#damien always says hes belongs to both of us to some extent

[jupiterscallie]

Fourth Artfight attack! This one is another on @coolzvillesuckz, of his character Rewrite! I think this piece turned out insane and I don’t think I’ll top it for a while.

[starryskiesandbluediamonds]

Title: Red Lace

About: Little Brothers are a nightmare and Tim’s in particular is on fire today. Damian riffles through Tim's room and finds a pair of red lacy undergarments and proceeds to embarrass his brother in front of the team. Tim and Cassie turn a nice shade of tomato red. Characters: Damian Wayne, Rose Wilson, Tim Drake, Cassie Sandsmark and Dick Grayson Setting: Titan’s tower Pairing: timxcassie / wonderbird  Notes: I like Damian a lot and I like to think he has fun at TIm’s expense. This is just supposed to be a fun little fic to get off my brain, also at Tim’s expense. I also like the wonderbird pairing so I thought why not. I really wish they were developed more/we saw more of them because I loved how complicated and angsty their ship was in the comics. Anyways, putting this out there because i’m always appreciative of reading others’ works featuring Wonderbird and in my opinion i’d love to see more of that pairing.  

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Tim was mortified. He was going to kill him - Damien was dead, he was DEAD! The colour drained from Tim’s face as he watched a smug Damien Wayne twirl a red lacy thong from his finger. “Yours Drake?” the latest Robin said letting out a snicker as the words left his mouth. Out of the corner of Tim’s eye he could see Cassie’s face wide eye and turning bright red as she looked away hoping to not draw attention to herself.

This was payback, Tim knew. Damien had not taken kindly to Tim waltzing in with a mission for the titans. Damien all but quit complaining that the Titans liked Tim better, that they preferred to work with Tim over himself and they didn’t need two Robins.

Dick had convinced Damien to come back, but Tim had stayed for the time being to help out and fell into old habits, Cassie being one of those habits. They had called it quits a long time ago but old habits die hard and he found himself enamoured with her once again. Connor had taken a break from the Titans and left Cassie to find himself and Tim was no longer with Tam Fox after that fiasco. So it was only natural they would reconnect one more time, or at least that’s what Tim kept telling himself. They used discretion because despite being consenting adults, Connor was still his best friend and they didn’t need the team knowing their business. Least of all his little brother. If Damien was this bad not knowing who the undergarments belonged to, Tim couldn’t imagine what he would be like if he found the owner of the red lace.

Damien kept twirling, whistling low. “I mean I knew you got a new costume but to what extent I didn’t know until now..or maybe they’re someone else’s?” he grinned wickedly watching Tim die of embarrassment in front of their entire team as he looked around the room. “Anyone want to claim these?”

The rest of the titans privy to the scene either looked away in embarrassment for Tim or if they were beast boy their eyes were glued to the scene. “Oh Red and here I thought you were a prude. Looks like you’ve been getting someone’s panties in a twist, quite literally.” Rose piped up absolutely loving the scene before her. Tim would never describe Rose as giddy and yet here she was bouncing on the balls of her feet elated with this new turn of events.

Cassie’s hand squeezed into a fist. It was no secret she didn’t get along with Ravager. Rose got on Cassie’s nerves so easily, this was the last thing she needed. “Damien - this has nothing to do with official Titans business, and quite frankly it’s inappropriate.” Cassie said hastily. Her hardheadedness had gotten the better of her as Damien and Rose both turned to her setting their sights on Cassie. “Oh, deflecting? So these are yours princess?” Rose laughed. “Didn’t know you two were back at it.” she smiled sweetly as Cassie’s mouth dropped open rage filling the emotion on her face. “Cassie and Tim? you’ve got to be kidding me, he’s not cool enough to hit that.” Damien scoffed. “she’s' ' Damien gestured to her figure with his hands and Cassie all but shrieked at him.

Tim looked up at the ceiling and prayed to any god out there that would listen for Nightwing to show up. At least Dick would be able to put Damien in his place and for whatever reason Damien always listened to Dick. Tim was always the target, Damien’s punching bag. “For fucks sake Damien. Stop making shit up and give those back to whoever you stole them from.” Tim tried to discredit him. “I found them in your room Tim, nice try.” Damien flung them at Tim’s face with another snicker. Tim’s had caught them, not exactly sure what to do with them. If he pocketed them he was guilty, but he couldn’t just let them lay on the floor at his feet, somehow that was worse. Tim’s face was redder than before if that was even possible. “What were you doing in my room!” Tim fumed red lace now balled up in his fist. “Got bored. Found them with this.” Damien shrugged nonchalantly pulling a matching red lace bra from his cloak. “They match - i’d say you have good taste Cass but considering where I found them.” Damien tsked at her and let out another laughed at Tim’s expense and while some of the other titans couldn’t help but laugh along, namely beast boy, Tim and Cassie were seconds away from spontaneously combusting.

Tim wiped his face with his gloved hand. The joker hadn’t even made him sweat this bad. Was no one going to stop him? Thankfully Tim’s prayers were answered and Nightwing had walked into the room reading it very quickly. Tim - red face and holding red lace in his hands, Damien - with a shit eating grin and dangling a red bra, Ravager - taunting Cassie and Cassie - fists clenched and redder then Tim. In a quick scoop Dick had grabbed the bra and smacked Damien upside the back of the head, then Tim too for good measure. “Mission briefing in 5, move.” Tim was never more thankful for those words.

Damien had let out a manic laugh before leaving with Rose. Their tag team was not ideal Tim had decided. “Might want to give those back to Cass in private.” Dick had said handing the bra to Tim once the room was cleared. “How’d you - never mind, thanks.” Tim had exhaled taking his mask off feeling less suffocated. “Just curious, what happened to ‘but Connor?’” dick teased shaking his head. “I - it was one time.” Dick let out another laugh at Tim’s false admission. “Yeah, today maybe.” rolling his eyes he ruffled Tim’s hair. “He was in my room!” Tim complained. Dick shrugged. “Use better locks. You know he’s doing it to get under your skin.” Tim let out a frustrated sigh. “briefings in two better put those in a safe hiding spot and get going.” Dick said as he casually turned and walked out of the room leaving a frazzled Tim clutching red lace.

[from-the-das-desk]

Shadows Of The Past - Chapter One

Word count:3,613

Warnings: none

summary: Left alone in the mirror, Y/N reflects and is found by the Jim twins.

You stand in utter shock, your hands pressed against the mirror’s fractured glass, your heart still shattering, even though it has been... Hours? Perhaps even days, since Damien and Celine betrayed you, shoving you out of your body, after you agreed to let them come with you in that horrible, pitch-black void. They left you to go elsewhere - whether to find William, or to leave this cursed place, you cannot tell. But you haven’t heard William’s voice in a long time - although someone did ring the house phone... You couldn’t hear who had answered it, but someone had, as it had only rung a couple of times.

You wonder what happened to the detective - he’d been shot either in the chest or in the gut somewhere... But death didn’t hold the same meaning here as in the rest of the world. That had been made painfully clear. You hoped that he had found a way to stumble back into his own body... But if the detective had died first, then why hadn’t Celine and Damien gone to him, rather than approach you? Perhaps they had, and he had refused their offer... Or maybe, they had believed that you would give them the chance to return to the world of the living that they so desperately wanted.

The only way that you could tell the passage of time, was the play of light and shadows as it passed through the window and on the ground. Then again, you weren't ever really able to figure out how quickly time was passing in this miserable house. But you've exhausted your store of misery, and with a deep breath that you're not sure that you need anymore, you attempt to leave the mirror, curious as to whether or not you even could. You frown with stubborn determination and slam one of your shoulders into the mirror, bouncing back and staggering backwards over the table, falling the the tiled floor with a groan. You stagger up to your feet and sit down on the reflection of a bench that William had been sitting on, while he'd stared at your dead body, while you had been in that cold, black void, being lied to and manipulated by someone you thought that you could trust.

You don't know if it was Celine or Damien who had cast you out of your body, and into this mirror... Or even if it was intentional... But the rage and bitterness that had morphed Damien's usually amiable face was shocking. It was almost equal to the shock of him shoving you out of your body and into this mirror. Part of you wondered if he'd done that, as he needed you to possess something... But why? What reason did he have to do this to you? You would have willingly shared your body with him as he had asked? What had driven him to betray you like this?

You couldn't guess, and you were too tired and upset to continue thinking about the whys - you really wouldn't know, unless he - or they? Came back and explained themselves... And from the dark expression on his (their?) face, you rather doubted that they would come back for you. You'd stopped being useful to them, from the moment that you helped them get into your body. It hurt that they would use you in such a way... And you knew that if the spirit of Damien had actually been one of the ones to speak with you, he'd never have betrayed you like that... He'd always been willing to lend you a hand, and had come to your rescue on more than one occasion.

A miserable sigh leaves your lips as you lean against the wall, wishing that this mirror was placed in a room that had something more comfortable to rest on, than this hard wooden bench... But would you even need to sleep? What would happen to you if you did fall asleep? Would you find yourself in the pitch black void between this world in the next... Or would you fade into nothingness, or into the next world? You didn't know, and you feared that the answer to your question would be a fate worse than the one that you were currently suffering... Not that you wanted to know what that could possible be betrayed, trapped and betrayed as you had been.

You hear voices from another room - but it's not the being who took your body, nor is it William. "-is way to see the Gruesome sight of a dead body! Be very Jim, Jim! We need to be careful, lest the deranged murderer finds us and kills us too." A young man who looks startlingly like Damien, Mark and the Colonel comes running into the room... Or rather, lurching and lunging into the room, rolling across the floor and nearly getting coated in the dried pool of blood that you're pretty sure belongs to you.

Hope fills you, and you smack your hands against the glass, shouting "Hey! You! Jim, was it? Please... Please listen to me! Hey!" The words echo loudly in your ears, over and over again, fading after what felt like an eternity. You continue to pound your fists against the glass, desperately hoping to catch their attention.

The cameraman - Jim - spots you first, and moves a little closer to you, tapping his colleague - or brother ? - on one shoulder, pointing at you. "Jim, look! There's someone in the mirror!"

"Ah, god no! It's a Demon, Jim, RUN!" the reporter yelped, trying to run, but tripping over the

coffee table and falling flat on his face, groaning in pain.

"I'm not a demon! Do you see the blood on the floor there? That... That's my blood. I was killed here last night!" You shout, shaking and silently pleading with anything that will listen to keep them in this room, hoping that they could hear you - or read your lips.

Cameraman Jim moves closer to you, and Reporter Jim calms down a little, squinting at you closer before asking "Aren't you the new District Attorney, Y/N?"

You nod, saying "Yes, I am. Can you hear me?"

The reporter pulls out a small, hand-held device, putting it up to the mirror, right under your lips, explaining "This is a recording device. It's sensitive enough to pick up the voices of ghosts talking. I'm not sure why you can't come out of the mirror, but Medium Jim says that sometimes ghosts can get stuck in objects, especially if they are new to being dead. "I'm Jim, and this is my brother Jim. Can you tell us how you got in this mirror?"

"My soul was forced into this mirror, after I was killed and temporarily brought back to life." You respond, speaking as clearly and loudly as you can, hoping that their recording device actually worked. You never really believed in many supernatural things... Apart from the fact that Zombies were dangerous pests, if not put down immediately, but everyone knew that. Smart Zombies could be reasoned with to an extent, but their insatiable hunger for flesh often caused the few Smart Zombies to take their own lives quickly, rather than allow themselves to become the monsters that Zombies were so often painted as.

You hear your own voice moments later, as the brothers play back what you had just told them. Your voice was much quieter than the shout that you'd given, but you hoped that it was clearly heard. Both of the Jims' faces light up in delight at your words, and Jim the Reporter asked "Do you know who died here?"

"I knew almost everyone who died here, at least in the past twenty-four hours." You respond, speaking loudly and clearly. "The Actor, Markiplier was killed by Colonel William Iplier. Mayor... Mayor Damien Doom, and his sister, Celine Iplier were also killed, though they were killed in a magical... Incident of some kind, although the exact nature of the incident, I cannot tell you. Detective Abe was killed by the Colonel shortly before he... He accidentally shot me and killed me." You make sure to indicate to them that you've finished speaking, so that they can replay the message.

To your deep distress, most of what you just told them is lost - static overtakes most of what you say, only Mark's and the Detective's name were clearly heard. Everything else was garbled, and you frown in worry as you realize that the shadows around the two living beings is starting to grow darker and elongate. Jim the reporter asks "Can you repeat that?"

"You need to leave. There are dark forces in this house." You urge them, not wanting to see anyone else get claimed by the madness of this house.

Again, most of what you say is lost to the unexpected static, but Cameraman Jim spoke up quietly "I think we need to leave. Something is draining the battery of my camera faster than anything I've ever seen. Jim, grab the mirror, and we'll be able to continue this investigation... I think the video cut out as soon as we started to speak with Y/N."

Jim the reporter nodded, putting his microphone in his belt before turning back to where you were still standing, the recorder in hand "Okay, I'm going to take your mirror off of the wall now - unless you don't want to leave this place?" He moved closer, keeping the recorder close to where your mouth was.

You spoke up as loudly and clearly as you could "Yes, I want to leave!"

The reporter nodded when he played back the message- your voice still cutting out, but the yes perfectly heard.

You were worried that the malevolent entity inside of this manor - the dark forces that allowed you to stay in this world after death, might have other opinions about you leaving this place - or the two living beings leaving this place... But perhaps whatever was in this house, left when Damien and Celine inside your body - that was altered to look like Damien's - and probably took the colonel out of here as well.

You wondered if the detective was still around - perhaps having stumbled his way out of that black void and into his body... Or if the other's spirit had been allowed to pass onwards to whatever afterlife might await one when they died in a place that wasn't corrupted by dark forces. But you couldn't warn them about what might happen - not that you really had a guess as to what the house could or would do, as you could only speak to them through that damned recorder (at least in the manor). You also worried that trying to tell them more about this manor and what had happened would only be met with more static - interference from the manor... Or whatever was inside the manor that caused the corruption.

Reporter Jim took the mirror off the wall, grunting a little at how heavy it was, before setting it down on the floor. He pulled something out of one of his pockets, kneeling down and opening a small compact mirror, asking "Can you jump between mirrors? This is really heavy, and while I'm certain I can carry you all the way out of this manor, it is far to our news fan, and this Jim is worried that I might drop you, and I wouldn't want you to get more hurt than you already have been." His hands almost but not quite touch the center of the cracks in the mirror - created when Damien had cast you out into this damned mirror.

You shrug up at him, and suggest as the recorder comes out again "Touch that mirror to the surface of this one. I'll see what I can do."

Reporter Jim nods after he plays back your instructions - and suddenly you see that in this dimension, there is part of the ceiling that is reflected as if it's part of the floor and walls. You prepare yourself, taking in a deep, unsteady breath and run for that small patch of ceiling, bracing yourself to feel... Something. For several seconds, all you see is a pitch black nothingness, and a high pitched ringing pierces your ears.

But you manage to tumble into the small mirror, the breath in your lungs (do you need to breathe? You are a disembodied spirit inhabiting a mirror, after all... But you don't want to test that thought, not yet at least) catching as you realize that you made it into the smaller mirror. It would be easy to fall out, back into the larger, cracked mirror, but you stay as far away as you can, as Jim the reporter lifts you up and away from the big mirror.

He beams at you, delighted "Okay, District Attorney Y/N, my brother and I will be very Jim in leaving this house - as there has been several terrible things happening in this place, as your death is in addition to whoever the hell lived in this place. Â Do you know if the killer is still in the house? Nod or shake your head, depending on the answer.

You shake your head - while you were fairly sure that William was gone - you couldn't hear him calling for Celine, Damien and Mark ... Or occasionally, for you, as he'd apparently discovered that you'd gone missing at some point. Not that he had once looked in the mirror that you'd been trapped in, to discover what had happened to your spirit. Perhaps... Maybe Damien had caught up with William and the two of them had left this cursed place? Or... And you wouldn't have ever thought that Damien was capable of such a thing, up until he'd betrayed you to gain sole possession of your body... Damien had killed William, perhaps framing the other for all of the murders that had taken place here.

The reporter nodded, and was about to ask another question, when his brother, tapped him on one shoulder "Jim... I think we should ask them more questions once we're out of this place. I feel like someone is crawling all over my Jim, and we need to leave, just in case the murderer is still here. The killer might try to kill us too. Remember what Oracle Jim said about this town?"

Reporter Jim sighed a little before nodding a little "You're right Jim, we need to leave this place before we get killed - we might not be as lucky as Y/N and our spirit get caught in a mirror to try to warn anyone else who tries to come into this house to understand what's going on."

They both glance at you, and you nod emphatically at them, urging them "We need to get out of here as soon as possible!" You enunciated each word as best as you could, hoping that one or both of them could read your lips.

Whether or not they understood what you said, reporter Jim put the mirror that held you into one of his pockets, making sure that you were securely there, before he made his way through the house. You had to close your eyes - it was pitch black in Jim's pocket, and it reminded you of that awful place, where Damien and Celine had convinced you to let them in... Let Damien in, because you had so naively believed that they would share your body with them... Had Celine come with Damien, into your body? Or had only you and Damien been sent back? Celine hadn't said whether or not she would ride back with you... Just that she could send you and Damien back.

You decided that it didn't really matter, whether or not Damien went with you into your body alone, or with his sister - because either way, he had betrayed you in one of the worst ways you could ever imagine. Keeping your eyes closed and pretending that you were trying to sleep helped. You could only hope that whatever dark forces that caused time in the manor to stretch and bend so strangely - and caused people to appear and disappear seemingly at random wouldn't also trap these two reporters inside of this place until they went as mad as Mark and William had.

You bury your face in your hands, still keeping your eyes shut tight, as you tried to remember if there was anything about Damien in that pitch black void of nothing that could have given away that there was something wrong... Then again, who was to say that the beings that you were speaking to, were really Celine and Damien? There were dark forces in the manor after all... For all you knew, it could simply take the forms of anyone who died, as well as their voices, to manipulate those inside that void to do as the entity wanted them to.

You had certainly fallen prey to that, after all. Then again... One of the main reasons why you were so determined to find out who had killed Markiplier - along with wanting to bring to justice the person who had killed a friend of yours... Was that it might have brought a measure of closure, of peace to Damien - who had been so terribly distraught by the loss of one of his childhood friends. You wondered what might have happened, had the detective not interrupted the séance or whatever the hell Celine was trying to do with you... What had been interrupted. She'd been furious that she'd been interrupted - and she had said that she'd wanted to talk to Mark.

Did that mean that Celine's plan had been to summon Mark's spirit into your body? Would she have reversed that process, once she'd gotten the spirit of her ex-husband into your body... Then again, you remembered how the seer had managed to manipulate almost everyone against you with a frightening amount of ease - trying to paint you as the murderer. Maybe she'd been trying to summon Mark into your body, convince him to tell the others that you had killed him, and that Celine had thought it a proper punishment for you to lose your body, your life, so that Mark could continue to live on.

You hoped that you were wrong about her plan - that she wouldn't have done something like that...But you remembered what she had been like during the divorce with Mark. Before Damien had suggested that you become his new divorce lawyer, she would have been getting almost all of his fortune, as well as this damned manor, despite the fact that she was the one who had been unfaithful to Mark... Who had been utterly heartbroken and lost at what she'd done to him. Mark had been crushed by her infidelity and betrayal...

And the fact that his own brother, William had been having an affair with her behind his back had been a further betrayal - a stab in the back that had broken his will to fight against what she'd wanted until you'd stepped in and argued that Mark needn't suffer for his wife's infidelity more than he already had. In the end, she'd gotten quite a sum to live off on, but Mark hadn't had to pay for any additional support for her, as she had been the one to be unfaithful, and she had been the one to want the divorce, as Mark had wanted to try to work things out with her. But she hadn't wanted any of it, and had flounced off, check in hand and vanished.

You truly couldn’t stand to be surrounded by such darkness any longer - as even though you had kept your eyes closed, you couldn’t pretend for very long that you were trying to sleep... In part because you were terrified as to whether or not you could sleep - or what would happen to you if you did actually let your mind relax enough to fall asleep, given the state that you were in, and in this miserable, cursed manor. You bitterly wished that you’d never accepted the invitation to the poker game that had been the start of this misery and madness. You weren’t sure what all what would have happened, if you hadn’t accepted the invitation, but had you stayed away, you’d have been able to keep your body, at least.

Someone’s fingers wrapped around the mirror you were in, lifting you out of the utter darkness, and into the light. It was so blindingly bright, you had to hide your eyes as you adjusted to the light. It’s the large driveway that leads to Markiplier Manor.

“We have left the manor! Jim, wasn’t it morning when we entered this place? Why is it almost dusk?” Reporter Jim asked, a confused expression on his face, as he brings the mirror that you’re in up to his face.

You clear your throat a little before responding “That manor has... Unusual qualities to it. Time passes differently in there than it does outside.”

“I can hear you, Y/N!” Jim the reporter says, a wide grin appearing on his face. “We are going to the News Van, and there I will interview you on what happened in the manor.”

You nod, wondering silently where Damien and William went off to, and hope that wherever they are, that you and the two of them never cross paths again.

[carlkandutsch]

Abstract Music

excerpt from unfinished essay on music. I lack the knowledge and skill to carry it through I do believe in what I am trying to say (and failing)

Abstract Music – An Appreciation of the Miles Davis’ Second Quintet

              It so happens that the highest achievements of American modernist painting and sculpture were created during the early and mid-1960s – exactly the same period when the art of American jazz attained its apex. In both the visual arts and in jazz, the late 1960s marked the sudden beginning of what in my view is a long and steady decline in artistic quality that continues to this day in the United States. In this brief remark I do not purport to identify the societal and cultural forces that might explain this apparent coincidence. Rather, I merely take notice of what from my perspective seem like certain similarities in the kind of aesthetic experience offered by the best painting and jazz performances, respectively, during the time before decline set in, and in particular to ask whether it is sensible to speak sensibly of “abstraction” in music (thinking only of jazz)?

              To begin with, the term “abstract”, when used to describe a painting or a sculpture, refers not to a characteristic of the object but to a particular historically conditioned way in which the object is experienced, a modality of experience. At a certain moment in history, painting and sculpture became exposed to and threatened by the risk that any given instance in a work would be experienced as nothing more than decoration – as entertainment, as a distraction, as a kind of object like any other. We can say that the paintings of Edouard Manet in the 1860s initiated an effort (known as “modernism”) to counter this threat and that this effort culminated in the complete abandonment of representational means and methods in the work of practitioners like Jackson Pollack, Morris Louis, Kenneth Noland and their progeny. Other artists responded to the threat not by countering but by embracing it. This response to the threat of “objecthood” is embodied in the early 20th century “ready-mades” of Marcel Duchamp, which proclaim – once and for all so to speak – that there really is no difference between a work of art and an ordinary object. Since this is an intellectual rather than an artistic declaration, it can be repeated but not developed – whether in manifestos or as academic art – and it has been repeated ever since by American Minimalists and Pop artists in the 1960s, and today in the cynical and high-priced ironies of Damien Hirst and Jeff Koons. Perhaps the most perfect realization of Duchamp’s vision, according to which all attributions of aesthetic value are illusory, is existence of “Reality TV”, which declares that ordinary human existence is itself nothing more than a performance, and human beings nothing more than its audience – passive consumers of life experienced as a spectacle designed in corporate boardrooms to maximize “product placement.”

              As the last example pretty clearly shows, the battle between modernism and its alternative has been settled, at least for the foreseeable future: On the cultural battlefield, Duchamp won. But apart from the so-called “art world”, I find, as a matter of personal experience, that at least some modernist painting (and sculpture) even today really does successfully resist being experienced as an object of any kind, and my most exhilarating aesthetic experiences are usually responses to just this kind of resistance. As movies, literature, music, religion, politics and post-modern life itself seems to devolve into specialized forms of entertainment, as we become ever more passive members of an audience even with respect to our own lives – all the more important, or so it seems to me, that at least some region of human experience should provide a refuge if not an avenue of escape from literalism, for there is no escape. Death is the ultimate literalist.

              Regarding abstraction in the visual arts, the high priest of Modernism, Clement Greenberg, wrote: “Like any other kind of picture, a modernist one succeeds when its identity as a picture, as a pictorial experience, shuts out the awareness of it as a physical object.” (“Picasso at Seventy-Five” in Collected Essays and Criticism, Vol. 4, p. 33.) How that happens may be discerned by examining what happens when a work fails to distinguish itself from a physical object. In 1957 Greenberg characterized Picasso’s post-1938 painting in this way:

But when the means of art becomes too calculable, too sure, whether in conception or execution, and too little is left to spontaneity, then that awareness [of the picture as a physical object] re-emerges. Picasso is as conscious of this problem as anyone has ever been, but he cannot, apparently, help himself any more because he is committed to a certain notion of picture-making in which nothing remains to be explored, in which everything is already given … The picture gets finished, in principle, the moment it is started, and the result becomes a replica of itself. With the idea of replica there comes the idea of craftsmanship, and with that, the idea of object, and of the polish and finish of a finished object. The eye makes these associations instantaneously. Finish is always something expected, and the expected belongs more to the handicrafts, to joinery and jewelry, than to fine art.

To the extent the work strikes one as calculated, too sure of itself, it is seen not as a picture but as a kind of object – it is experienced as a literally existing thing in the world. I choose Greenberg’s particular “pre-theoretical” description of literalism because it helps to situate the phenomenon historically: at a certain moment in Western history, traditional “representational” painting had lost its capacity to be compel conviction as painting; and when traditional methods and procedures applied to traditional subjects became incapable of producing things that could be experienced as paintings (such that a painting seemed a “replica” of itself), painting had to dispense with representation, or end. Abstraction in painting and sculpture promised at least the possibility of restoring the sense of “presentness” to the beholder that had been lost. That sense of presentness is described by Clement Greenberg in this passage (from “The Case for Abstract Art”):

Like any other kind of picture, a modernist one succeeds when its identity as a picture, as a pictorial experience, shuts out the awareness of it as a physical object … ideally the whole of a picture should be taken in at a glance; its unity should be immediately evident, and the supreme quality of a picture, the highest measure of its power to move and control the visual imagination, should reside in its unity. And this is something to be grasped only in an indivisible instant of time. No expectancy is involved in the true and pertinent experience of a painting; a picture, I repeat, does not ‘come out’ the way a story, or a poem, or a piece of music does. It’s all there at once, like a sudden revelation. This ‘at-onceness’ an abstract picture usually drives home to us with greater singleness and clarity than a representational painting does. And to apprehend this 'at-onceness’ demands a freedom of mind and untrammeledness of eye that constitute 'at-onceness’ in their own right. Those who have grown capable of experiencing this know what I mean. You are summoned and gathered into one point in the continuum of duration….You become all attention, which means that you become, for the moment, selfless and in a sense entirely identified with the object of your attention.

 What would be the musical corollary to experiencing a painting (or sculpture) as a physical object? Experiencing a piece of music as mere sound? –That doesn’t seem quite right, because music, being made by someone, is necessarily something other than mere sound, which would be noise. But can’t the same be said of a painting or sculpture – that it is necessarily more than a mere object? How does objecthood become a problem in the first place?

Here we need to remember that “literalness” or “objecthood” in the visual arts – like its opposite, abstraction – refers not to an attribute of an object but to a mode of experiencing the object. In other words, literalness in the arts is a historical phenomenon. At some point in the history of western art (usually associated with the middle of the 19th century), various conventions that until then had naturally or automatically been the bearers of artistic intention lost their capacity to convey aesthetic conviction, which means: to make reality present to the beholder. Conventions like narrative, visual perspective and symbolism lost their power to express presentness – and that loss of power created the issue of literalness or objecthood. In 1957 Greenberg (in “Picasso at Seventy-Five”) characterized Picasso’s post-1938 painting in this way:

Like any other kind of picture, a modernist one succeeds when its identity as a picture, as a pictorial experience, shuts out the awareness of it as a physical object But when the means of art becomes too calculable, too sure, whether in conception or execution, and too little is left to spontaneity, then that awareness [of the picture as a physical object] re-emerges. Picasso is as conscious of this problem as anyone has ever been, but he cannot, apparently, help himself any more because he is committed to a certain notion of picture-making in which nothing remains to be explored, in which everything is already given … The picture gets finished, in principle, the moment it is started, and the result becomes a replica of itself. With the idea of replica there comes the idea of craftsmanship, and with that, the idea of object, and of the polish and finish of a finished object. The eye makes these associations instantaneously. Finish is always something expected, and the expected belongs more to the handicrafts, to joinery and jewelry, than to fine art.

  Unlike a painting or a sculpture, music cannot be experienced as a mere “object” because music is experienced in time rather than in space. Organized sound can be music to the extent that music is expression – the expression of feeling, feelings that are themselves experienced in time.

Like any other human action, the expression of feeling can go wrong in various ways. For example, feeling can be expressed as trite sentimentality; likewise, feeling can be expressed with grandiosity, or excessive virtuosity, all in ways that are instantly recognizable as performances. “Virtuosity implies performance, and performance implies conformity with received tastes.” (Clement Greenberg, “Louis and Noland”, id., p. 95.)  We know the difference between genuine expression and theatricalized performance not by paying attention to what theory tells us, but by attending to our experience – by listening. When the musical expression of feeling goes wrong, when it is apprehended as performance, the listener feels somehow manipulated and to that extent unable to respond in ways that are spontaneous and honest. Our response is forced; it is not our response – and for that reason, not a response that makes sense in musical as much as rhetorical terms.

Some jazz performances suffer less from a want of expressive feeling than from an excess. This happens, in my listening experience, when the performance strikes me as too idiosyncratic or personal, so that it is not clear, at least to my ear, that anything is being expressed other than, perhaps, clinical data concerning the performer’s raw unmediated personality. Given that traditional conventions have exhausted themselves and thus can no longer function as vehicles for the communication of feeling, norms of comprehensibility are ignored altogether rather than discovered anew. This is how I, at any rate, hear certain of John Coltrane’s extended solos during live performances – for example, at the Village Vanguard in 1961 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mZ54FJ6h-k) and a year before with Miles Davis’ band in Stockholm (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Z3pDpZ-d1M). Feeling is certainly being expressed in these performances, but in ways that strike me as too literal to achieve eloquence.

If you compare the two Coltrane performances with those of Wayne Shorter in Miles Davis’ second quintet a few years later, the difference between literalness and abstraction in jazz music becomes at least plausible if not entirely comprehensible.

listen: 

[supernova-blast]

Some things about Damien, Lisa, Glen, Marketa and the music concert mishaps

So I learned like yesterday that Damien had another girlfriend after Lisa, and have sung a song with her, actually he helped her make an whole album... 

Damien Rice & Melanie Laurent - Uncomfortable - YouTube

Damien Rice & Melanie Laurent - Everything You're Not Supposed To ...

Those two songs are typical Damien and beautiful, but Lisa is a much better singer! Oh and just found out Melanie was married in 2013. Poor Damien is still alone.

I was not happy about the fact that Ed Sheeran is so so popular and he was inspired by Damien when he was very young but Damien is no way close to the level of popularity Ed is receiving. Come on they even look alike to some extent. I love Ed too but people listen to Damien’s songs and lyrics this man sings his heart out and I can relate every time! 

http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-30001619

But also after I read the article above I think maybe he just didn’t care that much about this things, he just wants to make good music and release. After all he could barely conceal his “contempt for the commercial aspect of the music industry.”

And he said these too kind of interesting 

"Whereas before I'd have thought someone had hurt my feelings, now it's all on me, it creates a very different perspective on life... I can't blame anybody for everything. It's all just stuff happening."

While lots of people worked on My Favourite Faded Fantasy, Rice says he's unlikely to replicate the intense collaboration he had with Hannigan and his previous band.

"We had this interdependent relationship with each other. I don't like entertaining those kind of relationships anymore. I'm intending to move away from drama, anything dramatic, someone running out, some childhood insecurity, putting it on me or me putting it on them.

"I like to be stopped if anyone catches me doing something like that. I'm going to be dead soon and I want to kind of grow up before I die."

I don’t know what “childhood insecurity” he was referring to, his or Lisa’s? But it sounds to me that even after 8 years he still couldn’t completely let it down and leave it behind...

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Oh and also Damien Rice (born 7 December 1973) is 8 years older than Lisa Margaret Hannigan (born 12 February 1981), not as big year gap as Glen Hansard (born 21 April 1970) and Markéta Irglová (born 28 February 1988), that’s 18 pretty big, but still the guy is older and I wonder if there is some kind of superiority or domination in their relationships, both professional and love concerned. And while googling their ages I found out Marketa was only married to her husband a sound crew for a year and then vanished to Iceland, got together with another recording engineer and had a daughter (I can’t help but wonder if she has a thing for sound engineers...), accordingly looking very happen in her Facebook pictures, but she did write this very long blog about how she met him and everything. Haven’t read every sentence but she is a really good writer though English is not her first language. And I can see she loves him very much...

http://marketairglova.com/a-connection-was-made-how-i-found-my-way-to-iceland-and-met-sturla-mio-thorisson

And this guy Mio recorded for Damien’s latest album too no wonder I feel Damien and Marketa were working together closer and she was the back up vocal for one of the songs too... 

I googled and googled still didn’t find the exact reason why Glen and Marketa broke up, but just learned that a man jumped off the roof during their concert and landed right next to Glen. Why would you do that to a band you love...

http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Apparent-suicide-at-Saratoga-concert-3255290.php

Maybe I should watch the documentary The Swelling Season that’s about the unravelling of their relationship... But she was only 17 when making the film Once and 18 when they started the romance in reality... Maybe she wasn’t very clear what she wants at a young age and was influenced too much by the outside world? She said in an interview"Somewhere along the line it became okay for us to become something more than friends and I guess there's a very good possibility it would have never happened had it not been for the film.” http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/culture/interview-glen-hansard-and-marketa-irglova-two-of-a-kind-1-779818

And her new album Muna (Icelandic for remember) looks very interesting, The songs look outwards to the world rather than dealing with internal matters. "A lot of it is about my relationship with the world, not just the world but the universe, looking outside of myself ... I never intended to make a spiritually-based record." Maybe I should listen to it.

And from this article that Pearl Jam’s Eddie called Glen after the suicide at the concert because his band had a 9 peopled died accident before at Copenhagen, 

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/features/glen-hansard-interview-the-singer-songwriter-on-finding-fame-in-the-commitments-and-once-a6677831.html

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I started another research about deadly mishaps and accidents in concert history and what I read saddened me again just like the plane crashes I’ve studied. Almost all of them can be avoided. Like only 2 doors opened for the Who’s concert with “festival seating” led to 11 people dead. And Great White’s manager lit up the club which didn’t use fireproof materials for soundproof and 100 people died. And the most recent one in Oakland Ghost Ship building was a warehouse did have anything no water sprinkler no permit no anything, still don’t know what caused the fire and 36 out of 50 died. It’s horrible. We humans can die so easily. In retrospect of all the concerts, bars and clubs I’ve been to, something bad could have happened right then and I wouldn’t have been here right now...

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I read in YouTube comments that 

Ellie2 years ago

“Damien weighed Lisa down though, IMHO. She got stuck with such heavy, morose tunes when she was with him, when there was so much more to her -- her own songs reflect more of who she is... more sunshine, more lightness. Don't get me wrong, I also love Damien and their pairing but one only needs to listen to Lisa's albums to realize the songs they shared were more Damien's than hers, no matter how riveting and beautiful they were.”

Then I went ahead and listened to songs of Lisa, it is true, she looks and sounds more worry free, and light hearted, that’s nice. But the first one was Little Bird, very beautiful and sad, and I won’t if the lyrics are meant for Damien, according to the internet “It’s said that Damien’s song “Accidental Babies” is exclusively about her; and Lisa’s song “Little Bird” on her own album is all about him.” I went through the lyrics Accidental Babies thoroughly and it’s just so sad.... It’s like Damien is singing his hopeless love for Lisa, he is so dark and he can see her light. Like sung in Volcano, Lisa doesn’t need him. But he needs her. She really can feel alive without him so she left to be free. Maybe she felt more like just a little singing bird to Damien while she was on his band working with him, and she needs to go and find her true self. She always says the departure was for the best. Sigh.

“Accidental Babies”

Well I held you like a lover Happy hands and your elbow in the appropriate place And we ignored our others, happy plans For that delicate look upon your face Our bodies moved and hardened Hurting parts of your garden With no room for a pardon In a place where no one knows what we have done Do you come Together ever with him? And is he dark enough? Enough to see your light? And do you brush your teeth before you kiss? Do you miss my smell? And is he bold enough to take you on? Do you feel like you belong? And does he drive you wild? Or just mildly free? What about me? Well you held me like a lover Sweaty hands And my foot in the appropriate place And we use cushions to cover Happy glands In the mild issue of our disgrace Our minds pressed and guarded While our flesh disregarded The lack of space for the light-hearted In the boom that beats our drum Well I know I make you cry And I know sometimes you wanna die But do you really feel alive without me? If so, be free If not, leave him for me Before one of us has accidental babies For we are in love Do you come Together ever with him? Is he dark enough? Enough to see your light? Do you brush your teeth before you kiss? Do you miss my smell? And is he bold enough to take you on? Do you feel like you belong? And does he drive you wild? Or just mildly free? What about me? What about me?

“Little Bird”

Your heart sings like a kettle And your words, they boil away like steam. And a lie burns long while the truth bites quick, A heart is built for both it seems. You are lonely as a church, Despite the queuing out your door. I am empty as a promise, no more. When the time comes, And rights have been read, I think of you often But for once I meant what I said. I was salted by your hunger, Now you've gone and lost your appetite And a little bird is every bit as handy in a fight. I am lonely as a memory Despite the gathering round the fire. Aren't you every bird on every wire? When the time comes, And rights have been read, I think of you often But for once I meant what I said. Here I stay, I lay me down, I'm dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill. Here I stay, I lay me down, In a house by the Hill. I'm dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill. I'm dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill. I'm dug from the rubble, and cut from the kill.