#afterimages

[afterimages-again]

average mornings with yj ft. tim and kon

(i’m sorry ive never drawn kon before)

dedicated to (inspired by) @honey-meed’s post abt young justice posts bc i laughed myself off the chair and then crawled back on for this specific one:

[sn-ga]

Masataka Kurose Exhibition「Sign」

2023. 10.7. sat - 10.22. sun 10:00 - 18:00 水木 定休

EMMA COFFEE

大阪府豊能郡豊能町余野172-5 072-739-0789 info@emmacoffee.com

古典的な写真技法であるサイアノタイプを用いて、自分自身の描画行為を被写体とした、新しい“Sign”シリーズを発表します。

太陽の光に晒されることで、絵具の積み重ねとしての線や染みの実体は消え去り、代わって立ちあらわれるのは、残像のような気配です。それは、まだこの世界には見えていない現象の訪れを告げる「Sign（兆し）」だと言えます。

本展では、“Sign”シリーズの元型ともいえる、アクリル絵具の作品群も併せて展示します。

それは　たしかに描かれたはずなのに 実体のないもの。

その行為は 陽の光に照らされて　消え去る。

どこまでもひろがる　青い空間に 立ちあらわれた空白は

これからこの世界にうまれるだろう あるいは　かつて存在した 線や染みの気配。

空っぽだと思っていたところには 無数の兆しが 満ちあふれていた。

[ 関連イベント ] 10.14. sat 14:00 -  ワークショップ　みる　なぞる 参加費：¥3,000 (画材代含、冊子、コーヒー付)

10.22. sun 18:00 -  クロージングライブ 出演： Endurance @endurance010010  (Muzan Editions)  OVRSCN @ovrscn  (Muzan Editions)  入場料：¥1,500

＊詳細は別投稿にて

[spacedustmantis]

🎧 ehehehehe haaaaiiiiiii

haaaiiiiiiiiii :3

"I bend the definition of faith to exonerate my blind eye"

[gwydionmisha]

Afterimages - Audre Lorde

   I However the image enters its force remains within my eyes rockstrewn caves where dragonfish evolve   wild for life, relentless and acquisitive   learning to survive where there is no food my eyes are always hungry and remembering however the image enters its force remains. A white woman stands bereft and empty a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson   recalled in me forever like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep   etched into my visions food for dragonfish that learn to live upon whatever they must eat fused images beneath my pain.    II The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson   A Mississippi summer televised. Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat   her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney   now awash tearless and no longer young, she holds   a tattered baby's blanket in her arms. In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain   a microphone thrust up against her flat bewildered words          “we jest come from the bank yestiddy                     borrowing money to pay the income tax                     now everything's gone. I never knew                     it could be so hard.” Despair weighs down her voice like Pearl River mud   caked around the edges her pale eyes scanning the camera for help or explanation unanswered she shifts her search across the watered street, dry-eyed                     “hard, but not this hard.” Two tow-headed children hurl themselves against her   hanging upon her coat like mirrors until a man with ham-like hands pulls her aside   snarling “She ain't got nothing more to say!” and that lie hangs in his mouth like a shred of rotting meat.    III I inherited Jackson, Mississippi. For my majority it gave me Emmett Till   his 15 years puffed out like bruises   on plump boy-cheeks his only Mississippi summer whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie as a white girl passed him in the street   and he was baptized my son forever   in the midnight waters of the Pearl. His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year when I walked through a northern summer my eyes averted from each corner's photographies   newspapers protest posters magazines   Police Story, Confidential, True   the avid insistence of detail pretending insight or information the length of gash across the dead boy's loins his grieving mother's lamentation   the severed lips, how many burns   his gouged out eyes sewed shut upon the screaming covers   louder than life all over the veiled warning, the secret relish   of a black child's mutilated body   fingered by street-corner eyes   bruise upon livid bruise and wherever I looked that summer I learned to be at home with children's blood with savored violence with pictures of black broken flesh   used, crumpled, and discarded   lying amid the sidewalk refuse   like a raped woman's face. A black boy from Chicago whistled on the streets of Jackson, Mississippi testing what he'd been taught was a manly thing to do his teachers ripped his eyes out his sex his tongue and flung him to the Pearl weighted with stone in the name of white womanhood they took their aroused honor back to Jackson and celebrated in a whorehouse the double ritual of white manhood confirmed.    IV    “If earth and air and water do not judge them who are      we to refuse a crust of bread?”       Emmett Till rides the crest of the Pearl, whistling 24 years his ghost lay like the shade of a raped woman   and a white girl has grown older in costly honor   (what did she pay to never know its price?) now the Pearl River speaks its muddy judgment   and I can withhold my pity and my bread.            “Hard, but not this hard.” Her face is flat with resignation and despair   with ancient and familiar sorrows a woman surveying her crumpled future as the white girl besmirched by Emmett's whistle   never allowed her own tongue without power or conclusion unvoiced she stands adrift in the ruins of her honor   and a man with an executioner's face pulls her away. Within my eyes the flickering afterimages of a nightmare rain a woman wrings her hands beneath the weight of agonies remembered I wade through summer ghosts   betrayed by vision hers and my own becoming dragonfish to survive   the horrors we are living with tortured lungs adapting to breathe blood. A woman measures her life's damage my eyes are caves, chunks of etched rock tied to the ghost of a black boy   whistling crying and frightened her tow-headed children cluster   like little mirrors of despair   their father's hands upon them   and soundlessly a woman begins to weep.

[noctiispiri]

i can't believe they made me do it again

[lushloops]

[snoweylily]

skyfall x dolce

or, in other words, emotionally-repressed blond serial killers and their curly dark haired sarcastic bitch boyfriends surrounded by paintings with far too many metaphors

[stopthatbluecat]

Julian Being Pushed Against Walls Masterpost

[etz-ashashiyot]

Do y'all have moments that just stay with you, forever, for no reason in particular, because the vibes are immaculate for whatever feeling you're feeling?

Some examples:

I was on swim team in fourth grade and had curly hair so long I could sit on it. I remember after practice one night standing outside the junior high school waiting for my mom to pick me up, and my hair was still wet and the snow was falling, and darkness set in at 5:00 p.m. by that point of winter. And I was freezing my tuches off, but somehow really enjoying the sharp of the cold, the way the cold air hit my lungs, the bite of it on my wet scalp, and there was something so compelling about the deep blue night and the halo of amber light emanating from the industrial lamp on the side of the school building that I've never forgotten it.

Or the specific ennui of watching my reflection in the dirty glass of the school bus I was riding at night on a school trip, and I was somehow Understanding things about myself without yet having access to the words to explain them, and the feelings blended into the music I was listening to at the time (which I would listen to obsessively during that trip and almost never again afterwards.)

Or the liminality of the flower shop portion of a specific 24/7 grocery store at sometime way too late at night, when the world gets quiet and weird.

Or when I was fifteen and waiting on my dad in the car at the small town hardware store on a beautiful summer day when the sun was cheerfully bright in the perfect blue sky, and I was at the lowest part of my depression and genuinely wanted to die, but knew I couldn't because then I'd miss out on days this beautiful, where even the air felt like a caress? And I remember thinking how deeply unfair it was, that it was this beautiful and I was this miserable, and I couldn't even want to die in peace because of my fear of missing out.

And now every time the snow is just like that, or the light is just so, or the breeze smells just exactly like that, I get these intense sense memories of some random unimportant moment in my life that for some reason left me haunted by it forever.

Anyone else? Just me? Ok

[felikatze]

i think the reason i love silent protags a lot because the limitation of this staple necessitates indirect storytelling. yes it's primarily a device to allow player inserts and roleplaying, but a character's inability to state or directly show how they feel forces one to analyze much more.

when speech is filtered out, you need to reverse engineer what they could've said by how other characters reacted. Multiple choice dialogue options become concurrent thoughts in the character's mind, different facets leading to indecision, with the player only truly deciding which thought comes to the forefront.

definition comes through body language, idle animations, emotive portraits and noises of exertion. if a choice is railroaded, was the protagonist forced into it, or did they decide without player input? what do the available gameplay styles say about the character you've created? what does it mean to accept every single sidequest?

like, well and truly, making a nothing character is impossible, even in video games, because saying "yes" when asked to save the world, that's already a decision, isn't it? there is already an implication, a shadow of belief and value, in the act of playing.

[afterimages-again]

zoning out

[lxnywork]

TONY YORU - AFTERIMAGES POSTER © 2023

www.instagram.com/leng____ling

[duckiemimi]

you come back to me, tender bruise.

[maybe-arts]

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TAXING IT WAS I SWEAR TO VOID.

drawing this in digital against a black bg would be a piece of cake. unfortunately, as we've figured it out, my hubris shall be my fucking downfall, so i made everything harder for myself by having to outline every teal line with black and fill in bg around them. OW.

anyways yeah i went for the low hanging fruit but also it just so happens it's my favorite fruit so i'll gladly take the chance of drawing this penguin for the seventh time this month

[noctiispiri]

i love them sillies

[000marie198]

Oh-! I get why this Chaos Sonic was so much easier to beat!

Listen, Beepo could talk, this one can't. One of the major reasons Sonic was unable to make a dent on Beepo wasn't just its battle prowess and agility. It was the words!

Chaos Sonic constantly kept saying things that specifically either riled Sonic up or hurt him emotionally. He couldn't focus on the fight because he was focusing on what he heard, and CS struck to kill with what he said.

Words hurt more than swords afterall