#Task 3

[thelcser]

TASK III

2014 — Gay Calloway

O verdadeiro significado de loser. Malina não se importava em acompanhar a moda, nem a banda mais quente do momento, ir pra festa mais badalada do campus ou curtir o menininho ou menininha mais bonito da faculdade. Malina só se preocupava com seus jogos e seus personagens, não tendo muito contato social ou algum ciclo de amigos para se envolver; era uma reclusa chata, que reclamava de tudo, ia dormindo nas aulas e gritava enquanto jogava. Sinceramente? Ver ela pelos corredores era uma perca de tempo, mas mesmo assim as pessoas ainda gostavam de zoar. Fosse suas roupas, o corte de cabelo, jogos ou o próprio nome. E, sendo sincera? Porra, ela nem ligava pra isso; Calloway só queria jogar seus jogos, gravar seus vídeos e interpretar seus personagens, que mal há nisso?

2024 — Malinoka

Uma megera insuportável. Foi isso que Malina se tornou. A fama subiu totalmente para a sua cabeça, o dinheiro que recebia, o pessoal que comprava as maluquices dela a tornaram no ser mais desprezível fora da internet. Se incomodava com tudo, desde uma letra fora do lugar até a escolha do ator para algum papel. Suas lives com jogos e conversas eram de um enorme entretenimento para a cultura nerd, mas Malina continuava sendo uma pessoa sem amigos ou qualquer tipo de relacionamento que não fosse parassocial. Se tornou alguém que se acha muito dona de si, e não se importa em reclamar ou xingar qualquer pessoa que passe do que ela acredita ser "o ideal". Uma lista enorme de pessoas já foram perseguidas por culpa de Malina e dos seus subs, e a quantidade de séries ou canais que receberam spam ou textos enormes em seus e-mails assinados por Calloway é absurda. Atualmente, é conhecida como a Rainha dos Incels, e se orgulha disso, essa vagabunda.

[nicholas1673]

My Understanding of Art Criticism

I have evaluated artworks mostly by students that I learned within MCAST to talk about what to improve in their artworks and the style of their work. Art criticism is an interesting subject because a person can critique an artist's work in their own opinion, knowledge and their interests in the artwork that a person likes or dislikes from the artist style in their work that a person chose to talk about also when a person evaluates an artist work that made the artwork can learn much more what to improve or change the style that truly works for the artist and that is how art evolves by time. I have learned a lot in art by having people give their own opinions of my art style of patterns by telling me that I am not that good at painting and drawing but they told me that I am better at working on 3D sculpture to show patterns in different materials.

I have learned that through time art criticism has its own timeline that started from ancient civilization, the Middle Ages, Renaissance, the Enlightenment, 19th Century to early 20th Century and Mid-to-late 20th Century that there were a lot of different centuries with different styles of art criticism. Contemporary art criticism that values every style of art man-made even digital because every artwork has its own language in art criticism for example the media, composition, balance, form, line, texture, colour, space, perspective, contrast, proportion, pattern, emphasis and symbolism, it shows that nowadays art criticism values different styles of art. There are a lot of famous people around the world that use art criticism to help great artists to be seen by the public because when a writer writes about the artist and their works they are being view as great with good potential to improve or to be seen as amazing artist around the world.

[bookwyrminspiration]

god I would be UNSTOPPABLE if I was capable of consistently initiating tasks. just you wait. you'll be waiting a while but just you wait

[briarrosex3]

Rowans safe place to be when she is anxious or just wants to get away is Hex. It is a witch shop in NOLA. She had stumbled upon it one day when she was getting supplies for her bakery. She had just moved to NOLA a month before and everything was still so new to her. She had always been a fan of all things witch craft and wizardry. Once she stepped inside it felt like home, like she was always meant to find this shop. What made it feel like a safe place was how welcoming the staff was, they became like family to her, so every time she needed to get away she would bring homemade baked goods and spend the day with the staff.

[skyrigel]

Reader who doesn't speak English as their first language and Simon being so in love !!

Over the dinner course, you leaned forward confidently, like you were sharing a secret.

"I think we should buy a baby wheelchair for them."

Price's missus was going to have a baby shower next week.

"Wot?" Simon blinked.

"A baby wheelchair—" You pulled your fist into a punching stance and moved it back and forth, mimicking a tiny car. "Like a baby car… phew phew."

"Oh, that's a stroller." Simon raised a brow, watching your head bobble in a self-absorbed nod.

"Exactly, baby car… stroller."

And it was so cute when you looked up at him whenever you forgot certain words.

"Simon, how do you say in English? The takka-takka-takka—"

"Helicopter," Simon said fondly, earning himself a sweet peck on the lips.

The task force enjoyed it immensely. When Soap said, “Break a leg !” and you raised up a fight at why Simon should break his leg.

Or when Kyle couldn't stop laughing so much with the way you pronounced, “Bitch” to the bird who was hitting up on Simon.

And Simon loved it all, felt love in your eyes through your words, especially when you used his vocabulary—God, it did something to him.

Saying "bugger" when you put too much ketchup, and "bloody freezin’, innit?!" with that corky little smile because you knew how much it wrecked him.

"Bollocks," you would curse, and he’d already be losing his heart and mind, dragging you to the bedroom.

The way you would slip into your native dialect when you were upset, voice rising as you made frustrated noises—Simon would forget the argument entirely, just watching you with that pretty face he’d go to war for.

And something, something about the way you said "I love you" in your native language first, just as softly, and how you called him "my love" in that same way too.

Bloody hell, he’s so in love.

Masterlist

[muffinlance]

Consider: Post-canon Zuko wakes up in the body of his childhood self, the morning of That War Meeting. Would he still speak against the plans, knowing his fate? What do you think he would do differently the second time around?

"Turned away at the doors, Zuzu?"

"Shut up, Azula," her brother sulked. But sulked weirdly, after staring at her too long and too wide-eyed, not like she'd surprised him but--

But like he hadn't expected her to be there. At all.

He turned away. ...He turned back. "Hey, Lala? Do you think you could help me practice that one set?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

She narrowed hers. "Which set?"

"The one I'm bad at."

She scoffed. Pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "That's all of them, Dum-Dum."

He didn't shout or stomp or yell about the nickname. His lips twitched.

"It's okay," he said. "If you're afraid you won't be a better teacher that my instructor..."

It was the most obvious manipulation ever.

Perhaps if he proved an adequate firebending student, she'd work on his courtly survival skills next. Honestly, it was good that not even Uncle Gets-Cousins-Killed had been fool enough to take Zuko into that war meeting. She could only imagine how terribly that could have gone.

"Keep up," she said, and turned her steps towards the training grounds.

He did. There, and during the katas she ran him through.

Azula kept her eyes narrowed.

"Hey," he asked, "do you know how to bend lightning yet?"

As if he could have missed it, if she'd been able to get more than sparks. "I will soon," she said.

"You will," he agreed, and flowed through his next set. The one she'd only just mastered.

Father didn't notice how weird Zuzu was being. Uncle never noticed anything. Zuko ate dinner and asked a servant for seconds and didn't stutter or flinch or lose his appetite when father asked, coolly, what he'd done with his day. Azula's shoulders tensed, because one mention of how she'd squandered her own training time teaching him--

"Azula hogged the training grounds. For hours," Zuzu scowled, exactly like a petulant thirteen year old.

Exactly like he hadn't been acting all day.

By the time Father was looking her way, Azula had her usual smirk in place. "I'm sure there would be room for both of us," she said, "you're not afraid of a little friendly fire, are you, brother?"

Zuko sulked. And ate his seconds, like he was enjoying each bite. There was something in his eyes, like a joke no one else was getting.

---

Father died that night. A heart attack. There were the faintest of burns to either side of the treacherous organ; the royal physician hypothesized that he'd grabbed at his chest, fingers burning hot in his final moments; so hot they'd only exacerbated the problem.

The royal physician would never have been brought any victims of lighting strikes. Those that occurred in the capital did not generally require a doctor in the aftermath.

Zuzu ate a hearty breakfast.

He didn't order seconds. Azula gave him points, at least, for not being tacky.

---

The sages named Iroh as regent.

They named Zuko as Fire Lord.

"No," the tiny Fire Lord in his perfectly miniaturized Fire Lord robes said, sitting at the head of his war council. "We're not doing that. And I'll be reviewing all recent battle plans, as well. What's this I hear about a division of new recruits being deployed to the front?"

He did not mention how he'd heard of the 41st Division. No one asked.

"Prince Iroh, surely--" one of the generals tried to appeal.

The young Fire Lord's regent was looking as startled as the rest of them, for a moment. Then he sipped his tea, and smiled.

"Your Fire Lord is correct, of course. A change in our leadership--a change the other nations may mistakenly view as weakness--will necessitate a change in our strategy."

"Now," said their lord, "what, exactly, is our overall objective in this war?"

War, the new Fire Lord decreed, was not an end unto itself.

---

The new Fire Lord continued to have time, to pretend to be trained by her. Azula watched him. Adjusted her footwork. Did not tolerate, and was not offered, any commentary on who was teaching who.

"What did you do with my brother?" she asked, as they flowed from one set to the next. As her hands, poised to throw fire, just so happened to be pointed his way.

He missed a step. It didn't look like an act.

"I'm, uh. Right here?"

She didn't bother to dignify that.

He didn't bother to look worried about her hands, one movement off from a true attack.

He looked around, then grabbed her sleeve, and tugged her further from any walls that may hide ears. The royal family's private training grounds were wonderfully large, and wonderfully open.

"It's me," he said. "It's still me. Just. More of me? Longer of me?"

She narrowed her eyes. A familiar expression, by this point. "Explain."

"...I found the Avatar," he said. "And this is definitely his fault, but--but I guess it started at a war meeting, when I was thirteen."

Azula listened. It was a very Dum-Dum story.

[clumsypuppy]

sniffrin ^_^

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[d-a-n-n-y-y]

How every different Y/N’s getting ready to be featured in fanfiction across different fandoms rn:

[helcef]

Happy pride from 141

You cant tell me gaz isn’t the most bisexual guy ever

[journen]

I realized I never posted this here! Ghost portrait, to add to my series of MW and Black Ops character portrait arts 😄🧡 Hope you guys like it!

[nicholas1673]

Feminist art

Feminist art refers to works of art created by women that address and explore themes related to gender, equality, and the experiences of women, the feminist movement started in the 1960. Feminist artists sought to challenge and critique traditional representations of women in art, question gender norms, and bring attention to issues such as reproductive rights, domestic labor, and the objectification of women.

Feminist artists often deconstructed and critiqued traditional gender roles and stereotypes, questioning the ways women have been historically portrayed in art and popular culture.

One of the primary goals was to increase the representation of women in the art world. Feminist artists sought to depict women in diverse and empowering ways, challenging the historical objectification and idealization of the female form.

Feminist art explored the complex and multifaceted nature of women's identities. Artists addressed issues related to race, sexuality, class, and other intersectional aspects of identity.

Many feminist artists were actively engaged in political activism. They used their art to advocate for women's rights, reproductive rights, and social and political equality.

Feminist artists often worked collaboratively and formed supportive communities. This collective approach aimed to challenge the individualism often associated with the art world and foster a sense of solidarity among women artists.

Feminist art utilized a wide range of mediums, including painting, sculpture, performance art, photography, and video. Artists embraced diverse forms of expression to convey their messages effectively.

Feminist artists sometimes appropriated symbols and images to subvert traditional representations. This included reclaiming symbols of femininity and using them to challenge societal expectations.

Prominent feminist artists include Judy Chicago, Yoko Ono, Guerrilla Girls, Faith Ringgold, Cindy Sherman, and many others. The feminist art movement has had a lasting impact on the art world, contributing to a more inclusive and diverse representation of artists and themes.

Feminist artist Barbara Kruger

Barbara Kruger, a prominent contemporary American artist born on January 26, 1945, in Newark, NJ, is celebrated for her bold and incisive cultural critique. Using a striking palette of red, white, and black, along with the Futura Bold Oblique font inspired by Constructivist Alexander Rodchenko, Kruger explores consumerism through a feminist lens with jarring sophistication. Employing short yet impactful phrases like "Thinking of You" (1999-2000) and "I shop therefore I am" (1987), she delivers pointed criticisms. Kruger, influenced by her studies under Diane Arbus and Marvin Israel, articulates, "I work with pictures and words because they have the ability to determine who we are, what we want to be, and what we become." Similar to multimedia artist Jenny Holzer, Kruger utilizes language across various mediums, including prints, T-shirts, posters, photographs, electronic signs, and billboards, leaving an indelible mark on contemporary art. Her influential legacy extends to a generation of artists, including Shepard Fairey and Lorna Simpson, as she continues to challenge societal norms through the potent combination of visuals and language.

Untitled (Your Body is a Battleground) is a seminal 1989 silkscreen portrait by Barbara Kruger, a renowned artist, feminist, and activist. Originally created for the Women's March on Washington to protest anti-abortion laws undermining Roe v. Wade, the artwork remains relevant, addressing contemporary gender inequality issues. Kruger combines mid-century images with bold Futura Bold Oblique titles on red panels, utilizing a determined language to emphasize reproductive rights as a societal battleground.

Kruger's artistic journey, marked by mature themes in black and white, involves dissecting and layering images with provocative text. The intersected face in the poster, gazing resolutely, represents the stereotypical societal view of women as objects of beauty. The composition initially suggests a division between pro-choice and pro-life perspectives, yet the caption "Your body is a battleground" transcends political battles, highlighting the ongoing feminist struggle against objectification.

The dichotomy in the image's positive and negative sides mirrors the tensions between women's rights and patriarchal control, challenging viewers to remain vigilant. The artwork compels audiences to confront the complex issues women face, with Kruger urging society to rethink stereotypes and consumption habits. The piece serves as a poignant form of protest, prompting reflection on women's rights, patriarchy, and societal expectations.

Kruger's insightful commentary extends beyond the visual, with her stating that the artwork explores the blurred lines between public and private in a seemingly shock-proof yet secretive society. The artist acknowledges the challenges women encounter in a society fixated on physical attributes, prompting contemplation on self-image and appearance.

In essence, Untitled (Your Body is a Battleground) transcends its initial political context, offering a powerful and enduring critique of societal norms, gender inequality, and the ongoing struggle for women's autonomy and self-perception. The artwork, with its bold visual language and thought-provoking captions, encapsulates Kruger's commitment to addressing profound societal issues through her artistic lens.

Reference list

artnet (2022). Barbara Kruger. [online] Artnet.com. Available at: https://www.artnet.com/artists/barbara-kruger/ [Accessed 18 December 2023].

Public Delivery (2020). Barbara Kruger - Your body is a battleground. [online] Public Delivery. Available at: https://publicdelivery.org/barbara-kruger-battleground/ [Accessed 18 December 2023].

The Art Story (2017). Feminist Art Movement Overview. [online] The Art Story. Available at: https://www.theartstory.org/movement/feminist-art/ [Accessed 18 December 2023].

[m-entities]

task oo3. treasure

Mercuria doesn't have many things in her life. She grew up working, with her parents working, and to have things outside of necessity was a luxury they simply could not afford. Between limited living space and simple lack of resource, Mercuria had grown up with little to nothing "extra."

The one thing she does have is a skirt that her father made himself. He gifted it to her for her eighteenth birthday, and she wore it for each of her Reapings since. It is the one piece of "nice" clothing that she owns, and she values it highly. It is a simple garment, woven out of scraps from other pieces of clothing, and isn't particularly fashionable by Capitolite standards, but the fact that her father put time and energy into crafting it for her, slowly but steadily, means the world to her.

[gomzdrawfr]

Happy Easter!

[tiredkatzz]

I love love love the way you draw Price 💖💖💖 I would love to see anything of him that you draw, also I would love to see any NikPrice that you may come up with 👀

Thank youuuu! Here's some NikPrice "struggling" with the heat because I've been melting over here.

[b1adie]

Gods descended into madness, and mortals turned their weapons on one another. Yet still, there are heroes who chase the flames, leading the way in the grand undertaking of creation. Most 'Hero's Journeys' in the universe are just dice tosses THEY threw on a whim... Will your answer be any different, Amphoreus?

golden epic trailer ✧ “amphoreus' saga of heroes”