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tinybibmpreg · 6 years

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Day 76 // ft. Ezra, Pythrormr, Lilian, Lizabeth, Lindsey, a couple of the conevites, and Oliver & Alban

#66 / Sisters

“You said you’d always be there for me… so how did this happened? Why weren’t you there?” his little sister asked him, tears in her deep brown eyes, her hyperbolic triangle pupils blown wide with fear. He looked down at the seven year old in indifference, even as there was crashing on the first floor.

There was a piercing scream from another of his sisters, which abruptly cut off with a horrible gagging sound. His mother wailed, that same cry she always made when this happened. He glanced at the door. His sister grew restless, and grabbed his shirt.

“It’s happening again! You have to do something!”

He crouched down to look her directly in the eyes. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and he told her, “The only thing I have to do, sister, is survive.”

“Please, don’t let them hurt me…” Selfish, only begging for her own life. He pried her hands off of him and stood up straight. “No! Don’t leave again! Please!” Footsteps came up the stairs, and he heard his mother shout the names of him and his remaining sisters.

As someone broke through the door with an ax, he hopped out the window and left, those pretty voices in the back of his head he worshiped telling him exactly where to go.

Oliver still hadn’t made friends with the other children in his father’s village, and it was starting to bother him. Alban was too young to play games with rules, and hadn’t learned to walk yet. His bearer had liked playing with him when they first moved, but now that he was almost due with more babies, he was too tired and achy to play. The village doctor had told him to stay off his feet as much as possible, so that meant his bearer couldn’t come outside and play with him. His father was always very busy, so they rarely played together.

He wasn’t sure why the other children hadn’t gotten used to him yet. He’d been there for almost a year, and he was their leader’s son. Since everyone loved his father and weren’t afraid of him, he was confused. They’d gotten used to his bearer, though he suspected it was only because his bearer had turned into something of an accessory to his father. He’d asked his father if the others didn’t like him because he looked strange, but his father had called that silly, saying that judging others based on appearance wasn’t something the Gods’ worshipers did.

So he played by himself away from all the other children, taking a ball or toy with him. Sometimes he would sit and watch the wind blow in the grassy hills surrounding the village, or settle down by the river and soak up the sun.

Today, he laid atop a small, grassy hill after spending a while kicking a ball around, and absorbed the sunlight beating down on him. The temperature was fairly high, and he was pleasantly warm. After a while, he turned his head to look over at the river.

He sat up straight when he saw three people in some kind of roofless vehicle. Immediately, he regretted being so startled. They spotted him, and the vehicle veered off towards him. He debated running, but decided that they would easily catch up to him in the vehicle. It’d be better to wait for them to get out of it before trying to fight or flee. His knife was strapped to his leg, and he was a quick draw.

The vehicle slowed to a halt at the base of the hill, and one of the people hopped out, hands raised up to show they had no weapons. He stood up, keeping his hand on his knife. The person walked up to him, and he could see that they were human, an adult woman. Her pupils were a triangular shape he had never seen before, like someone had squeezed the sides of the triangle in.

She smiled down at him, and thought there was something familiar about her face, though he certainly didn’t recognize her. Glancing at the vehicle, he saw the other two were human women as well, both similar to the first in appearance, though varying in age. Her voice was familiar as well as she greeted him with a, “Hey kid, how ya doing?”

“Who are you?”

“Wow, they said the conevites didn’t like outsiders, but… You’re not a conevite, are you? They’ve got big ears.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed and answered, “My name is Lilian. These are my sisters, Lizabeth and Lindsey. What’s your name?”

“My parents said not to give my name to strangers.”

“Sensible. Do you live with the conevites?”

“Yeah. What do you want? We don’t conduct trades or sales in town.”

“Oh! We’re not traders! We’re looking for someone. Our brother. We heard rumors that he went to the conevites for help twenty years ago, and wanted to know if anyone could help us find him.”

“There’s only one human in town. The Prophet, Ezra. I could ask him if he knows about your brother. He’s been here for a really long time. And since you’re not selling anything or trying to stay, I guess you could come ask people.”

She beamed. “Thank you!”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Morrigan Barnett.”

One of the conevites dragged him aside by the arm when he walked into the village, the three sisters behind him in their vehicle. “Oliver, who are those people?”

“They’re humans. Lilian, Lizabeth, and Lindsey. Their brother went missing twenty years ago, and they heard he came here for help. I’m going to ask my father if he can help them find him.”

“Oh. Hm… I would have been a child. I don’t remember any humans besides the Prophet coming here.”

“Do you know where my father is?”

“He’s still in the house with your mother.”

He thanked them, and began walking to the house. The sisters stopped their vehicle in the village square, and he glanced back at them to see Lilian greeting a few of the older conevites. Since his father’s house was just outside the village, on the top of a hill with a large, flat peak, and he didn’t want his chest to start hurting, he walked slowly up the path.

When he got to the house, he walked right in, knocking on the door frame to alert his bearer that he was back. His parents and brother were in the main room. His bearer was lounging on the couch, his brother lying on a pillow by his bearer’s knee. His father was by the shrine, praying. Oliver stayed quiet, knowing he wasn’t supposed to interrupt. So he waited, and went up to his bearer. He received a kiss on the forehead, and his bearer had him sit so he could pluck the grass strands from his headfeathers.

His bearer’s arm wrapped around him, and he leaned back against him. He could feel and hear the man purring, and he soon dozed off.

When he startled awake as his bearer shifted, he could see that the sunlight streaming through the windows was dim. His bearer rubbed his arm. “It’s okay, dear, you just slept for a few hours.”

“Ah… I had something I wanted to ask Father about.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You just looked like you needed the sleep. I know Alban and I did too.”

Before Oliver could say it was alright, his father entered the room, a smile on his unmasked face. “I heard you ask for me.”

Oliver got up and took a few steps closer. “Yes, I had a question.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Do you know who Morrigan Barnett is?” he asked.

The smile on his father’s face was quickly replaced with one of anger, and before Oliver could even see it coming, his father had struck him hard across the face. He was thrown to the ground by the force of it. Too shocked to react, he laid there. His father dropped down, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and demanded, “Where did you hear that name?!”

He was released just as quickly as he was grabbed, as his bearer snarled and lunged at his father, grabbing him and forcing him to the ground. Oliver sat up and touched his face. His body finally registered the pain, and tears welled up in his eyes. His little brother wailed.

“How dare you hit our sssson! What isss wrong with you?”

“Where did he find out about that name?”

His bearer ignored the question, hissing, “If you ever touch my children again, I will kill you. I don’t care who you are, I’ll rip you to piecessss. No one touchesss them.”

“Get off-! Oliver, tell me where you heard that name!”

“Don’t yell at my ssson!” His bearer pressed down on his father’s throat. It looked like he was about to kill him, and Oliver was petrified, his chest hurting. He didn’t understand what was going on at all. He squeezed his eyes shut to try and wake himself up, but the snarling and wailing didn’t stop, and he was still sitting on the floor when he opened his eyes.

Though he found it difficult to get in enough air, he answered his father’s question. “I- I heard the name from three humans. They’re- they’re in town, ‘cause- ‘cause their brother Morrigan went missing a long time okay, and- and they’re… they’re looking for him. I… I said I’d ask you…” His eyes stung, and he hugged his legs to his chest, starting to sob.

His bearer released his father, but kept growling at him as he picked up the two children. They left the house, and Oliver didn’t look up to see where they were going. He heard his father shouting for them, but his voice got quieter.

“General! What’s wrong? What are you doing on your feet?” Oliver glanced at the person.

“Protecting my children.”

“Did something happen?”

“Ezra hit Oliver. He went mad after Oliver asked him about some human.”

The elderly conevite’s ears went straight up in surprise, her long fingers twitching. “Oh… The Prophet has never raised a hand to anyone before. Though… was the name perhaps Morrigan?”

“It was.”

“I probably shouldn’t speak of it, but… when the Prophet first arrived here, he confessed to the Gods that he had murdered an innocent man, named Morrigan Barnett, and performed the funeral rites for him.”

“I didn’t know he had killed someone… A bit hypocritical of him to try and shame me for all the deaths I caused, when he doesn’t have such clean hands.”

“One man is a bit different from too many to count.”

Ignoring that last bit, his bearer sat down on a bench so he could check on Oliver. He frowned at the bruise that was starting to form, and brushed a finger over it, careful not to scrape Oliver with his claw.

Voice low and soft, his bearer asked, “How are you feeling, dear? Does it hurt?”

“Mhmm…”

After a few minutes, a concerned voice asked them, “Are Oliver and the little one alright?” He looked up to see the three sisters. They all looked worried about them.

His bearer didn’t answer their question, instead responding with one of his own, “Are you the humans looking for your brother?”

“Yes. I’m Lilian, and these are my half-sisters, Lizabeth and Lindsey. We heard our older brother once came here.”

“I’m afraid I’ve only been here for a year. But my boys’ father seems to know what happened to your brother. It evoked quite the explosive reaction from him.”

“His face is bruised… Did you get hit asking your dad our question?”

Oliver nodded at the same time his bearer warned, “I wouldn’t expect any good news.”

The three girls exchanged looks, and Oliver sniffled, hugging his bearer. The end of his bearer’s tail came to wrap around him, and the man cooed at him and his little brother. Sensing that both of his family members were upset, Alban didn’t settle down, whimpering and trying to bury himself against his bearer’s chest.

“Pythrormr!” Oliver heard his father shout, and he could see the man jogging up to them. For the first time since Oliver had come here, his father wasn’t wearing his mask outside. “Pythro!”

Lilian turned, her eyes going wide. “Morrigan? Morrigan, is that you?”

His father skidded to a halt, and his eyes opened as wide as they could with the threads keeping them half closed. Mouth opening slightly, he looked between the three sisters. Oliver had a bad feeling about what was going to happen, so he held on tight to his bearer.

“Ezra, these are the humans that told Oliver to ask you about their brother.”

“Morrigan! Oh, we thought we’d never find you-” Lilian went to hug him, but his father shoved her away. Lizabeth caught her, and Lindsey clung to her arm. “Morrigan, what’s wrong?”

“My name isn’t Morrigan. Don’t touch me.”

“What? Why wouldn’t I recognize my own brother…? Morrigan, stop with your stupid games! You’ve been gone for twenty years, everyone who was after us is finally dead! You’re safe now, you don’t have to pretend you’re not associated with us anymore!” Lilian got to her feet, clenching her fists.

“You have me confused with someone else. My name is Ezra, the Prophet of the conevites.”

“You’re Morrigan Barnett, our older brother, who left us for dead twenty years ago as people raided our home and tried to kill us like they’d killed our sisters! What happened to you? What happened to your eyes?”

“Ezra, what’s going on?” Oliver glanced up at his bearer. His headfeathers were ruffled, his eyes narrowed. “The conevites said that Barnett was the name of a man you murdered. Not that you had a different name.”

“The conevites are right,” his father cried, “I did murder Morrigan Barnett! I murdered him, and I have felt guilt every day for my crime! Morrigan Barnett was an innocent man, and I killed him in cold blood as an offering to the gods that they did not ask for, would never demand!”

“But you look just like him, sound like him! Morrigan, what happened in this town? Did they do that to your eyes?” Lizabeth asked.

“I am not that poor man, I am Ezra.”

The three sisters clearly didn’t believe him. As Oliver looked between them, he had his own doubts about what his father was saying. The women resembled him. Since his father had no pupils, he couldn’t tell for sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if his father had been born with the strange triangles in his eyes.

The four humans argued back and forth, all getting louder until they were yelling at each other. Oliver was terrified that at any moment, his father would lash out at one of the weapon. Alban was crying, so upset by the sound that their bearer couldn’t manage to soothe him. Oliver couldn’t help his own tears and distressed chirps, trembling against his bearer’s side. The reptilian man kept looking between them and the commotion.

The conevites had all fled inside of their homes, though Oliver could see them peeking through the windows, their wide eyes trained on his father.

“Stop!” his father roared. “I am not Morrigan! I am Ezra! Morrigan Barnett died twenty years ago, when I sacrificed him to the gods. I slaughtered him!”

“Why did those gods take you away from our family when we needed you?”

“I am not him! All of my sisters are dead! You aren’t my family- my only family members are my husband and sons.”

His bearer made a small sound, and Oliver looked up. The man had a worried expression, and was looking down at his swollen belly. “Father?” His bearer handed Alban to him and then held his belly, wincing. He took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes. Oliver chirped up at him, but saw no indication that his bearer had noticed.

“Ah…” He leaned forward, face screwing up in pain. “Ezra… ooh... Ezra!”

His father paused in whatever he was saying to the three sisters and hurried over. “Pythro, what’s wrong?”

“Th-the babiesss…”

“Are they coming?”

“No… ssssomething’sss wrong…”

His father turned and looked toward one of the small houses, signing as he shouted, “Doctor!” A skinny conevite quickly exited the house and came over, ears perked up. He signed something quickly to his father, but Oliver couldn’t see both of his hands, so he couldn’t tell what he’d said.

“Pythro, we’re going to take you to the doctor’s house so he can examine you, alright? We’ll help you up.” They pulled him to his feet. His bearer leaned against his father, and the three of them walked slow across the square.

The three sisters didn’t say anything to them as they passed, and didn’t try to follow them. They watched them go by. When the three disappeared behind the door, the sisters looked at Oliver and Alban. “Hey, kid-”

Before Lilian could say anymore, someone lifted up the both of them. It was the conevite who had pulled him aside when he first came into town with the three women. Without a word, the conevite brought them into their house and then locked the door.

Once secure inside, the conevite set them down on a cot, and closed the window and curtains. They turned around to give the two boys a nervous smile. “There! We’ll wait in here until everything settles down. Now, ah… I’ve never been given the task of caring for children, but I was the closest local adult near two unsupervised children, so your care falls to me until your parents can retrieve you, or you can group together with the other children.”

The two didn’t respond to them, so they sat down next to Oliver and hugged him. Alban turned to the warmth of the conevite’s chest, and Oliver buried his face against them.

“I’m sure your mother will be alright. He’s big and strong, and the Gods wouldn’t let anything happen to your siblings.”

#oblio's fics #original #mpreg #male pregnancy #Ezra 'The Prophet'#General Pythrormr #Oliver (WRiE)#Alban (WRiE)#Lilian Barnett #Lizabeth Barnett #Lindsey Barnett #What's Right in Exchange

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calamitousrpgarchive · 4 years

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THE DEATH HUNT IS ON

The North, South, East and West rooms divide in ways that none expected; bring death in a manner that’s pointing in everyone else’s direction. A race against time that puts all in the wake of the Reaper’s scythe. Where tensions rise, creatures; mortal and immortal are forced to solve riddles and puzzles as though they aren’t decades old enemies with blood on their minds.

Within the Laundry Room in the East. A Mer; Queen Aviana Zander lies dead, mutilated for all to see; a prop that assists with the task of escaping the room that begins to flood the closed space from leaking machines; rigged to drown the room and all those standing in it. A code to answer the murderer of the monarch clearer to some than it is others. Lylia Barnett, Lilian Deumos and Azagi despite their differences, tackle the message; solve the order of which the machines need to be switched off, leave on the broken one to allow the wall to shift; lead to a staircase that take them upwards and out of the room...

Meanwhile, North, in the Bar/Dining Room, a sorcerer; renowned Necromancer Zederrin sits still at a table, left carvings to hint at his killer; so some assume. But someone - or something, has laid waste to the powerful magician and in his death lies answers that are overlooked; things staring them in the face that panic and chaos cover all too well. Because poisonous smoke fills the room with speed Iyzk Vissar, Aiden Kinsey, and Haylee Dubois all attempt to decipher the morse code carved into the table, put together it’s message to open the found safe... inside; a wormhole; endless... leads further into the depths of the hotel, and they crawl through in hopes of escaping the smoke and finding an exit...

Upstairs, on the Southside of the hotel, in one of the more recluse of Bedrooms, a horror scene is recreated where Enoch; a Fallen Angel hangs, back muscles spread like bloodied wings where the real ones should be. Claw marks split skin like butter at the front and open up organs to visible view, most dangle from designated cages and spill browning blood onto the floor. With the combined efforts of Zyler Fane, Giselle Stoneheart, Darcy Darkwood, and Luella Edwards, they reorganise the dice; insert the missing ones scattered amongst the room; read it; trigger the completed mechanism and from the far side of the room; the magical lock on the window is released, a ladder is found on the side of the building; at height, their only option is to climb...

In the West Basement, where heat brings down the wallpaper, the creatures battles flames to find an exit to their room around the dead Court Offical; Xantho Vale. Cryptic messages cloud their minds and the fires are unforgiving to those taking too long... it’s not obvious to the ones trying to solve it: Morgana Maddox, Ezekiel “Zeki” Amari, Evanora Bile, Harley Xhanthi all fight against time to get answers; the message rings clear; but not evident in visuals; a sound that is only heard when a sense is turned off; eyes like oil; to see darkness like a demon allows those in the room - the ones not panicked to listen amongst the roaring of flames for whispered message: you cannot see the door, but it is there...

Where they make themselves blind, there’s an opening in jagged basement walls where they can walk through, tackle staircase away from the fire and elsewhere...

AND IT ALL LEADS TO ONE PLACE

In waves, the survivors are forced upwards; to the roof of Elysium Circus; if they were not so worn, injured and hungry, they might have even appreciated the view.

They can almost see all of Calamity beneath ash and smoke; through foggy vision and see all sides of the State and its divide.

But like everything that night, it’s not the most breath-taking sight that meets monstrous eyes. Not like the large stretch of chimney that plays canvas to a new kind of dark artwork; fingers, same as the ones in the very first lockbox are nailed into the bricks; a particular pattern; four of them in fact that form the alchemic symbols that represent far more than anyone knew...

Because if anyone translated them instead; they’d have known to never speak the hexes in each room aloud. And every single one of them did...

It’s not a puzzle anymore; there’s no trickery at play; no final boss that the injured have to stand-off to because they’ve already lost.

All that’s left is to decide who loses the most.

And to remember that some found the answer on a rag long before they knew the question or situation posed... one sacrifice to save the masses ... or so the concise version goes...

Whilst all four hexes have been spoken aloud, activated by the one who set the traps to begin with, formed of severed fingers; the bloodied handiwork already complete, there’s gaps in the completed symbols; four finger sized ones in each hexed symbol.

Funny those puzzle pieces were provided to everyone at the beginning too... only, who’s got control of them? One finger went into each room; every group to decide which of the four hexes are to be completed to allow them to leave Elysium Circus in one piece... And those murders they walked past; ignored in some cases give them the answers to who might deserve to be cursed.

Because they must decide to complete one of the four hexes; each attached to one side of the State of Calamity; each more detrimental to some species than others...

If they don’t... well... what do you think?

Better figure out who deserves to be maimed; what each hex and curse enacts upon Calamity in the last fight of puzzles and all creatures have to agree on it; four rooms with different thoughts about who’s part of the group responsible, but they’ve only got four fingers to complete one of the curses

Unless of course... they want to sacrifice their own fingers to complete more...

MAKE A DECISION; SACRIFICE ONE FOR THE MASSES OR SACRIFICE NONE AND LOSE THEM ALL.

ADMIN NOTE: This is the penultimate part of the Halloween event! The conclusion is up to you from here! But any more drops will just be the result of the decision(s) you make guys! You made it. YOU LIVED. You’re on the Elysium roof and with the fingers each group has from the lobby you must decide which of the hexes/curses you will bring upon Calamity; oops.

All you hard effort and brain juice has brought you here and now, from what you have gathered, discovered and figured you must pit it amongst yourselves who’ll be blamed for the oncoming suffering. Which will it fall on, the East, the North, the South or the West. They don’t all react like you might think they do, so pick wisely...

If nobody picks. You’ll all suffer.

As per usual, any questions about the craziness, please let us know & we’ll fill you in! If you genuinely want to do more than one, please be aware you’ll have to sacrifice characters fingers... no, you cannot reattach these appendages this time around. Even with magic.

It’ll officially conclude Sunday November 8th 18:00EST/23:00GMT, you may of course continue all threads!

THANK YOU ALL FOR BEING SO AWESOME AND MAKING HALLOWEEN A RIDE!

#calamity.event #event: murder mystery hunt #supernatural rp #dark rp #oc rp #appless rp #pastevent

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luckymeluckyou · 4 years

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Four songs I have on repeat:

1. Love It if We Made It by The 1975

2. Slow It Down by Spencer Barnett

3. Do Me by Kim Petras

4. Bitter by Fletcher

Tagged by @lilian-evans

Tagging @vousmevoyez1424

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sistercelluloid · 6 years

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I used to slog through the bloated Oscar show every year just to see the honorary awards for Lifetime Achievement, which were grudgingly doled out to classic stars and directors the Academy had criminally ignored throughout their careers. But then a few years ago, they banished them to a smaller event that’s not even televised. (“You’re being honored for decades of brilliant work? Hey, we’ll be sure to post a link on YouTube!”) Then this year, they planned to squeeze the Cinematography, Editing, Live-Action Shorts and Makeup/Hairstyling awards into commercial breaks. (They claimed they were “forced to,” but somehow when folks like Martin Scorsese, Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuaron blasted them for it, they backed down. So “forced to” was really more like “try to get away with.”)

If they shaft living Academy members this shamelessly, God help those who are gone. Which brings us to our annual list of snubs from the Oscar memorial reel.

HOLLYWOOD, CA – SEPTEMBER 18: Actor and one of “The Munchkins” from the “Wizard of Oz” Jerry Maren is immortalized with a hand and footprint ceremony at the TCL Chinese Theatre on September 18, 2013 in Hollywood, California. (Photo by David Livingston/Getty Images)

As usual, they somehow found time to get several publicists in there, and who among us doesn’t count their press releases among our favorite film moments. But they left out Stanley Donen. I actually had to rewind the whole thing to make sure that was true. How long would it have taken to make a last-minute addition for a Lifetime Achievement Oscar winner?!?

Just as a palate cleanser, to get that awful taste out of your mouth, here he is accepting his award in 1998, and throwing in a little soft shoe:

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Also snubbed were actors Verne Troyer, Ricky Jay, R. Lee Ermey, David Ogden Stiers, Charlotte Rae, Hugh Dane, Scott Wilson, Dick Miller, Jo Andres, Anthony Vajna, Eunice Gayson, Philip Bosco, Michele Carey, Peter Donat, Douglas Rain, Louise Latham, Dolores Taylor, Sondra Locke, Bob Einstein, Pamela Gidley, Harry Anderson, Liliane Montevecchi, Vanessa Marquez, Ken Berry, Bibi Ferreira, Carmen Argenziano, Joe Sirola, Nita Bieber, Kristoff St. John, Clive Swift, Louisa Moritz, Kevin Barnett, Verna Bloom, Robert Mandan and Louis Zorich; writers Harlan Ellison and Christopher Knopf; producers Arnold Kopelson, Meg Randall, Alan Johnson, Gary Kurtz and Philip D’Antoni (who produced Bullitt and won an Oscar for The French Connection); directors Stan Dragoti, Michael Anderson, Vijaya Bapineedu, Larry Brand and Lewis Gilbert; composer Arthur B. Rubinstein; stuntman Jimmy Nickerson; and designer Hubert de Givenchy.

Classic film always seems to get slammed especially hard in the memorial reel, which gets more painful as there are ever-fewer artists left to honor. Left out along with Donen were Donald Moffat, Allyn Ann McLerie, Mary Carlisle (still an active supporter of classic film when she was over 100), Connie Sawyer (whose career spanned ten decades), William Phipps, Tom Reese, Dewey Martin, Jean Porter, Liz Fraser, Jerry Maren, Carol Channing, Kaye Ballard, Chuck McCann, Julie Adams, Joseph Campanella, Patricia Morison, Clint Walker, Rose Marie, and Charles Aznavour. And Gloria Jean and Susan Miller, who, 77 years after co-starring in W.C. Fields’ Never Give a Sucker an Even Break, died five days apart.

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Whenever they’re called out on their slights (even overlooking Oscar winners), the Academy’s stock responses are: the show is so very short on time (while still managing to fit in lame bits, canned banter, and endless commercials), and there’s a longer list on the website. But all that does is set up a creepy A-list/B-list for dead people. (Does this never end in Hollywood?) It’s gotten to the point where pre-show lobbying campaigns have become a sad annual ritual.

I don’t know what the answer is. But as long as they keep dissing people, we’ll keep trying to honor them here. And the ones we miss, please point out in comments so we can add them (the timeframe is from last year’s March 4 telecast to tonight’s show).

Godspeed and heartfelt thanks to all of them—from the little people out here in the dark…

The Ever-Infuriating Oscar Memorial Reel: Who Got Snubbed In 2019? I used to slog through the bloated Oscar show every year just to see the honorary awards for Lifetime Achievement, which were grudgingly doled out to classic stars and directors the Academy had criminally ignored throughout their careers.

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chocolateheal · 6 years

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The 21 Steps Needed For Putting Gestural Abstract Expressionism Definition Into Action | gestural abstract expressionism definition

Alfonso Ossorio’s mural in Negros Occidental. His wax-resist watercolor studies for the mural appearance the articulation amid Pollock’s Abstruse Expressionism and Dubuffet’s Art Brut. —ARNOLD ALMACEN

21 Best Gestural Abstraction images | Barnett newman, Abstract art … – gestural abstract expressionism definition | gestural abstract expressionism definition

A new display of paintings by Alfonso Ossorio seeks to erect into the art and activity of the ambiguous artist-dilettante who had been abundantly absolved in his lifetime as bald angel to Jackson Pollock and an art dabbler, but whose acceptability for trailblazing art has so developed back his afterlife in 1990 that he’s now advised the missing articulation amid American Abstruse Expressionism and European Art Brut.

“Grazing Light,” which opens this anniversary at León Gallery in Makati, follows through the awful acknowledged display “Afflictions of Glory.” Mounted aftermost year additionally at León to mark the Philippine-American artist’s bearing centenary (1916-2016), “Afflictions” was the aboriginal anytime above appearance of Ossorio’s assignment in the acreage of his birth.

The new display will adhere 18 works, all from the Robert Ossorio Family Collection. Art restorer and conservator Liliane “Tats” Rejante Manahan, activity administrator of the new exhibit, appear that aftermost year’s works, which she helped abbey and León Gallery buyer Jaime Ponce de León insisted were of “unassailable provenance,” had additionally appear from the aforementioned source.

Liliane “Tats” Rejante Manahan, activity administrator of “Grazing Light”

“Afflictions” fabricated assertive admission amid the beatnik delineation of Christ in Ossorio’s acclaimed mural at the St. Joseph the Worker abbey in Victorias, Negros Occidental assignment and his own circuitous attitude due to his austere Catholic upbringing, accepting a actual able mother, and his homosexuality.

“Grazing Light” will somehow body on Ossorio’s conflicted obsessiveness, but with accent on his different but actual acute aesthetic techniques, such as his wax-resist painting adjustment and his avant-garde reinvention of medieval adorn address as illustrated in his Victorias abbey mural.

Drawing from her assignment additionally as an autogenous designer, Manahan said the appellation refers to ablaze or lights amid abutting to the lit apparent that brings into abatement highlights and textures. She said that Ossorio’s methods of alliteration and layering, accurate to the affected Art Brut tradition, would acknowledge layers, textures and caliginosity that accord his works their astonishing power. It may assume that “shadows” would additionally affix with the antecedent display that tackled Ossorio’s “Afflictions.”

Manahan says display interiors will arm-twist Victorias in the 1950s, back Ossorio alternate to assignment on his family’s chapel. —PHOTOS BY LYN RILLON

Repatriated

The Ossorio exhibits may be addition appearance of “repatriated” Philippine art from the West. But the affair is added complicated than that.

Ossorio, begat of a amoroso association that accustomed Victorias Milling in Negros Occidental, larboard the Philippines back he was 8 years old, acquired British and American education, became a US citizen, and lived there until his death, save for a abrupt accession in 1950 to assignment for 10 months on the now acclaimed “Angry Christ” in Victorias.

Although Ossorio was a accomplished artist, consistently announcement and alike beat art styles, he was added accepted as angel to Pollock and a artsy who captivated amplitude over aerial association in the East Hamptons, area his all-inclusive estate, The Creeks, became the hub of VIPs, artists and intellectuals. Because he was to the estate born, as an artist, he was from the art apple by and ample proscribed.

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Classified by the media as a affiliate of the New York School, Ossorio was at best an account of concern because of his ethnicity and his own art convenance was both agnate and antithetical to Abstruse Expressionism.

Such “dissimilar similarity” was conceivably prefigured when, at the advancement of Pollock, Ossorio went to Paris and met Jean Dubuffet, best of “Art Brut” (literally “raw art”). The French artisan declared Art Brut as accepting a “spontaneous and acerb adroit character.”

Dubuffet’s analogue was a ambagious way of adage Art Brut works were by patients in brainy asylums (“outsider art,” according to one British critic, somehow approximating Michel Foucault’s address on prisons and brainy asylums) and by accouchement (later “naïf art”).

Dubuffet inveighed adjoin “culture” and “civilization” for deracinating or standardizing aesthetic expression. He believed that the freest announcement could be begin alone from the mentally deranged, above the bound of acumen anchored by ability and the establishment.

Oddly enough, Pollock and Dubuffet never met, but their corresponding streams begin a arch in Ossorio—action painting and gestural abstracting abutting somehow with outsider, naïf and archaic art.

How West met West through East was, in fact, the apriorism of—“Angels, Demons and Savages: Pollock, Ossorio, Dubuffet,” the actual important display of the Phillips Collection in Washington and Parrish Art Museum in New York in 2013. It showed Ossorio’s cardinal role in the affair of two movements that were both agnate and disparate at the aforementioned time.

“St. Anthony of Padua Preaching with Fishes”

Pivotal moment

But as the two shows of Ossorio in the Philippines may now tend to show, the cardinal moment may accept been the “Angry Christ” mural in Victorias.

Exhibited aftermost year was a absorption of the mural fabricated in Ossorio’s brand medium, water-resistant wax on paper. It angry out he had fabricated some 300 studies of the mural, which should accentuate how Ossorio both compared with and differed from Pollock and Dubuffet.

As Manahan explained, whatever “spontaneity” could be attributed to his expressionist and raw-art inclinations was in the final analysis, “studied and actual deliberate.”

It was in the studies that Ossorio was able to absolute his wax-resist method, some samples of which would be apparent in “Grazing Light.”

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Manahan said Ossorio would absolutely band hot wax on the cartoon surface, or draw with a acicular candle, again besom water-based acrylic over it; this would banish acrylic over wax, creating shapes and fractals spontaneously, which the artisan would interpret.

Drawing from his raw-art instincts, he would repetitively band the angel added until he could adumbrate a amount or a allegory or, cartoon from his Abstruse Expressionist leaning, abstruse representation.

“16-X-79”

Obsessive, monastic

For Manahan, Ossorio’s acute wax-resist adjustment was additionally prefigured in the berserk abandonment with which he planned, conceptualized and accomplished the mural.

Manahan apparent the berserk accurateness that went into Ossorio’s art back she was asked to advance the attention and apology of the Victorias chapel.

Manahan said she apparent Ossorio acclimated ethyl silicate 40 as adhesive for the mural afterwards consulting Ralph Meyer, a admired columnist of painter’s handbooks. “The aftereffect is like a fresco: It accessories the colorant so that the assignment seems to beating with light, and admitting the abrasion and breach of time, the colorant will not crumb but aloof fade.”

She said she apparent Ossorio’s modus on the mural back she did basic scratches on the assignment to actuate the able apology approach.

“Ossorio was a nerd, a accurate researcher; he advised everything,” said Manahan.

“That’s why the mural is beauteous except for genitalia that had been corrective over through the years (due to capricious interventions),” said Manahan. “It is because of Ossorio’s use of the binder.”

Having advised in Benedictine boarding schools (St Benedict of Nursia is the architect of the Western apostolic movement and now accustomed as the airy architect of Europe), and accepting catholic widely, the Catholic-bred Ossorio was accustomed with the medieval adorn techniques.

Light for the medieval abbey was a representation of God, so the Benedictine monks, who adored age-old manuscripts from the Dark Ages by artful them, reproduced them through aflame manuscripts. Later, medieval adorn painters developed techniques to allurement ablaze that able their works with amount beam as able-bodied as a anguish faculty of animation.

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The Benedictine adage is “Ora et labore” (prayer and work). It is actual appetizing to brainstorm Ossorio active over the mural but with the attentive affection of a abbot in prayer.

This abutting of advised ambition and active assignment in Ossorio may be why Manahan said she didn’t accept that Ossorio’s address was as “spontaneous” as Abstruse Expressionism and Art Brut.

“It is so aral, so studied,” she said.

Manahan bidding her continuing allure of Ossorio’s techniques.

“I am sucked into it; the added you know, the beneath you know,” she said.

Which is not to say Ossorio did not comedy the aesthetic arch amid the ablaze American and the appropriately ablaze French.

“Ossorio was smacked appropriate into Pollock and Dubuffet,” said Manahan. “He was the accepted denominator.”

What has been accustomed added or beneath is that his Philippine studies prefigured Ossorio’s arch of absorption and Art Brut, his amalgamation of both absorption and representation.

Dubbufet afterwards commented that in Ossorio’s style, “the apotheosis seems fortuitious.” But now we should apperceive better.

Nothing is adventitious in Ossorio’s art. At the least, it could be said his is the art of both the adventitious and the adventurous.