djemsostylist

[djemsostylist]

reblog with a spoiler for your wip with zero context. no context allowed.

[djemsostylist]

hi, honey! i was wondering, where do you download turkish dizi to gif them? i wanna gif ada masali, but i just can’t find a torrent that is webrip (without the tv show credits, you know?) or any at all ):

Hey, so the answer is idk lol. I haven't watched dizis in about four years or so, and I couldn't tell you if the regular places are even still working? My dizi watching was a manifestation of pandemic angst, and long since past lol. I think the best places were YouTube honestly? I think? I don't think I ever used a torrent site-pretty sure it was either YouTube so I could use VLC and such or it was an actual website that played them and I used some kind of web gif thingy? Also sorry this ask is a month old lol.

[djemsostylist]

[djemsostylist]

The Knight of the Holy Grail (Frederick Judd Waugh, 1912)

[djemsostylist]

Otters will forever be the most dramatic creatures on the planet🦦

[djemsostylist]

A while ago, I saw a post about the story of Beren and Luthien as classical ballet. I had kept the idea in the back of my head as some fun project I could do one day but never found the time to do more than a couple of drafts.

But this is my final year of art school and, for our exam, we have to create a entire project, from characters to environments, so I jumped on the occasion and dusted off my old stuff !

Here you have the very first drafts for Beren and Luthien, I was mostly looking to make functional ballet costumes while given them each their own identity. Beren has a style mixing viking shapes and byzantine empire patterns, while, for Luthien, I have taken a lot of inspiration from Alphonse Mucha and Art Nouveau.

I will post the rest bit by by, you'll get character designs, set designs, cool puppets and, maybe if I am motivated enough, a PMV !

I hope you guys will enjoy this crazy project as I do by making it !

[djemsostylist]

FANTASIA (1940)

[djemsostylist]

Elrond be like: I am 4/8 human, 3/8 elf, and 1/8 angel. My mother is a bird and my father is the North Star. My twin brother was the first king of Atlantis but somehow I seem to be more famous than him. I am one of three ringbearers, the other two being the female version of Feanor and a guy who loves fireworks. My foster father is a crazy homeless guy who likes music and his whole family is dead. My many-greats grandnephew is in love with my daughter. No one can tell my sons apart. I like waterfalls and am both a glorified innkeeper and a top-notch doctor. I am the voice of reason no one listens to.

[djemsostylist]

Being overstimulated is such a weird thing to explain to people. Like "hey sorry, I'm not mad at you and this is nobody's fault and I'm not blaming anyone for it happening, I am aware this is a part of regular everyday life but I am mentally crumbling because There Have Been Things Happening nonstop for 5 hours straight back to back with no breaks, and I really need to sit down in complete silence for like 15-25 minutes, after which I will be completely fine and can proceed as normal. But if I'm not allowed to have that, I will resort to violence."

[djemsostylist]

why do they let the worlds most boring people direct movies

[djemsostylist]

i think that my favourite thing to happen in art history is when a guy made a Lucifer statue that was too hot for church so they commissioned his brother who made an even hotter one

full story

[djemsostylist]

you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.

who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?

[djemsostylist]

Viggo Mortenson does not get enough credit for delivering lines like "not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall" with a complete sincerity and gravitas

[djemsostylist]

Robin Hood and Little John walkin' through the forest--

alright! so! early robin hood ballads and narratives don't have an origin story for little john, but a later ballad (robin hood and little john) does. they fight on a bridge in it, but I like looking at illustrations, so I've swapped out the bridge for that tree peaking out of the panel in the first panel bc I enjoy louis rhead's illustrations a lot.

this is some kind of introduction scene after they fight and climb out of the river!

Robin Hood & Little John (edited by Stephen Knight & Thomas Ohlgren)

[djemsostylist]

The worst thing in the entire world is when you’re sweeping a big pile of dirt into a dustpan and it leaves that little coke line of grit behind. No matter how you position your pan or your broom and no matter how many times you sweep over it your outcome cannot change. As immovable as fate. I hate it so

[djemsostylist]