assume that right and wrong, good and bad, are two clear cut binaries. the world isn’t black and white, the world isn’t as easily divided into two groups—those who are right and those are wrong, those who are good and those who are evil—as he may have naively thought when he began his career. it’s cliche’d, it’s overused, it’s been repeated so often that it has lost its meaning and has become redundant: the world is every shade of grey, every criminal that he captures all have their circumstances, everyone has their reasons. sure, some are out only due to a wanton lust for chaos, but it would be unjust and unwise to assume that every thief, every con artist, every murderer, are the same.

that’s why the hero wants to give all of them the benefit of the doubt, offer them a second chance, or a third, or how many times it takes for them to redeem themselves.

the evening had not been that different for the hero: he too longed to be back by your side, much preferring to spend the night differently. glancing at the clock on his hud, the blond figured that you would be asleep. you were waiting back at home. faintly, a smile appeared on his face. with a subtle shake of his head, he pushed away his selfish desires and willed himself to focus on the task at hand, attentively watching over this city. to his surprise, but not his displeasure, the patrol had proved itself to be unusually uneventful and rather dull, marked by an incredible lack of events or occurrences that required his intervention. no criminals to be seen, no signs of any incidents occurring. even if it was dull, it comforted the hero that he didn’t have to act: it meant that everything was alright. pleased with what he had seen so far, he decided to turn around and head back to his flat, calling it a night.

he was heading home, so how did he even get here in the first place?

his patrol was about to come to an end without much fanfare when he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure lurking in an abandoned construction site near his apartment in the corner of his eye. for the most part, the person’s identity was concealed by the all-consuming darkness and were it not for the built-in night vision in his helmet he would’ve never noticed them. the unknown figure’s movements were precise, too precise, purposeful as they silently jumped from platform to platform and expertly navigated the unfinished building. from where he flew, the only thing visible to him was their back, but something about the way they manoeuvred around the rubble, about the way they kept glancing side to side to observe their surroundings, made them suspicious. deciding that they were worth keeping an eye on, the hero moved cautiously, quietly, and sought to increase the distance from them to observe them from afar, as the figure was already on high alert. it was tricky, but he tried to get a better look at the questionable person, and perhaps even discern their identity, without alerting them. pivoting to the right angle, he caught sight of their face and though hidden behind his helmet, his eyes widened in recognition: that mask!

« stop right there! »

halting in their sprint across the beam, the figure abruptly swiveled their head in time to catch sight of and dodge a particularly vicious whirlwind. their combat boots skidded loudly on the concrete as they landed on a roof. dust settled back on the floor after being disturbed by the person’s display of acrobatics. from their slightly crouched position, the person slowly lifted their gaze at their attacker. whatever light the moon provided illuminated the figure, bathing them in an eerie blue glow, and the hero was finally able to get a clear look at the individual, which confirmed his suspicions. there was no mistake: the silver gas mask, the crimson symbol running down its left-hand side. there was no mistake.

« intercessor! he called out, loud and clear. »

though they never called themselves such, criminals and law enforcement members alike dubbed them so because of the type of operation they engaged in: serving as the bridge, a mediator, between gangs and criminal groups; offering them resources and intel; smuggling out weaponry and equipment, or even providing information on other organisations, locations, or heroes. a bit of an outlier, the criminal has only just recently appeared in the public eye, but has never made any attempt to involve themselves with the general public, avoiding from being seen for too long or to even reveal the alias they went under. despite their recent emergence, it’s been assumed that they’ve been active for at least a few years—if the testimony of captured criminals and graffiti of their symbol, the same symbol as the one on their mask, a stylised illustration of an open eye with a streak of red paint (perhaps representing a tear), were anything to go by.

though it had been nothing but a hunch, something about the criminal was very familiar to him. something about the way they moved and fought reminded the hero of a case he had been assigned to earlier in his career. but the two did share any other resemblance beyond that, so he pushed that observation to the back of his mind.

on a surface level, it seemed like they were harmless as most of their operations were covert, never directly endangering the city, but they would ultimately compromise its safety as they indirectly aid more malicious criminals in their goals. the hero frowned behind his mask. for that reason, they must be stopped before that happens.

« now that i am here, your villainy has come to an end! »

the hero warned them, making his voice be heard. even when the cameras were not on him, he unconsciously followed the dramatic performance he had practiced over and over, and assumed a dramatic stance, one hand on his hips and the other pointing at the criminal in question, attempting to exert pressure to make them give up without putting up a fight.

« a hero? the criminal’s distorted voice echoed discordantly, unfazed. leave me be, static reverbated harshly in the empty building as they ordered him. i’m not looking for a confrontation. »

their words coincided with their established modus operandi: operating under the darkness, out of sight, and escaping if they were to be spotted, rather than seeking out confrontation. however, despite their stated disinterest in engaging the hero in a fight, they poised their hands and prepared themselves to retaliate. momentarily taking a blue glow, they summoned two strong gusts of wind of their own and released them on the waiting hero. despite the ferocity of the attack, he easily evaded them with the help of his jet pack and advantageous position. the criminal clicked their tongue, annoyed at their failed frontal attack.

as expected, despite their shared next power, it seemed that the criminal was not as experienced as their opponent—both in terms of handling their ability and combat experience, they fell short. frustrated, they lifted their arms once more and made it clear that they were determined to continue their assault until the hero left them alone. swinging their arm up, they commanded a vortex to strike the hero, managing to graze his arm. shrugging it off, he created a strong blast and asked them to stand down. they sidestepped, and returned the hero’s attack. the latter dodged it with ease.

« it would do you well to give up. he cautioned, striking his signature salute. my greatest wind velocity for today is at an all-time high! »

warning going unheeded, the dodger concentrated the air around their palm into a compact sphere, forcing the volatile energy into a small projectile waiting to be released. and released it will be, as they threw shot after shot at the hero. soot momentarily obscured both of their sight, their attack stirring the dusty ground under them. as it cleared, the criminal was pleased to see that at least some of their blasts landed.

« try me. they sneered. »

if only they would make it easier for the both of them and give up.

the hero resigned himself to a lengthy altercation—it seemed he wouldn’t be able to fulfill his promise, and he hoped you wouldn’t notice that he would be back later than usual—and gave his own reply to their challenge, taking the form of two columns of air which twisted dangerously fast towards the intercessor. despite the viciousness of the attack, the criminal still managed to avoid getting caught by the skin of their teeth. recovering quickly, they repeated their previous attack, though it failed to work as well as the first time, which had caught him slightly off guard. he didn’t know what the thief thought was going to happen, attacking him head on like that.

nevertheless, he chalked it up to inexperience and dived to apprehend them.

backstepping, they summoned an upward wind to throw off the hero. despite being blocked momentarily, he continued to pursue them all the while making attacks of his own. but somehow, they manage to evade him, leaping out of his way. the blond’s persistence paid off as the dodger made a displeased sound as they took in their predicament, forced to go on the defensive. preoccupied with manipulating the air around them to make a makeshift shield, they could no longer attempt to run. it seemed as if their attempt to throw him off did not work to dissuade him but neither did his tenacity at convincing them to give up, and both were now at a standstill—their shared ability nullifying their attacks: as he’d attempt to catch them, they’d parry him. as they attempt to push him away, he’ll bolt out of their way. they continued this performance, as if they memorised their role on the stage perfectly.

but at last, as they tried to maintain their distance, the criminal managed to push the hero farther back away from them with an especially violent swat and, thinking that the extra distance afforded them more time, the intercessor caved under the pressure and started to attack erratically, overwhelmed by the increasing need to escape.

this was his chance!

while his opponent was flustered, he will capture them and call the authorities, who will take care of the issue from there.

lowering his guard, the hero ambitiously descended to capture the villain. making something that sounded like a laugh, the thief created a large barrier around them, an arc of powerful wind that violently threw the hero back. the hero’s balance having been thrown off, they feigned a head on attack which the former automatically blocked. his attention drawn elsewhere, they prepared a second vortex which took the blond by surprise.

were they faking their incompetence and making amateur mistakes on purpose? then that erratic onslaught was intentional… it was a lure and he fell for it. the rough winds buffeted him, and he rushed to recover.

the criminal flinched slightly as the attack connected, taken aback that the tactic had worked and that they had managed to actually injure the hero, but soon precipitated to take advantage of the hero’s current predicament.

« perhaps it’d do you well to not underestimate your opponents… they taunted, saving face. »

seeing that the hero was stunned, the intercessor took it as a chance to escape and resumed their sprint through the unfinished apartment complex. throwing caution to the wind, they ran without looking back, hoping to lose the hero as they dashed over to a particularly dark corner.

« i don’t intend to let you go! »

seeing as they had exploited the hero’s lowered defense, they shouldn’t have brought theirs down so easily: his voice carried in the empty air surrounding them, and the criminal picked up their speed—not expecting the hero to shake off the attack so quickly. however, as they climbed on a particularly unsteady beam, the hero went through with their threat, which took the form of a large ball of ferocious air that he slammed on his opponent. in a vain attempt to dodge the new onslaught of vicious attacks, the thief slipped and lost their footing, crashing down a few stories without much grace.

« alright… »

he tried to boost his own spirit, exhaustion getting the best of him, but knows that he hasn’t won yet. he sighed. not until he confirms that the criminal had been stopped and handed over to the authorities. not until he returns home. not until he returns to your embrace. you. home. it’s late and he’s starting to feel slightly worn out.

in hindsight, he could’ve accidentally given the criminal the chance to escape, but he flew down to the base of the construction at a rather unhurried pace. to be fair, finding the criminal after their fall wasn’t that difficult of a feat: all he had to do was fly over to where he saw them crash and follow the tracks to where they must’ve dragged themselves as a futile last ditch attempt to escape the hero, the uneven footprint revealing that the criminal was now limping,

he landed smoothly on the unsteady terrain and began his search for the fallen thief, thanking the night vision once more for making his job easier.

as he moved deeper into the unfinished complex, having to stop once in a while due to the building’s questionable structural integrity or obstacles created by the recent fall, he finally reached the dead end that the criminal trapped themselves in. having found the cornered person, he now has to make the right choice. part of the ceiling had caved in, and as he ducked to enter the room a stray gust brushed the side of his helmet. an attack? no, it was a warning. but, it was half-hearted. it missed him by a long shot and hit the wall beside him, and through his peripherals, he could see that the impact had barely shaken it—his opponent had lost all their intent to fight. collecting himself, he turned to properly face the criminal he pursued.

he freezes.

the hero was prepared for many things, for many different difficult situations he could’ve found himself in: he was prepared to fight back in case the adrenaline made the perpetrator lash out, he was prepared to begin his spiel to convince them to redeem themselves (after going through their sentence, of course). however, he wasn’t prepared to hear a shaky gasp and whimper in a voice that became increasingly familiar, in a voice that he had come to be fond of, as he got closer. he wasn’t prepared for the person he would face.

making the right choice is hard. would it be easier if he had a next power that helped him see the future? could such a power exist? regardless, that’s not what he has. making the right choice is hard, and he has to base his decision on what he has and what he knows at the time. making the right choice is hard. making the right choice is even harder as a hero, when every action, every word, every decision, is recorded and broadcasted for millions to see. no, it’s not easy, there’s a new weight to his choices. the consequences and the impacts are heavier than if he were just another person. he’s not nearly naive enough to believe that every single choice he has made was the most just, he’s not nearly naive enough to believe that they all led to the best of all the possible outcomes. there will always be factors that he needs to take into account and there will always be things that he has missed. not just facts and circumstances, but also his own personal bias.

the right choice was difficult because it’s a struggle between two beliefs. right now, his conscience is split between two ideals, two wants, two rights.

time is often critical, and hesitance can make all the difference in the world. « it’s time to surrender, you’re under arr— ». but for the first time in a long time, he faltered. his throat felt dry, and he can’t find it in him to summon his voice.

after being a hero for so long, making split second decisions has become second nature to him, an instinct, but for the first time in a long time, he faltered. for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure what was the right choice.

he’s heard somewhere that everyone considers themselves the hero of their respective lives, and that they see themselves as the “good guy���. he supposes he can apply this to himself, he hopes that what he is doing is ultimately for a good cause, that he will make a change and leave this world better than when he entered it. did they think the same? was this the case for every villain he has met? was this the case for the criminal he finds himself petrified before? was this the case for you?

he was just heading home, so what choices led him here?

a/n: idk i like the idea of soulmates sharing the same next power

LIKE MY WORK? CONSIDER BUYING ME A COFFEE // CHECKING OUT MY MASTERLIST | LINKS CAN BE FOUND ON MY DESC

[fillystick]

week 9 and 10 lecture

NIE WIEDER KRIEG!!! NO MORE WAR – ACT NOW – Urban street art sticker

RESPECT MY EXISTENCE OR EXPECT MY RESISTANCE - Urban street art sticker 

photos from Markus Spiske 

I was catching up on past lectures when I realized week 10′s content ties back to what is happening in the US right now, which made me decide to create my cover photo in relations to the event. 

My intention is to pay my respect- as well as acknowledge- the rights of the community that is in pain at the moment, and reflect on ways of improvement when it comes to racial equality.  

knowing that design is closely related to activism really gave me a new perspective, which is the power of design: the fact that we can make a difference by creating, expressing, and voicing an opinion. Design is so much more than just making a profit, it is a tool that comes with great responsibility and potential. Learning how to utilize it to spread importance is what I shall be thinking in my future years. 

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WEEK 9

PUNK: a counter-cultural movement

PUNK DESIGN, A SUMMARY: despise typesetter, prefer DIY

collage-style 1: ripping up and starting again

Takes a commercial image and repurposes it for revolutionary purposes.

collage-style 2: the use of stencils

stencils had frequently been used for their ease of use and acquisition, their association with the underground through graffiti, denoting something raw and urban, as well as its nature as simply being flawed by design. 

zines: using illegible and garish styles to shock the viewer out of apathy, the punk movement gave little thought to the commonly perceived ‘good’ design practices.

parody and politics: using images from a media-saturated culture for a new purpose, they meant to trigger recognition in the viewer and include them on the subversive in-joke.

All ripped up: Punk influences on graphic design

MALCOLM MCLAREN: A multi-talented man

promoter and manager of bands the New York Dolls and the Sex Pistols

he was one of the first white music producers to bring hip-hop to a wider audience and one of the first to popularise world music in the west

partnership with fashion designer Vivienne Westwood: SEX

In a new, in-depth biography, Paul Gorman offers a vivid portrait of the postmodernist impresario who conjured up punk’s angry pose, the Sex Pistols, and much more.

Malcolm McLaren's Life of Chaos, Music, and Art

JAMIE REID Jamie Reid’s artworks

 A GUIDE FOR ANYONE WANTING TO DO IT THEIR WAY, FROM REID:

Destroy Your Computer: The more we get drawn into this mad digital world, the more we lose contact with each other. “Most jobs are about enslavement, break free if you can”

Study Art: If I hadn’t gone to Croydon I would never have met Malcolm McLaren, not just for what he did with the Pistols but for everything else he did. The irony is that neither Malcolm or I would have got into Croydon if it was today. What does that tell you about what’s happened to our education system?

Have a Sense of Humour

Learn from the Past

Look to the Future: Radical ideas will always get appropriated by the mainstream, people in authority lack the ability to be creative, and they rob everything they can. you have to keep moving on to new things. 

Iconic Punk Artist Jamie Reid Has Some Advice for Young Creatives

XEROGRAPHY ART: is an art form that began in the 1960s. Prints are created by putting objects on the glass, or platen, of a copying machine and by pressing "start" to produce an image.

What Happens When a Photocopy Machine Becomes an Art Tool?

MEMPHIS DESIGN (MILAN 1980’S): its aesthetic embodies the 1980s

Simple geometric shapes; flat colours combined in bold, contrasting palettes; stylised graphic patterns defined by black-and-white stripes and abstract squiggles – these are the ingredients of Memphis-inspired design, fuelled by influences from earlier movements such as Pop Art and Art Deco.

10 iconic examples of Memphis design

ETTORE SOTTSASS: One of the most influential and important figures of the last century, Architect and Designer, founded the Memphis group In 1981, a group that has radically changed the scenario of Italian and world design.

Ettore Sottsass’ works

DAVID CARSON: RAYGUN   David Carson design

David Carson’s deconstructed style for Ray Gun, was very much a design aesthetic that blurred the lines of visual communication and challenged its readers to interpret the text in their own way. Much like the youths that he targeted throughout the 90s, they were rule breakers themselves that rebelled against society. His use of non-hierarchical text and visually complex, layered compositions, spoke ‘their language.’ 

“I’ve never used grids; I still don’t. I never studied or learned about them, and when I did I saw no reason to use them.”

STREET PRESS ANALYSIS: RAY GUN COVER — David Carson, Anti-grid Design Icon David Carson Says Computers Make You Lazy, Contextual Studies: David Carson

NEVILLE BRODY: THE FACE

The Face, drawing freely for his visually exciting layouts and typography on avant-garde artistic ideas. Brody was thoughtful to the construction of its layouts, with blocks of texts often placed horizontally or vertically on the page, the layouts contrasting strikingly with hand-mediated imagery and photography. Such ideas exerted a significant international impact on the appearance of the magazine, advertising, and retailing design.

POST 14 – 1980's – 'The Face' Neville Brody – Monique

-----------------------------

WEEK 10 

MIMMO ROTELLA 

'With a Smile', Mimmo Rotella, 1962

Mimmo Rotella - 324

ROBERT RAUSCENBERG

Robert Rauschenberg 1925–2008

JACEK TYLICKI

Jacek Tylicki Art and Artworks

FISCHLI & WEISS 

Fischli & Weiss: Flowers & Questions. A Retrospective – Exhibition at Tate Modern

GILBERT BAKER: RAINBOW FLAG

“Our job as gay people was to come out, to be visible, to live in the truth, as I say, to get out of the lie. A flag really fit that mission, because that’s a way of proclaiming your visibility or saying, ‘This is who I am!’” 

Baker saw the rainbow as a natural flag from the sky, so he adopted eight colors for the stripes, each color with its own meaning (hot pink for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sunlight, green for nature, turquoise for art, indigo for harmony, and violet for spirit).

How Did the Rainbow Flag Become a Symbol of LGBTQ Pride?

FLAG IN DESIGN: the lecture talked about how flags influence to power of design, this is an interesting article of how flags can go beyond the rules of design, but still make it work.

7 fantastic flags that break every design rule

ACTIVISTS (ADBUSTER, TIBOR KALMAN, GUERRILA GIRLS, BENETTON: COLORS MAGAZINE)

A Review of COLORS

“Oliviero Toscani and Tibor Kalman launched “a magazine about the rest of the world” for United Colors of Benetton in 1991. It seems only fitting that an unconventional title like this should be documented in an unconventional way.” 

“Toscani wanted a magazine without any stars, without any celebrities, and without any news. He decided they’d interview people nobody knew, and they’d use the internet to find stories. This approach- a combination of dynamic graphics, striking photographic imagery, provocative themes, and an unwaveringly global outlook—has become familiar to magazine readers now, they hope to firmly establish COLORS’ status as the founder not only of today’s independent magazines, but of mainstream media as well.”

SHEPARD FAIREY: HOPE POSTER   Visual Analysis of Shepard Fairey's 'Hope'

Color: Red, blue and beige are representative of the American flag, illustrating his patriotism. Blue help to define his features, the beige on his face might be to say that race doesn’t matter.  

Typography: provides the concept that the poster is trying to communicate. HOPE’s typeface used is Gotham, a strong slab sans serif, the use of Gotham in this work creates a sense of authority and a bold assertive statement in which there is no uncertainty. These clean letterforms grab the viewers’ attention and makes a statement, permitting for maximum legibility and objectivity.

[rerumtechnologies]

Heart of Song and Starlight

Chapter 6: Memories Written and Burned on the Walls

"The damage was permanent; there would always be scars. But even the angriest scars faded over time until it was difficult to see them written on the skin at all, and the only thing that remained was the memory of how painful it had been." – Jodi Picoult

Bilbo’s first steps outside of his rooms were not very memorable. He’d thought, on the many nights in which he imagined opening his door and exploring the halls of his mountain, that he’d wander them in a daze of excitement and curiosity, memorising every archway and stylised pillar, his light guiding his way. Surely, when he did manage to see the rest of his home, he’d be so riddled with emotion his person would burn the darkness out of every corner of the mountain.

He was riddled with emotion. But it was worry, fear, and a growing tide of anger that was battering against his ribs. And he couldn’t let his frustration out by lighting up the stone either. He spent most of his energy on tamping his emotions down and locking them up — something he didn’t have very much practice at, if at all.

He just hoped meeting more dwarves wasn’t going to send him into a blind rage in the face of their stupidity.

They had to climb over fallen rock and debris every so often as they made their way down towards the centre of the mountain. They took so many twists and turns that Bilbo was sure he would have to have one of them show him the way back if he ever wanted to see his armchair again. The dwarves had left two torches in brackets outside Bilbo’s rooms, and they used them now to light the way. Fíli was carrying one and Dwalin the other.

“Prince Fíli, what exactly is an Arkenstone?” Bilbo asked the nearer of the two brothers as they went down yet another stone staircase. He needed something to take his mind off the sickening knot of emotions in his belly.

“The Arkenstone is the greatest treasure of the line of Durin,” Fíli answered, slowing to walk beside Bilbo. He was a head taller and his stride at least that much longer, “We’ve never seen it ourselves, but Irak’Adad says it was a thousand-faceted globe that shone like fire in the starlight.”

“Like the sun itself,” Kíli chimed in dreamily before sobering, “But it’s cursed.”

“Cursed?” Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. First news of the battle and now curses. What had he wished upon himself?

“It corrupts the minds of kings,” said Fíli, face falling into worried lines. “Makes them mad with greed and obsession that breeds mistrust even amongst family.”

Bilbo gaped, “And your uncle wants to find it!?” This did not bode well, and the conversation did nothing to help his growing uneasiness.

“It allows the King Under the Mountain to call upon the seven dwarf families and unite their armies,” Kíli put in.

“Seven dwarf families?” Bilbo tried to think of any books that might have mentioned seven families. But he only knew of Durin’s line, called the Longbeards in some of his scrolls of the line of Erebor and the Iron Hills.

“There’s us Longbeards - Durin's Folk - then the Firebeards and Broadbeams, the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, and the Blacklocks and Stonefoots.” Fíli recited them with the tone of someone who’d been taught these things as a young dwarfling.

“I see,” Bilbo said slowly, “But, you know, I’d rather have one army than seven if they are led by a mad king.”

The brother’s glanced at Dwalin and Dirac, both of whom were speaking in low tones. Dirac must not have wanted Bilbo to overhear because she’d led the dwarf far enough away, he could only make out the sound of their voices and not decipher their words.

Kíli leaned down, "We happen to know where the stone is. Our mother and grandmother hid it before Ugmil ‘amad was killed, and Amad escaped."

"In my rooms," Bilbo guessed and had his suspicion confirmed at the furtive glances both dwarves shot Dwalin. “That’s why you two were skulking around the north side of the mountain when all of your Company’s efforts have been by the gate and the treasury.”

"We weren’t skulking,” Fíli pouted.

“Mister Boggins,” Kíli bit his lip as though weighing speaking against silence, “Mister Baggins, it’s very important that you keep this quiet.”

“Because of your uncle,” Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, “I won’t mention it to him, especially if he’ll lose what little sense you dwarves seem to have to it. But, can I ask,” he thought hard, “Where is it hidden? I’ve lived in my – in your grandmother’s rooms for half a century, and I’ve never seen a gem as you’ve described.”

“Amad says her mother buried it in the garden just before Smaug killed Ugmil 'amad as they fled.”

“Well… after this is taken care of, you’re more than welcome to… look around, I suppose.” Bilbo squirmed at the very thought of someone mucking about in his garden. If dwarves were anything like ravens, they’d ruin even the hardiest plant without trying. “With my supervision,” he amended.

Fíli and Kíli shot him twin looks of quiet gratitude, “Thank you, Mister Baggins.” Fíli said just before Dirac called them forward.

She’d landed on a pile of rubble that looked to have once been a column. It lay just before a break in the right side of the corridor through which they had been traveling. It was sloped slightly downward and curving in as though rounding the outside of the mountain. “I think it would be best if you and Mister Dwalin went ahead to explain as to our appearance. I was a nestling when the dwarves left us, but I remember the temper of your kings, and I do not wish this upon Mizimith.” That, Bilbo thought, was not comforting at all. Dwalin looked unhappy with this plan. He had his arms crossed and thick brows furrowed. “Once you are ready for us to meet the King Under the Mountain, call out, and we will come.”

“Come on, lads.” Dwalin huffed, striding through the opening. Bilbo heard him begin to descend yet more stairs. Kíli smiled at him reassuringly before they followed, Fíli handing him his torch on his way past.

Bilbo began to step forward to peek around the corner or trail them at a distance, but Dirac held out a wing, “Wait, Mizimith.”

“Why?” Bilbo asked quietly, “I just want to see–”

“That is the problem,” she cut in cryptically, “Wait here.”

Dirac spread her wings and swept through the arch. The only thing that kept Bilbo on the spot was his trust in her. She wouldn’t have told him to wait, have left him alone, without good reason. He didn’t have to wait long until he heard wings again.

“Alright, Mizimith,” Dirac sighed, alighting on the pile again, “Go on, but do not go farther than the balcony until you can control yourself.”

Bilbo almost questioned her, but instead just took her advice on faith, like he’d done his entire life, and stepped through the faded marble of the archway. Bilbo’s worries and questions and even his breath, left him the moment his eyes focused in the near dark.

His mountain was magnificent.

Bilbo was standing on a balcony not far above what once might have been a marketplace, though half the buildings were crushed beyond recognition. Above him was a vast cavern. Bridges and towers spiderwebbed across what must be the centre of the mountain, carvings etched into their surface and along the walls of the enormous space. It was so large – his mountain so tall – that Bilbo couldn’t make out the ceiling even with his brilliant light illuminating the darkness – growing even brighter than when Smaug had awoken. Dirac soared past him to twist amongst the architecture. Her blacker than pitch feathers glistening in Bilbo’s dazzling light like the veins of gold running through the walls.

There were carvings of dwarves in great battles and those in the simplest of vocations. Kings and queens were chiselled next to carpenters, statues of miners held axes high right next to bakers, children were playing along the outside of one of the closer stone parapets. Even the breaks in the stonework couldn’t mask the grandeur. Scorch marks and soot covered the green-hued marble at his feet, but in his light, Bilbo could make out the gold snaking through it all. The culture and life of the dwarves were marked here forever and even Smaug the Terrible couldn’t erase them.

It brought tears to his eyes, and Bilbo let them build and fall down his cheeks. “Dirac,” He whispered. She turned at once, nearly colliding with the axe of a stone sentry, and came to land upon the railing Bilbo clutched. He’d moved to the edge of the balcony without realising. There was dust on his hands and feet. He must have dropped the torch at some point. A sob left him shuddering.

“Dirac,” he gasped, “It’s beautiful.” He tried to tell her, but it seemed like his glow had obstructed his throat, turned it to crystal and stone like the mountain around them. “Oh, Yavanna, it was so beautiful. And Smaug – he,” Bilbo couldn’t find the words to convey how much he understood now.

The ravens had been telling him for fifty-one years of Smaug’s attack. Sad though it was, however, it’d been history, something that had happened to someone else, a long time ago, in a place that seemed far removed from his garden and his armchair by the fire. Even if, truly, it was just down the hall.

Now, looking at the glory that had once been Erebor, his home. It was a life that had been stolen from him. “He took it from us.” Bilbo sobbed, sliding to his knees and still staring out into his mountain, the radiance of his skin and hair and his tear-filled eyes setting it ablaze with their light and shards of colour.

“Mizimith,” Dirac jumped from the railing to the floor to sidle up close, so he could bury his fingers in the feathers of her chest.

If Smaug had never come at all, or if Bilbo had crawled out of the dirt a century sooner, he might have lived out his life playing in the halls of this kingdom. Maybe he’d have been a florist or a cook. Perhaps he’d have grown up knowing what he was and who his parents were. He wouldn’t have had to worry about orcs and goblins coming to steal everything away before he even had a chance to enjoy it.

Bilbo gave himself a moment to dwell, to finish weeping at the beauty and sorrow of it all, and then he wiped his eyes and nose, focusing instead on controlling himself and dimming his glow.

To follow those thoughts would be to court depression and madness. Bilbo had little time for either.

Once he was back to normal – his skin a little pale but certainly not luminescent, his hair just plain gold instead of glistening, and his eyes no longer leaving their amber, blue trails of light in the air – Bilbo detached from Dirac and stood. Now that he was paying attention, he could tell why she had told him not to go beyond the balcony. With only the torch to see by and without his glow overpowering every other source, Bilbo could make out the barest flicker of firelight past the staircase on his left and a level or two below. He wondered if the dwarves had seen him light up the cavern, or if they were too busy discussing him.

“Thank you, Dirac,” he said gratefully. His throat was sore with tears, and his voice sounded like a raven’s. “You knew I wouldn’t have been able to control that.”

“You’ve never had to, Mizimith. It’s a difficult thing I ask,” she began righting the feathers he’d mussed.

“Mister Baggins!” Dwalin called from the darkness. “Come here!”

Bilbo wiped at his face again, no doubt streaking dust as well as tears. “We’d better go,” he said, picking up the sputtering torch.

“Off to argue with more dwarves,” Dirac teased huskily in Raven-speech. “Only you would be so foolish, Mizimith.”

“Oh, as if you didn’t enjoy intimidating Mister Dwalin,” Bilbo laughed. It was weak, but he felt better, more settled, for the banter. “Come on then,” he said, trotting down the stairs and trying desperately to prepare himself for more dwarves.

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[jazz-vcd]

Monograms

A monogram is a motif of overlapping letters, designed to be easily recognisable. Some of the earliest known use of monograms was in Ancient Greece, where coins were embossed with the monogram of the city they were produced in. Since that time, monograms have maintained their position as subtle but unmistakable signs of ownership and/or authority, with royalty, businesses, wealthy families, artists, and craftworkers using personalised monograms to represent themselves.  

A famous early example is the monogram of Albrecht Dürer, who began to sign his elaborate paintings and prints with his stylised initials. The monogram he designed was simple enough to be clearly legible, but included detailing in the serifs and proportions of the letters that created a unique symbol. 

Various iterations of Albrecht Dürer’s monogram

Additionally, Dürer would shift the size, perspective, and positioning of his monogram to best fit each work. For example, in the etching ‘St Jerome in His Study’ the monogram is fitted onto a small board on the floor of the titular study, and he employs a similar tactic again in ‘Coat of Arms with Skull’, in both instances seamlessly including the monogram for evidence of his authorship. This is a perfect example of how valuable it can be for a monogram to be adaptable; the ‘AD’ is simple enough that it can be reshaped as needed, but designed in such a way that it is recognisable regardless. Dürer’s monogram also became grounds for an early case of protection against plagiarism when Dürer took issues of plagiarism to the Venetian courts and won the case, making it illegal for others to imitate his monogram. As such, works marked with Durer’s monogram increased in value, and the artist’s creative ideas were protected. This use of monogram is also a great example of the power of brand recognition.

Albrecht Dürer, ‘St Jerome in His Study’ 1514, Copper engraving

Albrecht Dürer, ‘Coat of Arms with Skull’, 1503, Engraving

A more recent, and equally (if not more) famous example of a monogram is the logo for Volks Wagen. It is fairly common knowledge that Volkswagen (meaning ‘the people’s car’ in German) began in 1937 as a company producing vehicles for the Nazi party. The company’s first monogram incorporated the swastika, with the recognisable clockwise spokes protruding from a cog which enclosed the ‘VW’. The design was thematic to the company, creating a logo which looked like a wheel, meanwhile aligning Volkswagen with the Nazis, making it both a tool for brand recognition and propaganda. By 1939 the swastika motif was dropped from the design, in what could be cynically considered a shrewd business decision more than moral recompense. However, the monogram remained, still enclosed in a cog until 1945 when its container became a smoothed circle. The letters of the monogram are creatively situated; like Dürer’s monogram, it shifts the sizing of individual letters to fit them neatly together and create an entirely new symbol. There is a considered use of symmetry, angles, and negative space in the logo that has created an interesting and unique symbol. As such the VW monogram has become one of the most easily recognised logos around the world, with its origins often overlooked- which in part is due to effective design and rebranding.

History of the Volkswagen logo

Trends in the use of monograms have shifted gradually over time. For better or worse there has been a mainstream trend towards simplification; whittling away the flourishes and serifs of yore to move towards sleek, modern designs. In older examples like the conjoined monograms of authors Somerville and Ross, or even further back to the monogram of French Emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, we see elaborate designs with symbolism and decorative shapes. Modern monograms tend toward sans-serif fonts, with little to no details beyond the letters. They are most commonly used by high-end brands and companies seeking to establish authority in their field. These current trends can be seen in the logos of Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci and LG. It seems that monograms are established enough for designers to make use of them through hundreds of years of social changes; I am eager to see what the future of monogram design looks like (and maybe even participate in creating it).

Left: Paired monograms of E.OE. Somerville & Martin Ross from a 1915 edition of ‘The Real Charlotte’  Right: Monogram of Napoleon in gilt on Royal china dinner plate from Tuileries Palace

Various brand logos, from left to right: Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci, LG

References

Inkbot Design (2019). History Of Volkswagen Logo Design — An Evolution. [online] Medium. Available at: https://inkbotdesign.medium.com/history-of-volkswagen-logo-design-an-evolution-6be7a9262eeb [Accessed 20 May 2023].

Ip, N. (2017). Dürer or not? [online] Royal Museums Greenwich. Available at: https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/blog/durer-or-not [Accessed 20 May 2023].

Keung, L. (2021). What Is a Monogram? Types, Designs, and Ideas. [online] Envato Tuts+. Available at: https://design.tutsplus.com/articles/what-is-a-monogram-types-designs-and-ideas--cms-35023 [Accessed 15 May 2023].

[fameinhistory]

2face Idibia

2face Idibia biography 2face Idibia is a Nigerian singer, songwriter, record producer, entrepreneur, philanthropist, Humanitarian, and activist. Background information Full Name: Innocent Ujah Idibia Also known as: 2face, 2baba, Tuface Born: 18 September 1975 Birth place: Jos, Plateau, Nigeria Nationality: Nigerian Genres: Afrobeats, R&B, hip hop, reggae, gospel, Afropop Famous as: Singer, songwriter, record producer, entrepreneur, activist Instruments: Vocals, vocal percussion Years active: 1994–present Labels: Hypertek Digital Spouse(s): Annie Macaulay-Idibia (m. 2012) Height: 2.04 m Children: Isabella Idibia, Nino Idibia, Justin Idibia, Rose Idibia, Zii Idibia, Innocent Idibia Religion: Christian

Early childhood and educational career 2face Idibia was born in Jos, Nigeria . He is from the Idoma ethnic group in the southern part of Benue State, in central Nigeria. He attended Mount Saint Gabriel's Secondary School in Makurdi, Benue State. He enrolled at Institute of Management & Technology, Enugu (IMT), where he did his preliminary National Diploma course in business administration and management. While attending IMT, he performed at school organised shows and parties, as well as other regional schools such as the University of Nigeria and Enugu State University of Science & Technology. He eventually dropped out to pursue his music career. While attending IMT, 2face Idibia started composing and singing jingles at the GB Fan Club at Enugu State Broadcasting Services (ESBS) in 1996. Also in 1996, he adopted the stage name "2Face" (Tuface). He cited the reason as "trying to demarcate my personal life with my business life. Prior to July 2014, he went by the stage name 2face Idibia. In 2016, he officially changed his name to 2Baba Also Read About: Nkem Owoh

  Music career and Album release He moved to Lagos and started performing with rapper Blackface Naija. He met BlackFace during his secondary education in Benue. With Blackface (Ahmedu Augustine Obiabo) and with musician Faze (Chibuzor Oji), he went on to form the trio band Plantashun Boiz. Plantashun Boiz released two successful albums: Body and Soul (2000) and Sold Out (2003) under the Nelson Brown's owned Label (Dove Records) before disbanding in 2004. Relations were marred for many years during which the band broke up and its members started their solo careers. Long after the break-up known as the "Faze vs Tuface" beef, the band came back together in 2007 for the purpose of recording a third and final album entitled Plan B (2007). On numerous occasions, BlackFace claimed 2Face was performing songs co-written by both of them and not remitting revenues to him. After a long legal and media battle, the matter was finally laid to rest amicably..

Solo career After the disbandment of Plantashun Boyz in 2004, all band members sought separate musical careers. 2face Idibia released his debut solo album Face 2 Face (2004), which established him as a viable solo artist. Following the release of his debut album, he released his second album Grass 2 Grace in 2006, which contained hits "One Love", "True Love, "4 Instance". He is the founder of Hypertek Entertainment. In 2006, his song "African Queen" was used in the soundtrack for the film Phat Girlz, which was released internationally   He released an experimental album in 2009 called The Unstoppable releasing the single "Enter the Place". Problems with album distribution in 2007 caused as shift of the release date of the album from 2008 to early 2009.

In 2010, 2Baba released an "International Edition" of the same under the title The Unstoppable International Edition making him the first Nigerian artist to have an appropriately priced international album. 2face Idibia released two more singles from the international version of his The Unstoppable album. The international edition of the album won two awards at the 2010 SoundCity Music Video Awards. Best African Western award and the MTV Africa Music Awards for Best Male and Artist of the year. Upon leaving the music label Kennis Music after the release of his second solo album, he set up his own record label known as Hypertek Entertainment. He is part of the Sony All African One8 Project alongside seven other musicians across Africa recording a single with R. Kelly and Prince Lee titled "Hands Across the World". 2face Idibia has several collaborations all over the globe, giving his collaborators the opportunity to win an awards for each duet such as street credibility by 9ice, possibility by p-square and lots more. He is adored by his colleagues and every entertainer in Nigeria music industry as a role model. 2Baba and heavy weight American Rapper Jay Z met in NYC 2014. Also Read About: Ibadan Zoological Garden

Endorsement deal and ambassadorship 2face Idibia has also been an ambassador for quite a number of brands including Guinness, Nigerian Breweries etc. He is also the brand ambassador for National Agency for Food and Drug Administration and Control. In August 2019, 2Face was appointed as the Good cause Ambassador for the Nigerian Stock Exchange (NSE). He has been named Red cross ambassador society of Nigeria.

FORTYfied All-Star Tribute Concert The FORTYfied All-Star Tribute Concert, stylised as #FORTYfied, was an all-star tribute concert organised by 2Baba to celebrate his 40th birthday and influence in the music of Nigeria. Hosted by Basketmouth, the STAR Lager Beer-sponsored concert was held on 20 September 2015 at the Eko Hotel and Suites Convention Centre. The concert was attended by dignitaries and featured performances from notable musicians including Wizkid, Burna Boy, Timaya, D'banj, Sound Sultan, Patoranking, Vector tha Viper, Wande Coal and Seyi Shay. He is also the owner of the Buckwyld and Breathless concert Also Read About: Biola Alabi

Philanthropy work and legacy Guinness World Record for "Longest Dance Party" Kaffy and Multiple Award Winning Singer 2baba with the Executive Producer of My Funky Birthday TV Nig and PadMan Initiative Crooner at a reunion to work with this superstar on a Charity Project. 2Baba has established an NGO called The 2Baba Foundation. whose motto is "service to humanity". Formerly known as The 2Face Reachout Foundation, and eventually The 2Face Foundation, the foundation underwent a name change in September 2016, and is now known as The 2Baba Foundation. The foundation's work is centred around nation building, peaceful co-existence, and accountability in governance. In 2009, 2face Idibia was appointed as ambassador by National Agency for Food and Drug Administration and Control. He released a song "Man Unkind" to raise awareness on the menace of fake and sub-standard food and drug products in Nigeria. In 2009, he was presented with the prestigious International Youth Ambassador for Peace Summit and the Nigeria Youth Merit Award by the National Youth Council of Nigeria in recognition of his contributions to youth development in Nigeria.

In January 2017, 2Baba announced a partnership with United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). He made an initial donation of over US$11,000 to UNHCR for IDPs and returnees. In June 2017, he released a dedicated IDP-awareness song titled Hold My Hand to mark the World Refugee Day, and promised 60 percent of the proceeds from the song to the IDP cause. He has also collaborated with other NGOs like The Nigerian RedCross Society, Enough is Enough (EiE)(Office of the Citizen campaign), Youngstars Foundation and National Democratic Institute (for Vote Not Fight campaign). He is one of the most decorated and successful Afro pop artists in Africa, and is also one of the most bankable performing music artistes in Africa. With over 2 decades in the industry, 2Baba remains influential in the Nigerian Entertainment space.

Controversies On January 25, 2017, Tuface made an announcement through his Instagram handle that he would be leading a nationwide protest on February 5, 2017, the protest was against obnoxious policies implemented by the Muhammadu Buhari administration. In a way to stop the protest, the administration through the Lagos state police commissioner Fatai Owoseni, released a statement that the protest was ban in the state, stating that hoodlums would hijack it and use the protest to cause havoc, the statement was rebuffed and ignored publicly why publicity of the protest continued on social media. On February 4, 2017, Tuface released a video that he was cancelling the protest due to security reasons but rumors circulating around the digital space have it that the administration through the DSS picked him up earlier that day and pressured him to cancel the much-hyped protest, though he later made a series of tweets from his official Twitter account to deny the claim.

Discography With 8 successful studio albums and several single tracks and features, 2Baba's music catalog is an enviable one. Albums: 2004: Face 2 Face 2006: Grass 2 Grace 2009: The Unstoppable 2010: The Unstoppable International Edition 2012: Away & Beyond 2014: The Ascension 2014: Face 2 Face 10.0 2015: Rewind.Select.Update Singles: Man Unkind It's In There ft. Ishmeal Celebration (Naija @ 50) – ft. King David Play Your Part – 2face ft. Sanni Danja and Eve B. Break The Silence Vote Not Fight Coded Tinz – ft Phyno & Chief Obi. Officially Blind Oya Come Make We Go Babylon ft MI Mr Senator Officially Blind Remix Amplifier Hold My Hand Unconditional Love In Love And Ashes Holy Holy Gaga Shuffle ft. Larry Gaaga Amaka ft Peruzzi Oyi ft HI Idibia Frenemies Important

Awards and recognitions Innocent '2Baba' Idibia is Africa's most decorated and awarded artistes. 2Baba has received one MTV Europe Music Award One World Music Award Five Headies Awards (Hip-hop award) Four Channel O Music Video Awards One BET award for his musical work Four MTV Africa Music Awards One MOBO award One KORA award 3 Afrima Awards and numerous additional nominations. 2face Idibia is the first non-Liberian to become an honorary member of the Liberian music society in recognition for his outstanding contribution to the growth of music in Africa. In May 2016, 2Baba received an honorary Master of Arts in Music degree from Igbinedion University, Okada, Edo State, Nigeria. In March 2019, he was awarded a honorary fellow of the school of music by the Music Department, Obafemi Awolowo University. This made him the pioneer recipient of the award which was presented to him at the first public lecture and fellowship award, held on the 20th of March 2019.

Family and personal life 2face Idibia is married to Nigerian award-winning actress, movie producer, model and serial entrepreneur Annie Macaulay - Idibia. On 2 May 2012, 2Baba and Annie Macaulay married in Lagos, Nigeria in a private ceremony. A civil ceremony also held in Dubai, UAE on March 23, 2013 and had a high attendance of celebrities. The celebrity couple are parents to 2 girls; Olivia Idibia and Isabella Idibia. 2Baba is father to 7 kids; 5 kids from 2 previous relationships. 2face Idibia has survived near-death events, including gunshots from an armed robbery incident near Oshodi, Lagos. He is also a known philanthropist and humanitarian. Reference: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/2Baba Read the full article

[kingsofchaos]

If you’d told Geoff a few months ago that he’d be sitting around his penthouse surrounded not only by his own crew but also all three members of the infamous Cerberus he’d never have believed it. Could neither imagine trusting those killers within his inner sanctum nor winning their favour so completely that they were prepared to trust him back. It’s bizarre, seeing them here, now, looking like any dumb 20 year olds as they flop all over Geoff’s couches and steal his booze. Michael, Gavin and Jeremy are still made of sharp edges sure, still gravitate to one another, still sink into cold calculation when they’re on a job, but there’s no denying the way they’ve opened up. The way they come to the penthouse to socialise rather than simply to collect missions, will drink and laugh and mess around, the way they’ve more or less stopped waiting for Geoff to tightened a noose around their necks. On any given day one might find Jeremy and Ryan talking shop about various weapons, enthusiastically joined by Michael from time to time though he’s just as likely to be with Jack comparing specs on their cars. For his part Geoff seems to have acquired a Gavin shaped shadow, nosey and overbearing but endearing in his determination to discover everything there is to know. What a ridiculous leap they’ve made since that first meeting.

It happens at an old warehouse, pretty standard for a first meeting where everyone’s on edge, out of the public eye and in reasonably neutral territory, dim and dingy enough to appeal to even the most ludicrous of overdramatic crooks. And Cerberus are dramatic; dressed all in black as they slink out of the darkness, perfectly in sync and moving so quietly Geoff almost misses their arrival. Might have all together if he didn’t have Jack in his ear, calm and steady as she plays sentry out the front. Even the clothes Cerberus wear stink of intention, a blazer, a hoodie, a leather jacket; casual but sleek, nothing ratty or worn out but not fancy enough to make Geoff think they’re looking to impress him. They aren’t subtle, though, not with the way they’re all wearing that stylised snarling Cerberus emblem of theirs, printed on Jones’ jacket, the buckle of Dooley’s belt, hanging from Free’s neck. They clearly know what people say about them, what Geoff must think of them, and it seems they’re more than willing to drive their identity home.   Understandable, really, considering their appearance doesn’t quite match the stories. Confident and openly armed, yes, standing before the infamous Ramsey without a hint of trepidation, but Geoff had expected them to be older. Taller. Maybe slightly less theatrical, though with a name like Cerberus really that was a bad call on Geoff's part. Still, the most frightening thing about Cerberus was always going to be their reputation, the rumours of what they had done, what they would do, the level of utter depravity they joyfully excelled at. For all their many talents Cerberus were best known for outlandish robberies, absurd property damage and disturbingly imaginative wet work; deadly, merciless, and utterly impossible to shake once they’ve got their sights set on something. Each of the three have their own talents, complementary and seamlessly overlapping when need be but distinct enough none the less. The Bostonite specialises in long range and trick shots while Jersey is bombs and heavy weapons, but everyone best knows the pair for their fists, born brawlers with fire in their blood. The Brit works in words, in deals and threats and silken promises and, when all else fails, the ruthless application of knives and poisons. With that in mind it’s little surprise when he’s the one who steps forward and catches Geoff’s eye, smirking as sharp and wicked as a razorblade, and speaks.

This was a risk, and Geoff knew it. He wanted to grow his crew, wanted the best of the best, but all too many would tell him this recruitment was doomed to fail from the start. Doomed to more than simple rejection, given how volatile and bloodthirsty his chosen recruits were known to be. Geoff wasn’t worried, exactly, he’d won over the Vagabond after all, everything else should be easy sailing, but he was certainly cautious. Anyone with half a brain is cautious, when it comes to Cerberus. Everyone knows Cerberus are assholes. Cocky, obnoxious, outrageously antagonistic and generally unpredictable, the group has a pretty chequered reputation.  They’re a roving crew, running jobs wherever they fancy regardless of territories and it’s made them more than a few enemies, but they are efficient. Creative. The kind of vicious that kingpins covet like jewels, if only anyone could keep them. It’s their other key character flaw; apparently unshakably devoted to one another, more loyal to each other than most blood relatives, but iffy on any outside input, impulsive, defiant, bad with authority. They’re a curious trio, a tiny gang with no aspirations of growing their numbers, no apparent interest in carving out a stationary home and absolutely no intention of bowing to anyone. Which will make Geoff’s proposition a difficult one, to be sure, though he hasn’t given up hope. Geoff’s nothing if not inescapably persuasive when properly motivated, and if all the rumours have done this group justice this is an opportunity he has no intention of missing out on. If for nothing else than because he doesn’t want to be in their sightlines when some other gang inevitably snaps them up.

Given the inherent risks of this particular endeavor Ryan was always going to insist on coming along as backup. Not that Geoff was going to complain, he always did like to have Ryan loom into view halfway through initial meet and greets, a little test to see how people reacted when faced with the walking nightmare that is the Vagabond. Considering how they’d been treating the negotiations so far, definitely lacking some of Geoff’s experience but still loftily tag-teaming their way through a scathing dismissal, Geoff has Cerberus pegged for a standard flinch and rally, some shock or maybe a flash of fear before they pull it together with a sneering show of indifference. He couldn’t have been more wrong. When Ryan appears, ghosting out of the dark unannounced in his full Vagabond glory two things happen in quick succession. First, clearly clocking the movement if not the identity of the interloper all three leap into action, Free stepping back without fanfare as Jones and Dooley jerk forward, guns drawn and aimed so quickly Geoff genuinely thinks he’s gone and gotten Ryan killed. Before he can even open his mouth to explain the weapons are lowered again, all three faces lighting up with recognition and as one they grin. Sharp and shark-like and anything but friendly, somehow looking even more dangerous than they had with guns drawn, radiating glee as Free leans forward again and purrs out an overly familiar Well hello Ryan. Which, no. Unacceptable.  For a brief horrible moment Geoff thinks Ryan must’ve been stupid enough not to mention some prior history with the group before realising that this was, of course, simply a demonstration, Cerberus making a little power play of their own. It’s a good one too, considering how few knew the Vagabond’s name, fewer still who’d be brave enough to taunt him with it. Not that Ryan gives them any sort of satisfying reaction, far too professional to even flinch, simply inclining his head in an unfazed greeting. Geoff holds back a sigh, knowing the moment they’re back home he’s in for a rant about kids these days. Or perhaps an entreatment about adoption, lord knows Ryan has always liked his pets dangerous. Not that the three before them were the type to be kept like that, nothing more clear than their outright refusal to ever again be beholden to anyone but each other.

Everyone knows Cerberus had a master, once. The one who shaped them, who named them. The one who’d called himself Hades with all the arrogance of a man made of money and power, who’d thought himself untouchable, his control absolute.  Cerberus were Hades’ most trusted minions, his favourite pets, and outside the ridiculous melodrama of it all the name was certainly fitting, the trio becoming so wholly interlaced, thinking and talking and fighting with such undeniable synergy, that they could almost be mistaken for three heads of the same body. Distinctive as they were it wasn’t long before Cerberus’ reputation preceded them wherever they went. It was not a pleasant reputation, not when they were doing all of Hades’ dirty work, nothing deemed too terrible, too cruel, no order they wouldn’t follow to the letter. Hades’ was the kind of man who demanded nothing less, saw scruples as weakness and gave unforgivable orders meant to test his own people as much as punish his victims. The kind of man who’d thought his dogs dumb and docile until they tore out his throat.  Hades was no small fish and the news of his downfall spread like wildfire, but with the only living witnesses staying silent everyone’s heard a different version of how that night played out. There are those who say Cerberus were traitors, the lowliest of deserters. They say Hades’ loved them, gave them all they could ask for and still their greed demanded more. Say Cerberus took Hades for all he’d give, then banded together to take the rest, dishonest, treacherous dogs biting the hand that fed them. They were the only ones who could have gotten beyond Hades’ impenetrable security to get at him, they were a large portion of his security, and between their skill and the man’s favour, his faith in their unwavering obedience, killing Hades must have been child’s play. Others, though, have a darker version, one arguably more fitting with Hades, the rich, nasty piece of goods who dealt in anything from drugs to guns to flesh, knocking off anyone who stood in his way. In those accounts Cerberus were bound to Hades, all chained one way or another, as captive as their namesake. They say Jones was traded as payment for a debt, young enough to stay loyal even to those who didn’t deserve it, made loaded gun for Hades to point wherever he pleased, blood on his hands whether he wanted it or not. They say that Free was brought across oceans under false pretences, kept at Hades’ side against his will, that the sugared words he spun on command were laced with poison and his constant guards were keepers as much as they were protection. They say Dooley’s already shady contract as an underground cage-fighter was bought out under the table, added to Hades’ collection and made to swap bare fisted beat downs for loaded guns and bloody executions. Some say the attack was just the final straw, the inevitable mutiny after years of disservice. Some believe there was one last insult, say Hades was selling his pets to the highest bidder, indentured servitude of trained killers for a tidy profit. Some think it was just impulsive, the three beaten so broken and vicious it was only a matter of time, lashing out as senseless and bloodthirsty as dangerous animals. Whichever circumstances you believe the end result was the same. Everyone agrees that whatever went down that night it was brutal. Everyone knows Hades died slow, body taken away in pieces. No tears were shed for the man but his money was keenly missed, empire left to crumble as his killers made off with a fortune. The three could have done anything at that point, could have gone their separate ways and dropped into wealthy anonymity, but they didn’t. They stuck together, as tightknit as they’d ever been, even kept the name Hades gave them. It was smart, playing off the reputation they’d already earned, letting the death of their master boost them into even greater notoriety, powerful, feared and free. A freedom they ran wild with, pulling jobs all over the country, following their every whim no matter who they upset in the process.

Geoff can feel Ryan’s stare boring into the side of his head, matched perfectly by Jack’s pointed silence pressing down on him over the coms, and yeah, Geoff knows alright. Geoff wants them too, can already see how untouchable his crew could be with the six of them working together. The three standing before him are so fucking young in so many ways that they make Geoff feel ancient, make him feel sad and cold and furious when he thinks about it too long, but he can’t deny the anticipation zinging through his blood when he pictures what they can do, what they will be. It doesn’t hurt that he can just as clearly imagine what a nightmare his life will be if he lets them slip away, knows Ryan and Jack will tell Lindsay, tell Trevor, get all of the support crew on his case. Knows they’d probably be right to, if he messes this up. Because, sure, Cerberus are turning them down, showed up to this meeting purely to sneer at his offer, to dare him to try and force them, to ruin him if he thinks to use them. But they still turned up. Still curious enough to hear out the proposition, to meet with the infamous Geoff Ramsey, all bristling violence and wary eyes but here all the same. And honestly that’s all the motivation Geoff needs. He is the king of Los Santos, a former Rooster, the criminal mastermind extraordinaire, and these kids won’t know what hit them.

The Penthouse is as full and loud as it’s ever been, a cacophony of noise matched by an entirely unreasonable number of empty liquor bottles. Jeremy is sitting at the dining table with Matt and Trevor, the remains of a disastrously short lived attempt at monopoly pushed by the wayside as they huddle together and plot, shielding their notes and throwing Geoff increasingly guilty glances whenever he passes by. In front of the TV Lindsay and Jack sit on either side of Michael as the three scream smack talk at one another at the top of their lungs, death threats and personal attacks all fair game in the face of a Mario kart tournament. Then there’s Gavin and Ryan, who’ve been throwing knives at Geoff’s wall without a hint of remorse, game only called off when Gavin’s slurring giggles betrayed the way his vision had started to blur. Even when relegated to the couch Gavin’s still pulling an endless array of blades from thin air like fucking Houdini, Ryan laughing helplessly as he desperately snatches them away for safe keeping. There are guns on the coffee table, scattered across the kitchen bench, tucked into the cookie jar. Someone’s left what is hopefully an unloaded grenade launcher propped against the wall in the bathroom. There are wads of cash stashed all over the living room, poker chips scattered everywhere in the wake of an upended card table. A nearly unrecognisably charred deck of Uno still smokes from a metal wastepaper bin and someone has definitely smuggled another stray cat into one of the spare bedrooms.  Despite all that it’s still the fridge that always grabs Geoff’s attention, entirely covered with articles and headlines cut from every newspaper in Los Santos, a variety of different handwriting artfully editing and rebutting when need be, like a living history of crew shenanigans as seen by the press. The newest addition, stuck dead centre in pride of place, is a photo taken midway through a heist pulled only last week, headline packed with delightful alarm as it heralds the apparently permanent addition of three new members of the Fake AH Crew.

[watchilove]

Zenith Defy Inventor

With its new disruptive “Zenith Oscillator” control system, the brand with the guiding star is revolutionising mechanical watchmaking. High frequency, chronometric precision, reliability and stability: the oscillator developed and patented by the Manufacture replaces the traditional sprung balance used for more than three centuries! Featuring a single element (compared with 30 or so components of a standard regulating organ), this high-tech device equips the new DEFY Inventor. A case made of lightweight titanium and Aeronith – an innovative aluminium-polymer composite – teamed with an architectural design: through the DEFY Inventor, Zenith is (re)inventing the watchmaking of tomorrow, in an entirely independent manner.

Taking on the future

Zenith announced right from the start that DEFY would write new chapters in its history. This contemporary, even futuristic saga – given that the brand’s visionary gaze remains firmly fixed on the horizon – began in 2017 with the remarkable 100th of a second chronograph named DEFY El Primero 21. The same year, Zenith unveiled DEFY Lab, an ‘archetype’ regulated by a revolutionary oscillator developed by the Manufacture and issued in a 10-piece limited edition.  Today, the ‘specimen’ is moving beyond laboratory stage and becoming the DEFY Inventor, produced in a run of several hundred units and equipped with its own patented regulating organ. Like its predecessor, DEFY Inventor offers superlative technical performance and a modern aesthetic composed of cutting-edge materials. With its chronometric precision, this avant-garde three-hand watch is now series-produced – an industrial tour de force – and stylised to appeal to urban aesthetes. A brief reminder of its outstanding assets.

Zenith Defy Inventor

Zenith Oscillator

Beating at the extremely high frequency of 18 Hz (compared to the usual 4 Hz usually) and endowed with a comfortable two-day autonomy, Defy Inventor owes its exceptional properties to a disruptive technology: the single-piece Zenith Oscillator developed and patented by the Maison. A strategic component that constitutes the ultimate achievement of an independent Manufacture capable of developing and producing a mechanical movement in its entirety, including its own regulating system! The result of an unprecedented scientific approach to the quest for performance, it has replaced the sprung balance used in mechanical watchmaking for three and a half centuries. This major innovation for the industry offers a number of benefits. Firstly, increased reliability, given that this unique ultra-thin element (0.5 mm) replaces the thirty or so components of a standard regulating organ and thus eliminates contact, friction, wear and deformation; and secondly, stability, since it is made of monocrystalline silicon and therefore insensitive to temperature variations and magnetic fields. In addition, its escape-wheel is made of flexible blades, a first in the watch industry. These exceptional qualities are triple certified: for magnetic insensitivity (ISO-764), thermal insensitivity (ISO-3159) and chronometric precision (TIMELAB – Foundation of the Geneva Laboratory of Horology and Micro-engineering). So much for the technical aspects, as we now turn to the design.

Zenith Defy Inventor

Urban legend

An innovative ‘engine’ has been teamed with an avant-garde exterior. DEFY Inventor is as architectural as it is organic. Like an animated being in a state of perpetual motion, its heart of a new genre pulsates on the dial side, beneath a sophisticated openworked construction. Its powerful stature is carved out from ultra-light materials: brushed titanium for the 44 mm diameter case, Aeronith for the textured bezel. This lightest aluminium composite in the world was developed using an exclusive high-tech process. Three times lighter than titanium, made of open-pore aluminium foam, stiffened with a polymer, Aeronith is easily forgotten when worn, while asserting a unique modern style. The equally airy openworked dial forms a stylised propeller, of which the five ‘blades/branches’ evoke the Zenith star. Broad hours and minutes hands sweep over the mechanism, while a slender star-tipped central sweep-seconds hand – equipped with a stop-seconds system enabling ultra-accurate adjustment – marks off the seconds. In an ultimate touch of futuristic sophistication, the iconic DEFY Inventor is secured to the wrist by a black rubber strap with a midnight blue alligator coating.

Zenith Defy Inventor

ZENITH: the future of Swiss watchmaking

Since 1865, Zenith has been guided by authenticity, daring and passion in pushing the boundaries of excellence, precision and innovation. Soon after its founding in le Locle by visionary watchmaker Georges Favre-Jacot, Zenith gained recognition for the precision of its chronometers, which it has won 2,333 chronometry prizes in just over a century and a half of existence: an absolute record. Famed for its legendary 1969 El Primero calibre enabling short-time measurement accurate to the nearest 1/10th of a second, Zenith has since developed over 600 movement variations. Today, Zenith offers new and fascinating vistas, including 1/100th of a second timing with the Defy El Primero 21. Energised by newly reinforced ties with a proud tradition of dynamic, avant-garde thinking, Zenith is writing its future… and the future of Swiss watchmaking.

TECHNICAL SPECIFICATIONS

Movement Zenith Oscillator (Calibre 9100) Components: 148 Frequency: 129,600 VpH (18 Hz) Power reserve: approx. 50 hours

Functions Hours and minutes in the centre Central seconds hand

Case Material: Titanium case & Aeronith Bezel Diameter: 44 mm Water-resistance: 10 ATM Dial: Blue Openworked

Strap Black Rubber with blue alligator leather coating

Clasp Titanium double folding clasp

For more information, please visit. the Zenith Watches Website.

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Zenith Defy Inventor

Zenith Defy Inventor

Zenith Defy Inventor

Zenith Defy Inventor

Zenith Defy Inventor

Baselworld 2019: Zenith Defy Inventor With its new disruptive "Zenith Oscillator" control system, the brand with the guiding star is revolutionising mechanical watchmaking.

[sentrava]

Six Copenhagen Fashion Week Designers to Know for AW18

Though there’s a core group of designers that show almost every season at Copenhagen Fashion Week, what keeps it fresh is the new designers that come to the scene. Not everyone on this list is showing for the first time, but many are, and what they’ll bring to the world of Danish fashion is essential to its continued growth beyond the stereotypical monochrome hyper-minimalism. Here, you’ll find the artistic, modern, and sophisticated.

These are the SS18 Copenhagen Fashion Week designers that we’re excited to see on the runway:

Reconstruct

Showing for the first time in Copenhagen this season, Reconstruct is an Amsterdam-based brand that is run by five visionary and powerful female artists. Their latest collection is inspired by anime, and it’s full of colourful, eccentric looks that are stylised without becoming cartoonish.

    Anne Vest

Working with oversize, textural silhouettes that still manage to be elegant, Danish designer Anne Vest is known for her excellent shearling coats and jumpers. The addition of a stripe of color, or a fun dot pattern, keeps her pieces fresh.

    Cecilie Bahnsen

How did Cecilie Bahsen make Victoria baby doll a chic aesthetic? The world may never know, but her sculptural, fresh take on the shortened, oversize silhouette is nothing short of visionary. Since she burst onto the Copenhagen scene a few years ago she’s already gained international recognition for her unique looks. We cannot wait to see what she does this season.

    Mark Tan

He’s back! Denmark’s ready-to-wear designer that has the heart of a couturier disappeared last season, only to remerge this time around. We couldn’t be more pleased! Tan’s sharp lines and expert tailoring showcase one of the best talents working on the scene today. His work is dramatic and clean, a study of the dichotomies of womenswear.

    Lærke Andersen

Working with rough hems, large silhouettes and oversized details, Andersen’s work is all about exaggeration, particularly focused on sportswear and workwear. We’ve toured her fantastic studio and can’t wait to see this season’s collection for her first runway show ever at CPHFW.

    Morten Ussing

Danish designer Ussing’s work ethereal and bold, the kind of fantastical confections that make you fall in love with fashion all over again. His work can be surprising – it’s hard to make a full-length sequin gown look minimalist, but here we are. His first CPHFW runway show is bound to be full of fairytale drama.

  Check out the full Copenhagen Fashion Week AW18 schedule.

Six Copenhagen Fashion Week Designers to Know for AW18 published first on https://medium.com/@OCEANDREAMCHARTERS

[katebushwick]

ARTISTS, AESTHETICISATION AND GENTRIFICATION

At the same time, within the cultural field there is an abiding struggle to shape legitimising principles between these autonomous criteria of an avant-garde and the compromising criteria of market-determined values. So there is a tendency towards an insidious subversion of the other-worldliness of an autonomous aesthetic disposition, which is predicated, reasons Bourdieu, upon “the suspension and removal of economic necessity and by objective and subjective distance from groups subjected to those determinisms” (Bourdieu, 1984, p. 54).3 Its locus within the dominant class defines the sociology of the aesthetic disposition and thus its availability to dominated members of that class. Provocatively, Bourdieu identifies bourgeois adolescents and women who are

typically excluded from the economic and political power held by men in their class as sometimes adopting responses of aesthetic appropriation or resistance

Bourgeois adolescents ... sometimes ex- press their distance from the bourgeois world which they cannot really appropriate by a refusal of complicity whose most refined expression is a propensity towards aesthetics and aestheticism (Bourdieu, 1984, p. 55).

Such a habitus is one example of a ‘stylisation of life’, most fully realised by artists, that informs and is formed by aesthetic views and practices—including, as will be seen, the occupation and valorisation of space.

There has been a long tradition in art history of extolling the creative individual, the artist, the anguished performative genius. There is, of course, immense personal creativity in art works, and here it seems as if, partly for his own disciplinary objective of establishing sociology over against philosophy in the French academic canon, Bourdieu (1993) tends towards an over-socialisation of the artistic project. But he is surely correct to state that a hagiographic celebration of individual artistic genius is a hugely incomplete analysis—for art is part of a much broader social terrain, reminiscent of Sharon Zukin’s narrower, but evocative term, the artistic mode of production (Zukin, 1982). The social contexts of art have be- come a significant emphasis in recent art criticism, extending earlier work such as Becker’s (1982) study of the art world, with its fellow artists, colleges and critics, its bars and hang-outs, buyers and patrons, galleries and museums, to a much tougher critique of the social consequences, for some even the social purposes, of art which have much to do it seems with the politics of displacement (Deutsche, 1996).

The artistic mode of production involves social relations between different players in the art world, but Bourdieu (1993) makes that analysis more formal as he considers in addition the conditions that permit an auton- omous artistic field, exemplified in the slogan

‘art for art’s sake’, to exist at all. In other words, art should be understood not only as a material product with a creator, not only as a symbolic product with an audience and set of facilitators who bring it to the attention of the audience, but also as a manifestation of positions within the artistic field as a whole, the positions of predecessors and contemporaries, of valued and devalued, of dominants and dominated. Bourdieu regards the art- work as a joint creation. It is not just the creation of the artist, other than in a crude material sense, for its value has to be received and confirmed in an intersubjective art world. But this art world is itself shaped by the whole field of cultural production.

The quasi-magical potency of the [artist’s] signature is nothing other than the power, bestowed on certain individuals, to mobilize the symbolic energy produced by the functioning of the whole field, ie. the faith in the game and its stakes that is produced by the game itself (Bourdieu, 1993, p. 81).

Value should be understood as socially produced in a ‘game’ involving the artist, the art-world and also the social conditions producing the art-world, including the position of the art-work in an historical space of genres, techniques and patterns of recognition. “In short it is a question of understand- ing works of art as a manifestation of the field as a whole” (Bourdieu, 1993, p. 37). Now what does this argument have to say to gentrification as an aestheticisation of urban space? What defines the field of gentrification?

The Field of Gentrification

Bourdieu’s development of the field of cultural production as the proper site for the creation of value is a powerful heuristic and the remainder of this paper will extend it to think of gentrification also as a field of relationships, practices and historical traces. This historical standpoint, so emphasised by Bourdieu, is critical, for there are fragments of precedent and memory that are part of the cultural codes of the gentrification ‘game’

and that shape the field into the present. A first step is to establish some of the key relationships in the field: first, the type of capital held by artists, and, secondly, their position within the dominant class, albeit as Bourdieu would have it, as the dominated segment of the dominant class.

In North America, the life of the artist is an invitation to voluntary poverty and here is the first manifestation of a calculus that is incomprehensible to economism. Surveys abound highlighting the minimal economic capital of the artist. A 1993 analysis of Canada’s cultural producers found artists in the lowest niches; painters and sculptors re- ported a mean annual net income from cultural activity of under $8000, dancers, musicians and writers, $15 000 or less (Statistics Canada, 1995). A few years ear- lier, a Toronto survey had discovered that half of a sample of visual and performing artists had registered a net loss in art-related income the previous year (Social Data Re- search, 1990), while in New York an ethnography of urban artists in SoHo estimated that only 1i n a100,at best 1 in 20,would achieve commercial success (Simpson, 1981). In art, as in statistics, the significance level seems to stop at 5 per cent. Or does it? For the deep deficit in economic capital is relieved by a surfeit of cultural capital. Re- member Carole Itter’s assessment of the density of graduate degrees on her block in Strathcona. The survey of Canada’s cultural producers revealed the same pattern. Al- though economically impoverished, artists had very high levels of education, with 51 per cent possessing university degrees— more than three times the national workforce average.

Not only the appropriation of high levels of cultural capital, but also the discipline and achievement of learning an aesthetic disposition, identify artists as members of the middle class. Correlations of the location of artists in Canadian cities in the 1970s identified them as overlapping with the residential areas of higher socioeconomic status, if sometimes on their margins in districts whose gentility has become frayed at the

edges (Ley, 1996). This interdigitation is evident, for example, in several of Margaret Atwood’s Toronto novels where characters move between the social worlds of artist or writer in Cabbagetown or the Toronto Is- lands and such middle-class bastions as the University of Toronto and the Royal Ontario Museum, showing joint membership of a larger professional middle class in the central city. So, too, the studios of art colleges are filled by the children of middle-class parents. At Vancouver’s art college

The students are protected and middle- class. They face 10 years of apprenticeship after 4–6 years of little to no income. They have wonderful ideas but not the means to follow them through. One hundred and fifty graduate each year. A lot of them are very quickly on welfare (interview with assemblage artist).

Here, succinctly, is Bourdieu’s concept of rich cultural capital, limited economic capital, but nonetheless membership of the dominant class.

Artists, however, are very special members of the middle class for they stretch its imagination, its desires, even its practices, beyond its norms and conventions. The artistic lifestyle, like the creative art-work, deliberately presses the borders of conventional middle-class life, while at the same time representing its advancing, colonising arm. In a more abstract discussion, Habermas (1983, p. 5) declared that “the avant-garde must find a direction in a landscape into which no one seems to have yet ventured”. But this venturing is part of a broader field of relationships where the dialectical ties be- tween artistic imagination and middle-class convention may lead to a synthesis in the aestheticised product. One such valorised product is space.

Artists’ Spaces

As modern art attempted to create a world for itself with greater independence from the patronage of the church, the court and the aristocracy, so artists congregated in large

modern cities such as Paris, New York, Lon- don and Berlin, close to the art world, their market and, perhaps, most important, close to each other. Various avant-garde movements have been synonymous with urban life (Mar- cus, 1989), and so it remains today. Artists remain disproportionately associated with large urban areas. In 1991, just over half of Canada’s artists were located in the three principal cities of Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver. Further specificity exists within these three metropolitan areas, for, against a national standard (of 1.0), suburbs are under- represented as homes for artists, while cen- tral cities are overrepresented. Average location quotients of 0.97 in the suburbs contrasted with a quotient of 2.46 in the central city. The 1996 Census of Canada uses a new occupational classification that permits a more precise specification of artists’ occu- pations. Now against the standard of the metropolitan area as a whole ( 􏰃 1.0), a loca- tion quotient of 2.95 is identified for artists in the City of Toronto, compared with a figure of 0.62 in the remainder of the metropolitan area. Similar, if less polarised profiles existed in Montreal (1.87, 0.68) and Vancouver (1.65, 0.74). Moreover, adding the older oc- cupational classification shows a steady in- crease in centre-city concentration in each of the four censuses from 1981 to 1996 in each metropolitan area. Within the inner-city neighbourhoods, quotients are even higher (Figures 1 and 2). In Toronto, a semi-circle of tracts around the downtown area registers quotients in excess of 4.2; in Vancouver a broken circle of tracts around downtown has values of 2.5 or greater. This is a remarkable development considering that Toronto and Vancouver have consistently had the most expensive housing markets in the nation. Artists must be enduring considerable sacrifices of both housing quality and afford- ability to maintain this residential habit. Once again, their behaviour defies economic rationality, confirming that they are marching to a different drummer.

Repeating the evidence of the Census, a survey of artists in Toronto identified the importance of a central location as part-and-

parcel of the artistic habitus. Among import- ant locational requirements, 86 per cent specified a residence in downtown Toronto and (supporting Richard Florida) 85 per cent required a ‘socially tolerant’ district (Social Data Research, 1990). Interviews with artists in Vancouver add some flesh to this skeleton and revealed that not just any central-city neighbourhood will do. A sculptor showed the keen spatial differentiation that may take place

Artists need authentic locations. You know artists hate the suburbs. They’re too confining. Every artist is an anthropol- ogist, unveiling culture. It helps to get some distance on that culture in an en- vironment that does not share all of its presuppositions, an old area, socially di- verse, including poverty groups.

Poverty areas (like Carole Itter’s Strathcona) also offer cheaper rents, making a cultural virtue of economic necessity. In contrast, areas, including areas formerly occupied by artists, lose their allure with redevelopment even if heritage preservation or historical or cultural theming is part of the new landscape. A painter revealed the cultural as well as economic limitations of such redeveloped districts, including the festival market of Granville Island, very popular with Vancou- ver’s inner-city professionals

I used to work with Dundarave printmak- ers on Granville Island, a dreadful place, Disneyland. You can’t ever park there, it’s too planned, too sanitised. It’s better if the city keeps out, rents get too high, the place becomes too sanitised. The live-work spaces the City set up in Yaletown are too expensive and sterile. They’re alright, you know, if you like wall-to-wall clean.

The live-work spaces, frequently marketed as artists’ lofts, are rarely popular (or afford- able) with many artists. An artist interviewee confided that she “doesn’t know anyone who lives in these artists’ studios”. What she sees there and in other redeveloped central-city settings is something other than authenticity.

Commodification is what I see. Gastown looks pretty but there’s nothing for me there. Is it a romantic notion that brings people to places like Granville Island? There’s no place there for me.

Once again, the aesthetic disposition inverts the normal ranking of stimuli. Those com- modified sites that are popular, even popular with middle-class professionals, are subject to aesthetic rejection, while what Bourdieu (1984, p. 40) might class as ordinary and everyday, even plebeian, are subject not only to aestheticisation, but to aesthetic approval. “An old area, socially diverse, including pov- erty groups” can be valorised as authentic, symbolically rich and free from the com- modification that depreciates the meaning of place. For the aesthetic disposition, com-

modified locations, like commercialised art, are regarded as sterile, stripped of meaning: “there’s nothing for me there”. The suburbs and the shopping mall, emblems of a mass market and a failure of personal taste, are rejected. The related but opposing tendencies of cultural and economic imaginaries re- appear; spaces colonised by commerce or the state are spaces refused by the artist. But, as scholars know, this antipathy is not mutual; the surfeit of meaning in places frequented by artists becomes a valued resource for the entrepreneur.