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justjensenanddean · 29 days ago

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Soldier Boy's final interview (deepsgills)

They Don't Make Men Like That Anymore

REVISITING THE FINAL SOLDIER BOY INTERVIEW

By now, the stoic fellow on this month's cover needs no introduction but in case you've been away for the past 20 years, his name is Soldier Boy, and he's a movie star. In fact, he's the world's biggest movie star as well as Vought's biggest commodity. He stands about six feet tall, weighs around 175 and likes women. Boy, does he like women. His reputation as a hyperactive Lothario has been fueled by rumored romances with everyone from Rita

Hayworth and Jane Russell to such non-Hollywood types as jockey Aubrey Brabazon and country singer Tammy Wynette. But that's only rumors. The documented loves of his life have been somewhat few and far between. Who has time for a relationship when you're constantly having to save the world.

For most of this decade, Solder Boy has labored in low-level action films that critics have hated but moviegoers have loved. Now my entrenched as the screen's lending box-office attraction Soldier Boy reportedly gets C$4,000.00 a picture, and that's just when he hires out as an actor. Soldier Boy is also a director and has lately taken a fling of producing his own films. He also does his own stunts and has been known to dabble in stunt co-coordinating for his co-stars, he truly does it all.

Soldier Boy has vaulted to super stardom on the strength of his charm, strength, good looks and comedic skills, in most of his roles-he portrays a kind of macho brut who often doesn't take himself or even the film he's in very seriously. Thus in Hero Seeking Hero-the Gone Win the Wind of good-of-boy romantic comedy movies-the film's biggest laugh comes when Soldier Boy breaches cinema's third wall by winking at the audience. And it's an audience he has shrewdly built for himself through frequent appearances on late night TV talk fests. For a man intent on becoming a movie star and America's number one superhero, life has sure taken a couple of funny bounces. He has gone on to star in hundreds of Vought Studios movies such as in 10 Seconds to Doomsday. A Hero's Story, Brothers in Arms: Soldier Boy & Gunpowder, Escape from Teron, Freedom and Firepower, Ghosts of Hanol, Hero Seeking Hero, Loose Cannon, Love and Wox Mt. St. Doom, Normandy, Red Thunder, Super in Suburbia. The Capitol Conspiracy. The Soldier and the Shooter and The Soldier Boy Story.

To interview Hollywood's reigning male sex symbol, Vigor sent freelancer Leor Boshi to meet with Soldier Boy at his home in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles. Boshi reports: "When he's not on his ranch in Texas Soldier Boy lives in a handsome Spanish-style home that, thanks to California's Insone real-estate spiral, is now worth several million dollars. The two story house contains a number of expensive and exquisite Western Paintings recent enthusiasm of $8, and outside there's on C$114.600.00 tenn court and what appears to be an Olympic-size filled swimming pool.

"When I met him, Soldier Boy was wearing tapered white-satin swim trunks and black Nike running shoes. Rarely seen without his super attire. Without too much in the way of preliminaries. I followed him out of the house, down a steep fight of stone steps and around back to the pool, passing a garaged Rolls Royce and a Trans Am on the way. Soldier Boy is built like a tall middleweight boxer, well muscled and incredibly strong. “You can never be too rich or too strong.” He told me when we got to the pool. Soldier Boy, as it turns out, is a highly candid man who's a lot friendlier than he lets on at first. Especially to people bearing tape recorders. After a rather stiff first meeting. Soldier Boy and I ended up talking for more than 13 hours and the resulting interview will, I think, surprise a number of readers. Continued on the next page.

"I hate losing. The feeling of someone else getting the better of you… I never want to feel weak. I know I am the strongest, but sometimes, I struggle to feel my best."

#Jensen Ackles #Soldier Boy #The Boys #I want the next page lol #I can't believe I managed to transcribe this lol #there's probably some mistake here and there but the text is so small lol #*

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rheya28 · 1 year ago

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IronWorks Fitness Centre ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Welcome to Ironworks Fitness Centre. This stunning space combines a sleek design with cutting-edge fitness technology to provide the perfect workout environment. You can take a refreshing dip in the stylish pool or challenge yourself to a boxing match in the boxing ring. Ironworks Fitness Centre's state-of-the-art gym equipment is designed to meet all your fitness needs, whether you're looking to build strength or improve your cardio. The facility offers an energizing cycling classes to get your heart pumping and blood flowing for those who need an extra boost.

➽ I was talking to one of my lovely friend @marilynjeansims about building in Oasis Spring. I realize that I have not build anything for this world so here I am! hehe I am planning on filling up this community strip so watch out for more oasis spring modern and midcentury builds in the future! Megan suggested a few community lot types which I think will be perfect for this world so I'm excited!

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Important Notes:

●Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

Female Sims used in the video are by the lovely @largetaytertots Gwen & Solana

➽ Lot Details

Lot Name: IronWorks Fitness Centre Lot type: Gym Lot size: 40 x 30 Location: Oasis Spring

➽ MODS

● Tool Mod by Twisted Mexi ● Let's Get Fit Fanmade Modpack by Cepzid ● Everyday clutterkits become functional by Cepzid

➽ CC List

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, Tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make downloading a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, Peacemaker, kiwisim4. This will also ensure that the lots are complete and are not missing any items upon downloading ! DSCO ● Hunter Fitness set House of Harlix ● Bafroom ● Harluxe ● Orjanic Bbygyal123 ● The balance collection Charlypancakes ● Munch ● Smol Felixandre ● Colonial pt [3] ● Grove pt [3][4] ● Soho (all) Harrie ●Brutalist ● Klean pt [3] ● Spoons pt [2] ● Jardane ● Kichen (shelves only) LittleDica ● Country Side Cabin ● Rise & Grind Peacemaker ● Hudson Bathroom [towel] Pierisim ● Coldbrew ● MCM pt [1][3] ● Oak House pt [2] ● Unfold ● Winter Garden ● Woodland Ranch (ceiling/floor tiles only) Max 20 ● Poolside Lounge Pack Simkoos ● Everyday Clutterkit Addon (rolled yoga mat only) ● Taget Store (Signs only) Sixam ● Hotel Bedroom (desk) ● Small spaces Laundry Room (laundry basket only) Syboulette ● Ballet (mirrors only) ● Fitness ● Karaoke (neon signs only) Tuds ● Brut (ceiling light only) ● Cross ● Cave ● Ind Around the sims ● Swimming pool foam lane ● Swimming pool Starting block

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

#ts4 #sims 4 #thesims4 #sims #thesims #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 cc #showusyourbuilds #simblr #sims 4 builds #the sims 4 cc build #the sims 4 gym #build #builds

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lipglossanon · 1 year ago

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Anarchy Road

The Merchant x Fem!Reader (third part; one shot)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), light pussy slapping, unprotected sex, creampie, light praise kink

random inspiration 🤷‍♀️ not proofread ✍️

title from Anarchy Road by Carpenter Brut

~previous~

You’re not sure how you made it here, but somehow the castle seems to be even more fucked up than the village. Entering another room, you walk around taking stock of it all. According to your map, in order to progress you’ll need to get past a wall. It seems to be locked by some strange mechanism involving the statue at the end. It’s missing the heads of the chimera which you can only presume opens the wall etched with the same chimera relief.

Wandering back down the stairs, you open up one of the doors and stumble upon the Merchant once more.

“‘ello, love,” his rough voice makes you smile, shoulders dropping some tension as you shut the door.

“Hi,” you murmur, “fancy meeting you here, hmm?”

He chuckles and you feel warmth bubbling under your skin.

“Can’t complain,” he winks at you, “what can I do you for, stranga?”

“You can do me.”

The words are out of your mouth before you even blink. Embarrassment burns hot behind your eyes as the Merchant laughs low in his chest.

“Straight to the point. I like that,” he moves from around the little wooden table to crowd you against the settee in front of the fireplace.

Arousal pools low in your stomach as his rough hands grip your hips and manhandles you down onto the loveseat. He kneels in between your legs and helps you take off your shoes.

“Been imagining this since the first time,” his eyes flash up at you as he quickly works your pants and panties down and off your legs.

He groans as he presses your thighs apart and sees your glistening pussy.

“Bet you’re gonna taste like ambrosia,” he mutters, tugging his hood back, “close your eyes, love, lay back and enjoy it”

Pouting, you tangle your fingers in his dark hair, “Wanna watch.”

He winks, “Maybe later. Now close’em or I won’t eat your pretty little pussy.”

With a whine, your head falls against the back of the couch, eyes slipping shut as you hear the rustle of him removing his mask. Another groan from him and then you feel a hot tongue lick a broad stripe up your slit.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his dark strands.

“That’s it,” he practically growls, “so fucking wet.”

You feel stubble scrape against your pussy lips and you widen your thighs even more. His tongue slips inside your drooling cunt and flutters in and out of your hole. With a groan that vibrates your pussy, he licks his way up to your clit. He circles the swollen bud over and over, so slow it makes you hump up into his mouth.

“Patience,” he teases, pulling away to spank your pussy, making you whimper, “and let me taste this soft cunt how I like.”

He slaps your pussy a few more times before kissing all across your thighs. Using his thumb, he pulls the hood of your clit up and kitten licks the swollen bud again and again.

“Fuck,” you cry out, slick dripping all down your thighs as he teases you, “please, sir, need you to fuck me. ‘m so empty.”

“Aww,” he coos, accent thick, “poor li’l thing, pussy’s just greedy for my cock, isn’t she?”

“Uh huh,” you mewl as he sucks your clit into his mouth and slobbers all over the pudgy bud, “god, please, want you to stretch me out and fill me up.”

“S’that right?” he pulls away with another slap across your soaked pussy, the sting making your eyes water in pleasure, “such a needy girl.”

Ignoring your pleas for more, he buries his face into your cunt, nose grinding against your swollen clit as his tongue licks and fucks into your pussy eagerly. Tugging on his hair, you grind yourself against his face, moaning as his stubble scrapes against your cunt. Imagining the beard burn later has you gushing even more slick onto his tongue.

He grips your thighs tightly, gloved hands rough as he holds you open even further, spreading your pussy for his lips and tongue. Groaning, he sloppily kisses and licks your slit, running his tongue up and down your pussy before lapping at your sensitive clit.

“Can’t wait to bury my cock inside your tight cunt,” he croons, pulling away to spit on your clit.

“Yes, please,” you beg, “please, sir, want it so bad.”

“So soft and wet,” he flutters his tongue inside your hole before sucking your pussy lips into his mouth.

Spit and slick drips down your cunt to pool onto the floor. It doesn’t take long until you’re bucking your hips and whimpering, climax teetering on the edge.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” you gasp out, eyes clenched shut as you pull on his hair.

He pulls completely away from your pussy and you whine, eyes blinking open to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are crinkled like he’s smiling when you look down to see his face covered again.

“Too slow, love.”

Ignoring his cockiness, you reach down and spread your pussy open, “Are you going to finish what you started?”

His eyes flick down to the apex of your thighs and he grunts in acknowledgement.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give this lovely little cunt the fuck she needs.”

He removes his pants and pulls his cock out, head peeking from the foreskin as precum drips down his length.

“Oh, please,” you arch your back, “fuck me.”

“Love to hear you beg,” he swears under his breath and notches the head of his dick against your hot clenching hole.

“Oh god,” you choke out, pussy stretching almost uncomfortably as he slowly sinks his cock inside.

“Maybe I shouldn’t take it slow,” he wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you down as he thrusts forward.

A scream tears from your throat as you feel too much too fast, pussy clamped down on his dick as your clit throbs in arousal.

“Oh that’s it, love, fucking squeeze me,” he presses you down on to the loveseat, coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist while he slowly slips halfway out.

“Too big,” you scratch at his shoulders and arms as he bullies his cock back into your pussy, “but feels so good.”

“I know, perfect fucking cunt,” he rasps, masked mouth pressed against your neck as he breathes heavily, “sweet little pussy not only looks pretty, but tastes pretty, and is always so fucking tight for me.”

You whimper as he starts up a rough tempo, pounding his fat cock in and out of your cunt so fast that slick wet sounds fill the air. He’s fucking you so good that your brain feels like complete mush. Moans going unmuffled, you toss your head back as he ruts in and out of your pussy with quick deep thrusts. Grinding the tip against your cervix makes you clamp down as that pinching pleasure causes more slick to drip around his thick cock.

“That’s it, love, let me use your fat wet pussy to feel good,” he chuckles, slowing down so each thrust is more powerful.

He fucks into you so slow and deep, it makes you drool all over yourself, pussy feeling stretched and used—you love it, not able to think past the feeling of him buried in your guts.

“S’good, sir, it’s so deep,” you slur, soaked hole squeezing and pulsing around his cock as he humps your pussy.

Nothing but syrupy pleasure drips from your spine all the way through your body as the band of arousal in your stomach winds tighter and tighter. With a low laugh, he shifts his hips and presses his cock upwards to grind his drippy tip against your g-spot constantly.

“Wettest little puss I’ve ever had the pleasure to stretch out on my cock,” he moans down at you, dropping more of his body weight on you and driving his cock deeper into your body.

You choke out a gasp, hands clawing at his back, totally out of breath from how much deeper his dick is plunging into your pulsing cunt. One of his hands shifts from your waist down towards your pussy, thumb slowly circling your clit now.

“So slippery, love,” he murmurs, voice low and smoky, “feels like you’re gonna cum for me.”

“Want to, sir,” eyelashes fluttering as he increases the pressure on your swollen bud, “m’pussy feels so good.”

“That’s good,” he soothes, “want you creaming my cock, love, show me how much this hot cunt wants my cum.”

Your back arches at his words, hips swiveling down to tempt him to thrust into you faster. He leans back far enough to drop a hot glob of spit down onto your pussy, rubbing it into your clit with his calloused thumb.

“Oh god,” you whine out a mewling cry as your pussy clamps down on his dick, walls clenching and fluttering around him as that final act pushes you over the edge.

“Yes, yes, atta girl,” he praises you warmly, never letting up on rubbing your pudgy bud, “squeezing me so tight with that little pussy.”

Your orgasm only seems to heighten as he continues to fuck into your squelching cunt, balls smacking against your ass while the fat tip knocks into your cervix until your eyes roll back.

“Give me one more, I know you can do it,” he coaxes, “let me feel that pretty pussy flutter on my cock.”

You know your babbling gibberish at him, but can’t do much more than clench and grind against him, hips bucking into his powerful thrusts as he rails you into the loveseat. With your second orgasm, it feels like an explosion goes off in your body, pussy contracting violently around his cock as your muscles lock up. You can hear him say something to you, but your bloods rushing through your brain and you can’t make out the words.

With a few more harsh thrusts, he groans and buries his cock balls deep into your pussy, hot sticky cum spilling from his throbbing tip, painting your walls white. Your pussy flutters and clenches around his dick as he stuffs your hole with rope after rope of his thick cum. He grinds himself against your cervix as he finishes inside your fluttering cunt before slowly pulling out, a creamy mix of cum and slick oozing from your pussy.

He slowly sits back on his haunches. His fingers spread open your used cunt to watch as his cum leaks out of your clenching pussy.

“Now stranga, that’s a sight to see,” he chuckles appreciatively.

You blearily look down and see his cock thickening again as he fingers his cum back into your sore cunt.

“Might I interest you in another round?” He lightly smacks his chubbed cock against your messy pussy, “make it worth your while.”

Whimpering, you nod before gasping as he ruts his cock across your slit to bump against your clit, smearing cum and slick against your skin.

“Good girl.”

#lipglossanon #lipglossmasterlist #the merchant #re4 merchant #re4r merchant #merchant smut #re4 merchant smut #re4 merchant fanfiction #resident evil fanfiction #re4 remake fanfic #resident evil 4 fanfic #resident evil 4 remake fanfic #the merchant x reader #the merchant x fem!reader #the merchant x you #the merchant x fem!reader smut #the merchant x y/n

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dahliaforsims · 10 months ago

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Champs Float (Gift)

Champs Float Rose & Brut Pool Float

2 Swatches

Functional Pool Lounger

Located in Entertainment -> Activity ( Outdoor )

Requires Island Living Expansion Pack

You can find all our content in Build & Buy Mode by searching "Dahlia"

All LODs // Custom Thumbnails // HQ Mod Compatible

Conversion // Do not recolor or convert // Do not re-upload

DOWNLOAD (Free)

Connect with us at: Instagram I Pinterest Board I Tumblr I Patreon

#dahliasims #sims 4 cc #sims 4 custom content #sims 4 build #simblr #sims 4 creator #the sims 4 #sims 4 #ts4cc #ts4 #the sims 4 cc

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ericamarie093 · 9 months ago

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Head Cannon: Scent of a man

A/N: This was running in my brain when I borrowed my hubby's deodorant this morning and thought of the Pedro characters I like. I imagined as to what scents would be on a shirt that is borrowed from them. I made some up based on the clothes in the screen shots I saw. If i forgot any, it's only because I was distracted by my hubby. ;-) Please feel free to add to this long list and what you think they would smell like!

Pedro: sunshine, Old Spice deodorant (10 essentials video), mint gum, coffee

Joel: sawdust, sweat (in a good way), pine, juniper (all the nice woodsy smells)

Javi P: Brut aftershave, cigarette smoke, tequila

Javi G: coconut, pool water, champagne

Marcus P: red wine, old books, tea

Dieter: patchouli, marijuana, sage, nicotine gum

Marcus M: cinnamon, vanilla, bread, jalapeno

Marcus A: sweat (in a good way), dirt, blood

Frankie: motor oil, mint, bubble gum

Max P: dirt, blood

Max L: Calvin Klein Obsession For Men

Pero: dirt, sweat (in a good way), gunpowder

Dave: Ivory soap, Afta aftershave

Lucien: cedarwood, mint

Ezra: lavender, eucalyptus

Whiskey: whiskey (obviously), hay, leather oil

Veracruz: sweat (in a good way), dirt

Oberyn: sand, citrus, salt water

Silva: hay, sweat (in a good way), red wine

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andnowrotfront · 2 years ago

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was tagged by @jpivblog to put my music library on shuffle and post the first 10 songs :]

1. abandoned pools - monster

2. dj rashad - ghetto tekz runnin it

3. theme of laura - akira yamaoka

4. tombs - igorrr

5. melt-banana - shield your eyes, a beast in the well on your hand

6. utsu-p - sugarcoat of love

7. carpenter brut - you're mine

8. sebastian - ross ross ross

9. (k)now name - damn it

10. jonathan coulton - sticking it to myself

ummm if you would like to do this feel free to i don't particularly want to tag people ^^

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kylo-wrecked · 3 months ago

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@muchmorethanmuses {starter for you~ }

Rumours and gossip line up on a blood-red carpet for a place in the American Parthenon. ‘L.A. Is gone,’ is the latest. It’s the Hermesian.

People still chew on the regular stuff, the dwindling tendons of how not-super-friendly Californians are, that the roads are gridlocked for eternity. They say, ‘That’s just L.A. Go to San Fransisco. It’s worse.’ and ‘don’t get me started with that deepfake of the Hollywood sign burning down. It’s led to [so much] religious psychosis.’

One could say Los Angeles is a hotspot for the religiously psychotic. And about three million people living in less than sane conditions. Los Angeles wants to be Babylon, but it sells T-shirts. Ben’s been in this quandary. He gets it. Say what you want about the place—it was one of the few that was always glad to have him back.

L.A. throws t-shirts on for awards night. Ben’s not putting on the shirt. He spilling out of a Benz dripping in slate blue cut by ‘Margot’s tour stylist,’ sharp as steel, poised as a hound, looking for a particular face in bedlam. What’s-her-face of shedding sweetheart skin. What’s-her-face who metastasized into gnarled diva, Groundbreaking Artist of The Year, she of the Most Streamed.

She’s a goddess, what’s-her-face. She’s so powerful. She’s accomplished so much. She earned the right to let loose. Shots from Bacchus to all you motherfuckers in the room tonight.

Each party becomes more of a Bacchanal, another of Dante’s rings. They scale the cliffside palace home of so-and-so, Ben spends more time in the guest washroom than in so-and-so’s lagoon. He doesn’t comment on the Spanish moss and lilies, and he only stops to make small talk if someone grabs at him, which wouldn’t fly in New York but flies here, because these people, these California dreamers, are fucking touchy.

He rejoins the cortege with a loose collar, veins in his throat pumping. Pupils dilated beyond the shadow of a doubt. Thirty minutes zoom by, and he’s three shirt buttons down and telling the show host where they can put their ass, shaking down a golden era prestige TV star for information about what’s-her-face; you know, 'Teenage Tantrums.' Just won a twofer. No go.

Third bump: he lays down his dignity for one champagne flute, cleans, does a mirror check, and his cheekbones scrape higher; Vantablack would sue him over his eyeballs. The chip in his eyebrow worms the in torchlight while he makes his rounds.

Somebody spiked the punch. Ben’s laughter is grenadine, and not just to him. Guests are reclining on the stairs, Renaissance beauties languishing around his gold-leaf frame of vision, among the crawling flora, here by the bench, there on a donut pool ring. He makes a slow sweep around the home bog before inaugurating bump four. And pushes into- well, well, there’s that face. What’s-her-face.

“You.” Ben hangs on the washroom door. Swings a little. “I know you.”

Ben looks without looking. His gaze is a lens on her face that never wavers, but he’s tasting the swoop of her clavicle, scenting metal, lace, tulle.

“You’re in my spot.” He sniffs chemical brine back into its cavity. Licks crooked teeth. Prominent nose, requires an acquired taste. In need of a little powdering, he shucks. “You either wanna powder yours too or find yourself a beach to wake up on.”

He cocks his raven’s head at her. What’s-her-face. Just standing there, staring. Glaring? Same difference.

“Anais.” How could he forget? Tongue-flicking his front teeth, he peers at her from a Dutch angle. His enjoyment in no danger of being hidden by his wolf's hair. “You solid? Did you...” He leans close, but not too close or close enough. “Did you get away with a little Brut Rosé? Even a sip? I won’t tell, ‘cause, frankly, I don’t…” and gestures at her. “Tulle," Ben mumbles, his corvid attention occupied with some trifle.

The neckline, captivating…

“Anyway, Anais,” Ben sniffs, shaking his head. “Congratulations. What’d you rake in tonight, two wins?” Frowns, rolls nice slate shoulders, lips curling in approval. “Anais. Well.” Smiles, prim, closed-lipped, black eyes joined to that black ball python wreathing her midriff and arms like an evening gown. "If you fucked around, you’ll find out about now."

#muchmorethanmuses #m. au | music!verse ben: nowhere man #r. tbd

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cleverhottubmiracle · 3 months ago

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An unrepentant lifetime smoker, David Hockney, 87, wheezes from respiratory difficulties. He sleeps during some of the day and is watched over by round-the-clock nurses. His deafness, the first signs of which he noticed in 1979, has worsened considerably, so that even with hearing aids he relies on lipreading to facilitate conversation. In July 2023, he moved to London from his house in rural Normandy, France, partly because he needed to be in close range of a hospital in case of an emergency.And yet, for three hours or so each day, Hockney marshals his energies to sit down and paint. Earlier this year, he was still making pictures to include in his largest exhibition to date, “David Hockney, 25,” a retrospective scheduled to open on April 9 at the Fondation Louis Vuitton, in Paris. Working with his companion, Jean-Pierre Gonçalves de Lima, who is known as JP, Hockney has been instrumental in shaping the contours of the show.As the title indicates, “David Hockney, 25” will spotlight his 21st--century output, pictures he has made in the past 25 years. “He’s done a huge amount of work in that period,” says Sir Norman Rosenthal, former head of the Royal Academy of Arts, who is the Fondation’s guest curator. “He’s a kind of Picasso figure, in terms of the breadth and variety of concentration and the sheer production.” The exhibition will also include some earlier iconic works, among them A Bigger Splash (1967), Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy (1970–71), and Portrait of an -Artist (Pool With Two Figures) (1972)—the last of which sold in 2018 for $90.3 million, a price that remains the record at auction for a painting by a living artist.Hockney’s painting After Blake: Less Is Known Than People Think, 2024.Jonathan Wilkinson, © David Hockney.Like his hero, Picasso, Hockney has managed to create a prodigious quantity of acclaimed art while maintaining a public persona that enjoys brand-name recognition. A celebrity since his mid-20s, he dyed his dark hair blond and wore oversize round eyeglasses, guilelessly crafting a look that distinguished him from the crowd. Shunning plain clothes, he opted for checks, tattersalls, plaids, and, especially, stripes. His socks were brightly colored and mismatched. A cigarette was never far from his lips.Also like Picasso, he immortalized a succession of lovers in a multitude of portraits—only in Hockney’s case, the lovers are male. While a student at the Royal College of Art, in London, at a time when -homosexuality was still illegal in Britain, he depicted gay sexuality and domesticity with courageous insouciance. Back then, influenced by Jean Dubuffet, he was making blocky “art brut” figures—but Hockney’s boxy men were hugging and kissing (We Two Boys Together Clinging, 1961) or engaged in reciprocal fellatio (Adhesiveness, 1960). His life-study painting, a requirement for graduation, was inspired by a muscleman posing on the cover of a homoerotic physique magazine. Was he penalized? To the contrary, his paintings were praised in the press after being chosen in two consecutive years for the “Young Contemporaries” show in a London gallery. Upon graduation, he was awarded a gold medal of distinction with his diploma. He wore a gold lamé jacket to the ceremony.In 1974, Sir John Rothenstein, the longtime director of the Tate, wrote that Hockney “enjoyed an immediate, international success that began when he was still a student—something achieved by no serious painter within my earlier personal experience.” Through his beguiling personality as well as his talent, he entered elite social circles, making dear friends of Christopher Isherwood and Billy Wilder, and fraternizing with the likes of Andy Warhol, Paloma Picasso, Amanda Lear, Karl Lagerfeld, Tony Richardson, Dennis Hopper, Stephen Spender…the list goes on and on.Clockwise from top left: A portrait by Cecil Beaton, 1965; Hockney, with artists Raymond Foye (left) and Jerry Sohn, in front of a wall-size work, 1980; with the painting that won him the first prize at the John Moores National Museums Liverpool exhibition, 1967; Hockney, circa 1985; in Los Angeles, circa 1978; Hockney’s painting The Most Beautiful Boy in the World being hung at the Royal College of Art’s “Young Contemporaries” exhibition in London, 1961; the film poster for A Bigger Splash, 1973; at work in his studio, 1984; Mozart’s The Magic Flute, with sets designed by Hockney, 1987; with Peter Schlesinger on the set of A Bigger Splash; Portrait of an Artist (Pool With Two Figures), 1972. Clockwise from top left: Cecil Beaton, Condé Nast via Getty Images; Susan Wood/Getty Images; WATFORD/Mirrorpix/Mirrorpix via Getty Images; Michael Childers/Corbis via Getty Images; Evening Standard/Hulton Archive/Getty Images; LMPC via Getty Images; Ron Bull/Toronto Star via Getty Images; Ron Scherl/Redferns; Moviestore/Shutterstock; Jenni Carter, © David Hockney; Corbis/VCG via Getty Images.He owes his popularity with a wider audience to his skill in constructing a fully inhabited and furnished universe. That was especially true of Los Angeles, which he, more than any other artist, has visually defined in the public’s imagination. He moved there in 1964, having idealized it—and painted it—beforehand, with an erotic aura he absorbed from reading Physique Pictorial and gay fiction. As he looked down from the airplane and saw the profusion of blue swimming pools, he knew he had found his home.Over the next decades, Hockney would depict L.A. as a collection of shimmering pools, towering palms, and low-slung modernist houses, all aglow in a flat bright light. And the city, in turn, would leave its mark on him. Before he arrived, he was painting people as heads atop rectangles. Beginning in 1966 with a painting of a friend, the gallerist Nick Wilder, he began doing portraits of specific people.In his personal life, he was teaching an art course at UCLA, and at the start of the term he fell for an 18-year-old student, Peter Schlesinger. Their five-year relationship was the first love of Hockney’s life. Its dissolution in 1971, chronicled with unusual intimacy in Jack Hazan’s semi-fictionalized documentary A Bigger Splash, left him bereft. He expressed his forlorn feelings in his work, most famously in Portrait of an Artist, with the artist being Schlesinger, who is standing at the edge of a pool and looking down at a man swimming.Clockwise from top left: Hockney’s Portrait of My Father, 1955; with his then partner, Peter Schlesinger, 1969; at home in Los Angeles, 1987; with his dog, circa 1999; poolside in Los Angeles with David Stoltz (left) and Ian Falconer, circa 1978; a painting of his current companion, Jean-Pierre Gonçalves de Lima, 2013; with Celia Birtwell beside Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy, 1970–71; in the Hollywood Hills, circa 1978; his memoir David Hockney by David Hockney: My Early Years, 1988; with Paloma Picasso, 1984; Hockney’s painting Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, 1968; Cecil Beaton and Hockney, photographed by Schlesinger, 1970; with Keith Haring at Mr Chow restaurant, 1985.Clockwise from top left: Richard Schmidt, The David Hockney Foundation, © David Hockney; Chris Morphet/Redferns/Getty Images; Anthony Barboza/Getty Images; Mikel Roberts/Sygma via Getty Images; Michael Childers/Corbis via Getty Images; © David Hockney; Nick Harvey/WireImage; Michael Childers/Corbis via Getty Images; Abe Books; Alan Davidson/Shutterstock; Fabrice Gibert, © David Hockney; Peter Schlesinger; © Ben Buchanan, American Art Archives.For the most part, however, his portrayals of pools, especially in Los Angeles, were sunnier. In 1988, in the catalog for a Hockney retrospective at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, its director Earl A. Powell III wrote, “It is through Hockney’s work that many people derive their impressions of life in Southern California, a landscape redolent with sunshine, swimming pools, and palm trees.” That was 37 years ago. The smoke of the catastrophic L.A. wildfires was still fresh when I asked Hockney for his reaction to the devastation. He has two homes there, one in the Hollywood Hills and one in Malibu, on the beach. The golden dream of Southern California was now grievously smudged. “I lived in L.A. for 30 years, and I probably won’t go back now,” he told me, speaking through an associate who read him my questions. “Somebody said my little house on the beach survived because it was on rocks and you went up the steps to the wooden garages. And maybe it has. I don’t know. I am sure it must be a sadder place, L.A. right now.”But looking back feels unnatural to Hockney. He prefers to make new work that can be included in the upcoming show. In his latest self-portrait, he adopted a characteristic pose, seated in his garden, drawing a tree with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. He has also made recent studies of his nurses, Lewis and Sonja. These paintings are tinged with the wistful tenderness that can come in old age to those fortunate enough to accept it gracefully. “I recently did Lewis and Sonja because I have got to know their faces, you see, because they are looking at me and I am looking at them,” he said. “Otherwise, you are not sure what people really look like. I know we are all different—everybody’s different. And like the leaves on the trees, they fall off at different times; they don’t all fall off at once.”Hockney with his dog, Tess.Jean-Pierre Gonçalves de Lima, © David Hockney.Hockney’s budding years took place in a working-class household in Bradford, a city in northern England. His father, a pacifist, was an accountant’s clerk; his mother, a devout Methodist and a vegetarian, tended the home. They recognized Hockney’s artistic talent and drive at an early age and, with some hesitation, bowed to his insistence that he forgo getting a job and instead attend the Bradford School of Art, a well-regarded institution. He received a first-class diploma with honors and was admitted for postgraduate work at both the Slade School of Fine Art and the Royal College of Art, two of the most prestigious art schools in Britain. When he received his diploma from the Royal College of Art, in 1962, he already had been represented for a year by a dealer, John Kasmin, and was known in the London art world. Counter to the usual story of an artist clawing his way to recognition, he had to resist the temptation to rest on his laurels. By the time he was 40, he was a global celebrity.That is how old he was when I first spoke with him, in 1978, in his studio in the Notting Hill district of London. I was a young magazine journalist, interviewing him about the sets he was creating for a Glyndebourne Festival production of Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute. Looking back at my interview notes, I see that Hockney was already coping with the weight of his achievements. “It gets harder to paint as you go on, partly because you’ve got your own work of the past to think about,” he said then. “So, it’s both a burden and an advantage. And, of course, you always want to paint better pictures. Otherwise, you wouldn’t go on; you’d give up.”With that in mind, he had been revisiting some of his early paintings. At one point, he said, he had dismissed them as “awfully poor and inconsistent”—in short, “dreadful.” But then he saw them again at the Whitechapel Gallery in 1970 and revised his opinion. “You could see how I’d taken up some ideas and moved along with them and abandoned some and moved into other areas,” he said. “Obviously, great artists give you standards that you want to try and attempt to reach, but I’m not stupid. I can’t paint like Velázquez or Goya or Picasso. I would be mad to try. I just don’t have that kind of skill at all.”Hockney’s painting After Munch: Less Is Known Than People Think, 2023.Jonathan Wilkinson, © David Hockney.Despite his modesty, Hockney possesses draftsmanship skills that surpass those of most of his contemporaries. Plus, he has the advantage of being an artist of his time. Early on, he was able to soak up what other artists were doing—such as the shaped canvases of Frank Stella and Jasper Johns, and the color field ring abstractions of Kenneth Noland, which can be readily detected in his Royal College of Art paintings. “At one time, I believed my work had to look like modern art or it wasn’t any good,” he said in that conversation decades ago. “Then I slowly began to realize that was a silly way of looking at it. Art can’t go backwards. Even if everybody starts painting just what’s in front of them, they can’t paint the way it was done 50 years ago. It’s just not possible. Then you begin to realize, if this is an impossibility, there’s no use worrying about something you couldn’t avoid anyway.”Later, when living in Los Angeles, Hockney became obsessed with the challenge of conveying a sense of movement and the passage of time in a two-dimensional painting. In the 1980s, he started taking Polaroids to make bigger and bigger collages. He was seeking to emulate Cubism in undermining single-point perspective, which places a viewer in a static posture, facing a scene that recedes to a vanishing point. Treating photos as his building blocks, he constructed compositions that culminated in 1986 in Pearblossom Hwy., which comprises more than 700 -photographs to represent varying viewpoints that you would see from the front seat of a car while riding down a desert highway. In his paintings, too, he incorporated motion. Mulholland Drive: The Road to the Studio, from 1980, depicts a sinuous road that snakes through a scene of pointillist patchwork, in colors as bright as those of the Fauvists, juxtaposed with a section that has the bleached-out rectilinearity of a road map.Much of the work on view in Paris will reveal Hockney’s infatuation with the latest technologies. In late 2008, he began making drawings, initially of flowers, on his iPhone, a device that had been introduced only a year before. By then he had moved his primary residence from Los Angeles to a town called Bridlington, on the coast of East Yorkshire, about 80 miles from Bradford. “The reason I was good on the iPhone was that I always had quite small sketchbooks in my pocket, so with it being small, it didn’t matter to me that much,” he said. “I drew on the phone with my thumb mostly, and then I got a stylus. But the first ones, 30 or 40, were drawn with just a thumb.” He purchased an iPad in June 2010, as soon as it became available. Hockney had been stippling and crosshatching with ink on paper or acrylic paint on canvas, and the tablet allowed him a quicker, easier way to proceed. In Bridlington, he also returned to oil painting, inspired by the landscape, which he portrayed in acid greens and shocking mauves, similar to the colors on the prints made from his iPad drawings.Hockney at his reading table.Jean-Pierre Gonçalves de Lima, © David Hockney.When he made his next move, to a half-timbered 17th-century house in Normandy in 2019, with JP, who is French, he was comfortable shifting back and forth between iPad sketches, ink drawings, and paintings. In Normandy, he made a series of acrylic portraits of friends and relatives who came to visit: his brother Richard; the three adult children of the fashion designers Ossie Clark and Celia Birtwell; record producer Clive Davis; and—surprisingly, because he dislikes painting portraits of people he hasn’t known for a long time—Harry Styles. Loose and relaxed, they exemplify what Hockney is aiming for at this point in his life. “My approach to portraiture has changed,” he told me. “Now I don’t really draw a preparatory sketch on the canvas. I just start painting, which is a bit riskier because wherever you put the head, the body has to fit. But I’m enjoying it, and I think most of the portraits are quite successful.”The Paris show is weighted toward his portraiture, and it pays primary attention to the paintings and drawings he produced in Bridlington and Normandy. But it will span the enormous arc of his career, beginning with the portrait he made of his father in Bradford in 1955, which was the first painting he sold. Some artists are daunted to see the scope of all they have created. It paralyzes them into uncertainty about where to make their next move. I asked Hockney, who has had so many retrospectives (including a gigantic one at Tate Britain and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, when he turned 80 in 2017), whether that possibility worried him. He said that Sir Alan Bowness, a former director of Tate, once told him that many artists couldn’t work for months after such an exhibition. Hockney dismissed that fear with characteristic nonchalance. “Well, I just go on,” he told me. “I never bother.” Puckishly, he added, “Anyway, at my age now, I couldn’t really freeze.” Source link

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norajworld · 3 months ago

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northern-lights-book-blog · 7 months ago

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Book: Quicksilver

Author: Callie Hart

Series: Fae & Alchemy

Length: 624 Pages

Overall Rating: 5 Stars

Blog Rating 5 Saltire Flags

In the land of the unforgiving desert, there isn’t much a girl wouldn’t do for a glass of water.

Do not touch the sword.

Do not turn the key.

Do not open the gate.

Death has a name.

It is Kingfisher of the Ajun Gate.

His past is murky.

His attitude stinks.

And he’s the only way Saeris is going to make it home.

Be careful of the deals you make, dear child.

The devil is in the details...

This book centers around 24 year old Saeris Fane.

She is a pickpocket but she also has magic that she has kept hidden. She is really,really, great at keeping secrets. She has lived a cruel life living in the 3rd Ward of the roasting city of Zilvaren. This is where the people are suffering, plus there are water rations where everyone is starving and dying of thirst! Furthermore, the 3rd Ward water is contaminated by their evil thousand year old ageless Queen Madra. Unknown to this evil Queen that 3rd Ward Saeris siphons from the Queen’s own water supply being the good thief she is!

However Saeris is caught after stealing from the Queen’s guard to feed and keep her brother fed and protected. However things get a lot more severe and deadly when Saeris is caught. She is brought to the queen's palace to a strange hall with a sword planted in a frozen pool of silver, the queen demands Saeris Fane’s death! Her guard listens to his Queen giving her a fatal wound that his Queen demanded to hear her screams!

Dying Saeris pulls the sword from the pool of silver, and Quicksilver responds to her call for help. It liquifies and out of it comes the most handsome creature she ever saw who she thought was death. but it is a fae warrior Kingfisher who saves her but hates her at the same time. He calls her Osha a weak little butterfly. Furthermore she is taken from the only life she has ever known and her life is about to change forever in Yveilia! As Kingfisher also believes she is an alchemist that can make relics from the Quicksilver to save his people! Is this even possible? Read and discover Saeris and Kingfisher’s fate.

I loved this book so much though it did lag a little bit in the beginning. I am so happy I kept going because it was an absolute masterpiece. Even with the brutting Kingfisher I still ended up loving him in the end. If you love characters like Rhysand from ACOTAR and Xaden from The Empyrean series, then you will love Kingfisher too. The world building was absolutely mindblowing in this dark fantasy. The spice level was on overload which I couldn't get enough of. The banter was also just fantastic too. This book is worth all the hype it's getting on BookTok and other book platforms in my opinion and I absolutely can not wait for the second book in this series! A book I highly recommend!

Disclaimer: I received an advance readers copy from Forever publishing. I voluntarily agreed to do an honest, fair, review and blog through netgalley. All words, thoughts, ideas are my own.

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desiredtastes · 8 months ago

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Breakfast, a wine & music pairing, and cozy nights at a wonderful boutique hotel in the heart of Franschhoek🪵🔥🍾Thank you for a fantastic stay! 🥰

#Bedtime #Fireplace #Bedroom #Breakfast #Pool #Wine #Brut #Music #Cheese #Eggs #Guesthouse #Hotel #CornerHouse #Franschhoek #CapeWinelands #SouthAfrica #SoloTravel #Food #Traveler #WomenWhoTravel #Travel #BoutiqueHotel #SoloFemaleTravel #Africa #TravelPhotos #TravelBlog #SouthAfricaTrip2024 #DesiredTastes

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beforecolin · 1 year ago

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INFILTRATING THE HITCHCOCK KICKBACK

an active letting go of getting a glimpse

at the moment of grammalepsy. esa cosa allá

total enjoyment. extreme seriousness. a

rejection of understanding. a performance

of the double dutch regression

that positions a precultural configuration

on the outside of an ironized (romantic)

subject. EMMA HAUK writing impossibility

over and over THE IMPOSSIBLE THE

IMPOSSIBLE over and

over THE IMPOSSIBLE.

friendliness with the bombastic philistines

as a disdainful elitist caricature

of a radical peasant movement. these works

bare witness to a rehearsal of the gestural

significance of the material, a dotted line

that traverses the nomination of duchaump’s

readymades and the exnomination of dubuffet’s

position of discovery: Full of the same wind

qui est le vent de l'art brut, et aussi mon

vent, the disappearance of dedication to the truth

of romanticism as it appears in the form of

an exaltation: THE INTERMINABILITY OF speech scroll (

banderole phylactery the en joyment of SIGNIFIERS

as they caress her breasts, (who wanna come test the

undressed?) detention for tricking the substitute

teacher into thinking she was two phone

shawty, a joke about a conversation i had

with a friend where i promised him i wouldn’t

do any painting UP AGAINST the fact that

painting is a necessary next branch in the bifurcation

of exhaustion that is my own life’s investigation

into the process of discovering the gesture

through mark making, and the invention of the mark

through a combination of the gesture and other deus

ex machinas that infiltrate this hitchcock kickback

in search of a new verism of the informal

enacting an inversion of the horror vacui

that drives compulsive pareidolia

while avoiding any celestial panacea

adamic gaucherie, caught between death

and a porcelain zone of dismemberment

at a time IN WHICH redemption encircles

the lozenge of primal baptism

and that’s why motion is cool - squeezed the aluminum

tube so hard the damn thing cracked up

an inverted acknowledgement of humility

amidst a calculating form of play, working its way

back from literature and the literary, the dialectics

of self immolation as a séance with the inner circle

that is blowing in the same bare place

medium: oil and coarse molding paste

on brown shipping paper. and not to think

of any misery in the sound of the wind,

in search of the searchingness of the gesture

a liberation from and deliverance to a

self-conscious position, pick pocketing pool sharks

picket fence profiteering. inner experience as a betrayal

of the sword swallower, a ruse in hopes of discovering

the gesture. these works can be seen as a triptych

with one of the pieces itself a diptych, man made

matterfest, splatter test. tattered? yes. from paranoiac

to pareidoliac voyeurism from the position

of an impossibly neutral third party

presiding over the proceeding that short circuit the game

hopscotch across an assortment of tessalated intentions

with the rules scrawled as the excavated [thick

impasto (extension)] with Spoerri in love with knowing

the absence of the beginning of the record: PICTUREs

OF THE PROCESS LOOK WAY BETTER than

the thing you thought you was making, that thing

over there, between the materiality of the sign and a

a new significance of the material, which is the sound

of the land, these works (plays) are a staging

of their own conditions of impossibility

Lleno del mismo viento, the site at which

the binding substance that maintains the cluster

of descriptive features is dissolved. attention

for asking facetiously not to be seen (like

this): i’m whooped decent, disposed, le vent

à venir. In the sound of a few leaves,

a call addressed to the outside

of the signification of matter made manifest

que está soplando en el mismo lugar desnudo:

el emporio celestial de conocimientos

benévolos evidence of an obsession with the seizure,

the place} in time] in which the idiolectic gesture

exceeds an anticultural freedom of movement

hardening into radical decoration, repurposed static

pastische of manifestation in an attempt

to disinter the exquisite corpse, a concession

to the gew gaw of confessional trinkets

a humiliation of early netherlandish painting

as a rite of passage, a self conscious fabrication

en hommage à faultrier and bram bogart

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