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*stumbles out of a building covered in blood* i failed a social interaction.

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After three months of labor-conducive love, my silkscreen book is complete! 

Based off of the video game ANATOMY, it tells the story of what it really means to live in a haunted house

This game has some of the best writing and one of the most original ideas I’ve seen in a while, so please, take a look!

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Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)

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frolicking with mama :)

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Right click -> save as -> ancient curse

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sport fairies

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if cats aren't meant to be kissed on their heads then what's that little space between their ears for

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Last night was my company Holiday Party, and we're doing really well, so it was held at the Museum of Fine Arts (Boston)

I was so happy that also included the Styled by Sargent exhibit, of John Singer Sargent paintings and the actual articles of clothing alongside them.

Now, you have probably seen this painting of Lady Macbeth

But have you seen the costume she's wearing??

It's gorgeous, obviously.

But that texture! It's *crochet*

And some knitting

Really simple crochet too; just a chain and single crochet lattice with beads and metallic thread added for this chain mail effect.

Despite John Singer Sargent being an expert painter of fabric (no, really, just look at it), I never knew Lady Macbeth's costume had to be *hand crocheted* for that texture in the painting.

Anyway I'm gonna be making myself some faux-chainmail by crocheting it for the next Renn Faire

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AU where Faramir went to Rivendell instead of Boromir?

Everything turns out okay.

That sounds flippant but imagine Denethor sending the right son to do the right job.

Faramir goes to the cool green glade of Elrond, where he speaks of dreams and waves, and the elves whisper that the blood of Numenor runs true in the House of Hurin; Boromir spends his time riding like hell between Ithilien and Osgiliath, speaking with men around smoky fires, embracing his captains and saying to them, take heart, gather your strength, these are the times which test a man’s soul and lift it to glory, but we will see dawn come, we will keep Gondor free.

Though they are cut from different cloth, this is something Boromir and Faramir have always shared–they are men deserving of leadership, they would be followed under the shadow of the East. Boromir aches for every one of his countrymen cut down, screams his defiance to the orc armies and rallies his arms; Faramir listens to the words of wisdom Aragorn offers, is gentle and kindly with the hobbits, greets Legolas in his mother tongue, offers Master Gimli praise.

Wandering with the Fellowship below the empty sky, Faramir looks up at Maethor, the Warrior constellation, and thinks of his brother, prays that he is well, that he is safe, that he is still a little pompous, stilted, honest.

Boromir spends another sleepless night playing with the chain at his neck, the small portraits of his mother and brother. (I cannot lose you too, I cannot–come back hale and whole, come back angry and proud and cunning and defiant of our father–)

Faramir has never known the weight of all Gondor on his shoulders, and so is not tempted by the power the Ring offers.

Boromir has always known the love of his father, and so never bears the scorn of Denethor when Osgiliath must be abandoned as too tenuous a position to hold.

The day that Faramir comes striding into the Citadel, a child and wizard at his heels, Boromir cries out with joy as he has not for more years than counting, and they nearly bruise one another with their embrace.

“You are almost skeletal, little brother,” Boromir laughs, though it is not true–Faramir looks touched with strangeness and greatness, as one whom the Witch-Queen of Lorien found favor in, whose nobility of form and face had ensnared the heart of the White Princess of Rohan.

“And you look at least two-stone heavier, elder brother,” Faramir says, though it is false, Boromir is hollowed out and worn thin, deep shadows beneath his eyes and hunger-starved cheeks; in a glance, Faramir knows he neither eats nor sleeps nor laughs, nor feels–and Faramir, wiser and older than when he left, can see the weight his brother has always carried, and how lightly–all the stone of Minas Tirith on his shoulders, and still–

“I have missed you, little brother.”

“And I you, elder brother.”

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i'm listening to gathering moss, by robin wall kimmerer, and she is talking about a very odd job she was consigned to do, where an eccentric millionaire recuited her to consult on a "habitat restoration". when she arrives, the job they actually want her to do is to tell them how to plant mosses on the rocks in his garden. he wants it to look like a specific, beautiful wild cliff in the woods nearby, with centuries-old beds of moss growing thick and strong. she tells him it is impossible. such a thing would take decades to accomplish.

later, she is called back to look at the progress of the moss garden and is amazed by the thick, well-established mosses. how did they do it? she asks.

then they take her out to the woods and show her that they have been blasting huge chunks of rock out of the cliff, packaging them in burlap, and moving them to the owner's garden.

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FIGURE of a FAUN with Mask. late 19th.century. Guido Nelli Italian 1888-1952. bronze. http://hadrian6.tumblr.com

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i love you mirror versions i love you possession i love you cloning i love you simulacrums i love you shadow selves i love you digital copies of a mind i love you alternate timeline versions i love you tropes that play with identity and what it means to be a certain person

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idk who needs to hear this but if you have been putting something off bc it doesn't need to be done until the end of the month. we are almost done with the teens we are approaching the big numbers (the twenties). that date shall dawn upon you swiftly and without mercy before you know it. psa for everyone except me i got plany off time

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I know what simony is, thank you

The line just cracks me up in the movie because it works on multiple levels. From the Doylist perspective, it's the writers winking at the audience—of course the priests know what this particular jargon means but the audience does not so they put the definition into Thomas's dialogue and then hung a lantern on how silly it was for him to say it in the first place.

But then it actually also completely works on a Watsonian perspective because, of course, Thomas was a Professor of Canon Law and has had. A very long, very stressful day. On top of like three very very stressful weeks. So, of course, he reverts to Professor Mode (TM) and then Aldo—who is also stressed AF and was the Rector of the damn university—snaps at him for it.

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born myself by 박인주 (park inju), 2023, unknown materials, unknown dimensions

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don’t cry. 200 phoenician-punic artefacts etc. from tharros are going back to sardinia from brighton & hove museum