#diego x roberta | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adelantecomunicacao · 1 year

Text

14º Salão dos Artistas Sem Galeria inaugura mostra na Galeria Zipper. 19jan-25fev2023

[📷 Felipe Diniz Sanguin (SP). Comigo ninguém pode. 2022. Acrílica sobre tela, 100 x 80 cm. Divulgação]

O Salão dos Artistas Sem Galeria, promovido pelo portal Mapa das Artes (www.mapadasartes.com.br e @mapadasartesoficial), realiza, a partir de 19/01/2023, na Zipper Galeria, em São Paulo, a exposição com obras dos 10 artistas selecionados nesta 14ª edição do evento, que contou com 281 inscrições. A mostra fica em cartaz até 25/02/2023.

[Bruno Pinheiro (RJ). Afeto. Sem data. Acrílica sobre tela, 50 x 30 cm. Divulgação]

Foram selecionados Bruna Gidi (BA), Bruno Pinheiro (RJ), Consuelo Vezzaro (SP), Felipe Diniz Sanguin (SP), Larissa Fonseca (MG/RJ), Mario Lins (PE/SP), Oksana Rudko (Rússia/SP), Patricia Chueke (RJ), Reitchel Komch (RJ) e Vitor Matsumoto (SP). Os artistas selecionados participam de uma mostra coletiva na Zipper Galeria (www.zippergaleria.com.br), nos Jardins, em São Paulo, de 19/1 e 25/2/2023.

[Bruna Gidi. ESTRAMBOTE. 2021. Escultura cerâmica, 31 x 26 x 111 cm. Divulgação] O júri foi formado por Elias Muradi (artista plástico e gestor da Gare, escola e galeria de arte), Ana Carolina Ralston (jornalista e curadora independente) e Alice Granada (curadora independente).

[📷 Larissa Fonseca (MG/RJ). Sem título. 2021. Óleo sobre tela, 30 x 40 cm. Divulgação

Nesta edição, a organização do Salão concedeu ainda a Bolsa Viagem Fora do Eixo, destinada a um artista proveniente de fora do eixo Rio-São Paulo, concedida à artista Carchiris, do Maranhão.

[📷 Patricia Chueke (RJ). Um. 2022. Acrílica sobre tela, 75 x 100 cm x 4 cm. Divulgação]

O Salão dos Artistas Sem Galeria tem como objetivo avaliar, exibir, documentar e divulgar a produção de artistas plásticos que não tenham contratos verbais ou formais (representação) com qualquer galeria de arte na cidade de São Paulo. O Salão tradicionalmente abre o calendário de artes em São Paulo e é uma porta de entrada para os artistas selecionados no circuito das artes.

[📷 Mario Lins (PE/SP). Sem título (caveira). 2022. Série Ofendículos. Cera fria, pigmentos, acrílica, massa epóxi e lanças de metal sobre tela, 128 x 116 cm. Divulgação]

O Salão dos Artistas Sem Galeria tem concepção e organização de Celso Fioravante, assistência de Lucas Malkut e projeto gráfico de Cláudia Gil (Estúdio Ponto).

[Reitchel Komch (RJ). Trilhas para o Iroko. 2021. Linho, meada, cabaça, ferro. 112 x 99 cm. Divulgação]

HISTÓRICO DO SALÃO DOS ARTISTAS

A 1ª edição do Salão dos Artistas Sem Galeria (2010) selecionou os artistas Affonso Abrahão (SP), Amanda Mei (SP), Bartolomeo Gelpi (SP), Bettina Vaz Guimarães (SP), Christina Meirelles (SP), João Maciel (MG), Luiz Martins (SP), Rodrigo Mogiz (MG), Pedro Wirz (brasileiro radicado na Suíça) e Sandra Lopes (SP). O júri de seleção foi composto pelo curador Cauê Alves e pelos galeristas Mônica Filgueiras e Daniel Roesler. As mostras aconteceram na Casa da Xiclet e na Matilha Cultural. Os premiados desta edição foram Amanda Mei, Bartolomeo Gelpi e Bettina Vaz Guimarães.

A 2ª edição do Salão (2011) selecionou os artistas Maria Luisa Editore, Anne Cartault d´Olive, Adriano Amaral, Camila Alvite e Tatewaki Nio (São Paulo/SP); Sidney Amaral (Mairiporã/SP); Roma Drumond (Rio de Janeiro/RJ); Osvaldo Carvalho (Niterói/RJ); Luiz Rodolfo Annes (Curitiba/PR); e Tatiana Cavinato (Belo Horizonte/MG). O júri de seleção foi formado por três galeristas de São Paulo: Fábio Cimino (Zipper), Juliana Freire (Emma Thomas) e Wagner Lungov (Central Galeria de Arte Contemporânea). A premiada desta edição foi Camila Alvite.

A 3ª edição do Salão (2012) selecionou os artistas Cris Faria (baiano radicado em Zurique, Suíça), Danielle Carcav (RJ), Diego de los Campos (SC), Edney Antunes (GO), Julio Meiron (SP), Maria Isabel Palmeiro (RJ), Pedro di Pietro (SP), Roberta Segura (SP), Rodrigo Sassi (SP) e Victor Lorenzetto Monteiro (ES). Os artistas foram selecionados pelos galeristas Jaqueline Martins, Henrique Miziara (Pilar) e Marcelo Secaf (Logo). O premiado desta edição foi Rodrigo Sassi.

A 4ª edição do Salão (2013) selecionou os artistas Fábio Leão (AL/SP), Layla Motta (SP), Paula Scavazzini (SP), Viviane Teixeira (RJ), Elizabeth Dorazio (MG/SP), Roberto Muller (RJ), Betelhem Makonnen (Etiópia/RJ), Fabíola Chiminazzo (PR/SP), Michelly Sugui (ES) e AoLeo (RJ). O júri de seleção foi formado pelo galerista Ricardo Trevisan (Casa Triângulo), pelo curador e professor da FAAP Fernando Oliva e pelo curador do MAM de Goiás Gilmar Camilo (GO). Três artistas empataram e foram premiados: Fábio Leão, Fabíola Chiminazzo e Layla Motta.

A 5ª edição do Salão (2014) selecionou os artistas Clara Benfatti (França/SP), Flora Rebollo (SP), Zed Nesti (RJ/SP), Guilherme Callegari (SP), Sheila Ortega (SP), Marcos Akasaki (SP), Heleno Bernardi (MG/RJ), Daniel Duda (PR), Regina Cabral de Mello (EUA/RJ) e Tchelo (SP). O júri de seleção foi formado pelos curadores João Spinelli e Paula Braga e pelo galerista Elísio Yamada (Galeria Pilar) O premiado foi Daniel Duda.

A 6ª edição do Salão (2015) selecionou os artistas Andrey Zignnatto (SP), Charly Techio (SC/PR), Cida Junqueira (SP), Evandro Soares (BA/GO), Fernanda Valadares (SP/RS), Lucas Dupin (MG), Marcos Fioravante (PR/RS), Myriam Zini (Marrocos/SP), Piti Tomé (RJ) e Thais Graciotti (ES/SP). O júri foi formado pelos curadores Adriano Casanova, Enock Sacramento e Mário Gioia. O premiado foi Andrey Zignnatto.

A 7ª edição do Salão (2016) selecionou os artistas Bruno Bernardi (GO/SP; natural de Goiânia, mas radicado em São Paulo), Daniel Antônio (MG/SP), Daniel Jablonski (RJ), Felipe Seixas (SP), Giulia Bianchi (SP), Marcelo Oliveira (RJ), Mariana Teixeira (SP), Renan Marcondes (SP), Renato Castanhari (SP) e Sergio Pinzón (Colômbia/SP). O júri foi formado pelos curadores Jacopo Crivelli Visconti, Marta Ramos-Yzquierdo e Douglas de Freitas. O premiado foi Daniel Jablonski.

A 8ª edição do Salão (2017) selecionou os artistas Lula Ricardi (SP), Maura Grimaldi (SP), Jefferson Lourenço (MG), Marcelo Barros (SP), Gunga Guerra (Moçambique/RJ), Marcelo Pacheco (SP), Luciana Kater (SP), Cesare Pergola (Itália/SP), Juliano Moraes (GO) e Cristiani Papini (MG). O júri foi formado por Adriana Duarte (galerista capixaba da paulistana Casa da Xiclet), Paula Alzugaray (jornalista e editora da revista “Select”) e Rodrigo Editore (galerista e sócio da também paulistana galeria Casa Triângulo). O premiado foi o mineiro Jefferson Lourenço.

A 9ª edição do Salão (2018) selecionou os artistas Angela Od (RJ), Caio Pacela (SP/RJ), Renata Pelegrini (SP), Mercedes Lachmann (RJ), João GG (RS/SP), João Galera (PR/SP), David Almeida (DF/SP), Élcio Miazaki (SP), Sonia Dias (SP) e Yoko Nishio (RJ). O júri foi formado por Fernanda Resstom (Galeria Central), Nathalia Lavigne (curadora independente) e Renata Castro e Silva (Galeria Carbono). A artista premiada foi a carioca Angela Od.

A 10ª edição do Salão (2019) selecionou os artistas Adriana Amaral (SP), Aline Moreno (SP), André Souza (BA), Carol Peso (MG), Coletivo Lâmina (Gabriela De Laurentiis e João Mascaro; SP), Edu Silva (SP), Fernanda Zgouridi (PR/SP), Iago Gouvêa (MG), Stella Margarita (Uruguai/RJ) e Xikão Xikão (MG). O júri foi formado por Andrés Inocente Martín Hernández (curador e diretor do espaço Subsolo - Laboratório de Arte, em Campinas), José Armando Pereira da Silva (jornalista, escritor, pesquisador e membro da Associação Brasileira de Críticos de Arte) e Luciana Nemes (educadora, produtora e coordenadora do Museu da Energia de São Paulo). Foram premiados os artistas Stella Margarita (1º lugar), Edu Silva e André Souza, que empataram e dividiram o 2º e o 3º prêmio. A 11ª edição do Salão (2020) selecionou os artistas Adriano Escanhuela (SP), Aline Chaves (RS); Avilmar Maia (MG); Diego Castro (SP); Fernando Soares (SP); Gustavo Lourenção (SP); Myriam Glatt (RJ); Nilda Neves (BA/SP); Rafael Pajé (SP) e Rosa Hollmann (SP/RJ). O júri foi formado por Jairo Goldenberg (galerista do J. B. Goldenberg Escritório de Arte); Marlise Corsato (diretora da Galeria Kogan Amaro) e Renato De Cara (curador independente). Foram premiados os artistas Fernando Soares (1º lugar), Rosa Hollmann (2º lugar) e Myriam Glatt (3º lugar). A 12ª edição do Salão (2021) selecionou Ana Andreiolo (RJ), André Bergamin (RS), Evandro Angerami (SP), Laura Villarosa (Itália/RJ), Leonardo Luz (RJ), Marc do Nascimento (SP), Mateus Moreira (MG), Paloma Mecozzi (SP), Rafaela Foz (SP) e Thiago Fonseca (RJ/MA). O júri foi formado por Fernando Oliva (curador do MASP), Julie Dumont (curadora independente e criadora do projeto The Bridge Project) e Jurandy Valença (jornalista, curador independente, produtor cultural e poeta). Foram premiados os artistas Thiago Fonseca (RJ/MA; 1º lugar), Mateus Moreira (MG; 2º lugar) e Rafaela Foz (SP; 3º lugar).

A 13ª edição do Salão (2022) selecionou os artistas Bruno Gularte Barreto (RS), Cláudia Lyrio (RJ), Cynthia Loeb (SP), Diogo Santos (RJ), Igor Nunes (RJ), Kika Diniz (RJ), Liz Lopes (RJ), Luiza Kons (PR), Paulo Jorge Gonçalves (RJ) e Ronaldo Marques (SP). O júri foi formado pelos curadores independentes André Niemeyer, Julie Dumont e Paulo Gallina e pelo jornalista Washington Neves. Foram premiados os artistas Paulo Jorge Gonçalves (1º lugar), Luiza Kons (2º lugar) e Diogo Santos (3º lugar).

MAPA DAS ARTES

Criado em 2004 pelo jornalista Celso Fioravante, o Mapa das Artes (www.mapadasartes.com.br) é o portal de artes visuais mais completo do Brasil, com programação e serviço de museus de todos os Estados do país. O site dispõe de seções diversas, como a dedicada aos salões de arte, com datas e editais; a seção Curtas, com matérias e serviço sobre acontecimentos, eventos e assuntos de interesse do público de artes visuais; além das colunas Supernova, com notas quentes; e seções dedicadas a eventos, mercado de arte, prêmios, personalidades, política cultural, arquitetura, web, patrimônio, polêmicas, críticas e notícias diversas de artes plásticas editadas nos principais veículos jornalísticos do mundo. Sua cobertura abrangente faz do Mapa das Artes uma peça fundamental para o desenvolvimento do circuito brasileiro de arte.

📷 Imagens: https://adelantecomunicacao.tumblr.com/tagged/imagens14salao

🔗 Press-release: https://adelantecomunicacao.tumblr.com/post/702836685342425088/14%C2%BA-sal%C3%A3o-dos-artistas-sem-galeria-inaugura-mostra

SERVIÇO:

Exposição: 14º Salão dos Artistas Sem Galeria Zipper Galeria – De 19/1 a 25/2/2023 Rua Estados Unidos, 1.494, Jardins, tel. (11) 4306-4306 Segunda a sexta, 10h/19h; sábado, 11h/17h.

www.zippergaleria.com.br e @zippergaleria

Mais informações para a imprensa:

Décio Hernandez Di Giorgi Adelante Comunicação Cultural 🔗 adelantecomunicacao.tumblr.com/ 📩 [email protected] 📱 (+ 55 11) 98255 3338

📷 Imagens: https://adelantecomunicacao.tumblr.com/tagged/imagens14salao

🔗 Press-release: https://adelantecomunicacao.tumblr.com/post/702836685342425088/14%C2%BA-sal%C3%A3o-dos-artistas-sem-galeria-inaugura-mostra

#salaodosartistassemgaleria #mapadasartes #celso fioravante #arte contemporânea #zippergaleria #saopaulo #brasil

7 notes · View notes

cecilysass · 2 years

Text

The Boy on the Beach (3/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging@today-in-fic

Chapter 3: You Deserve A Break Today

The soundtrack for this chapter is Killing Me Softly, by Roberta Flack, which was #2 on the Billboard charts the summer of 1973.

Thanksgiving Day, 1973 San Diego, California

What Scully wanted to do, with all of her heart, is go downstairs and see all her family as they were in 1973. Her brothers as gangly boys, and her young, apple-cheeked mother, probably conscientiously preparing Thanksgiving dishes to share with other families on the Naval base.

Her father. Oh God, her daddy, alive and cheerful and smelling like aftershave and peppermints.

But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t appear suddenly as sleek, serious, adult late 20th century Dana, wearing her black suit and gun. This would be a certain disruption to the timeline, and it would be disturbing in every way to her family, too.

Of course, the only other option was going to be disturbing, too. Their Dana, their little 9-year old Dana, was going to disappear from their lives when Scully climbed out the window. They were not going to know what happened to her, and their lives were going to be upended.

There was nothing to do now but to push that aside. There was really no choice. She needed to get out of this house, and then she could reevaluate her options.

The bedroom was on the second floor of the house, but, assessing the situation from the window, there was a narrow extension of red-tile roof from the neighbor’s garage that she thought she could use as a halfway point in climbing down. She had a vague memory that Bill might have pulled off something like that in this house once or twice in junior high—or was it the other house on the base in San Diego? In any case, she just hoped that adult, thirtysomething Dana was as nimble as he was.

She thought about writing something to her parents before she left. But what could she write? And what would they make of her adult handwriting?

She didn’t know that much about what law enforcement was like in 1973, but she assumed they would at very least dust her bedroom for prints. They would only find her own and Melissa’s. It would be quite the puzzle.

Maybe, she thought, it would end up in an X-file, and years later, Mulder himself would investigate it: the disappearance of some girl he had never heard of around Samantha’s age, abducted out of her bedroom around the same time. She imagined Mulder looking at photos of her at age nine, red hair in pigtails, poring over her parents’ recollections, matching it up with his own memories. Maybe he would be trying to convince some other partner that the case had merit. Some other green agent, some stranger that Blevins had decided might be a hindrance to him.

And her breath caught at that. At the idea of that other history—a history of Mulder and the X-files without her at all.

But she didn’t have time for this, didn’t have the luxury of indulging these self-induced anxieties. Instead, she unhinged the latch of the window, and it opened with a creak. Somewhere, deep in the house, she could hear a boyish voice singing along raucously with a commercial on TV. “I can’t get enough of Super Sugar Crisp.” Charlie, maybe? His voice sounded so different, unchanged.

More sadness broke over her. Say a prayer for your siblings, Dana. For your parents, she told herself. For yourself as a girl. For Mulder—for her Mulder, the one who knew her, and for Mulder, the one who was a boy here, the Mulder who might not ever meet her at all.

On that melancholy thought, she stepped out the window.

Berkeley, California 12 Hours After Scully Vanishes 1999

Skinner wasn’t answering his phone anymore. Mulder had probably called him twenty times, and he had stopped answering more than an hour ago, after giving Mulder a final stern lecture about getting sleep and getting updated again in the morning.

Who are we fooling, boss?

It was about midnight, and Mulder was still in the lab, sitting with his face cupped in his hands. He didn’t anticipate sleeping that night. Come to think of it, he hadn’t slept very well the night before, either, because of… well, because of other Scully-related emotions, like guilt and regret and anger and frustration.

So this was shaping up to be Agent Mulder thinking at his absolute worst when it needed to be him thinking at his absolute best.

His brain, once his reliable ally, had been letting him down so often as of late. He ran his palm across his forehead, still able to feel the slight ridge where the incision had been made. It was healing very well, and the doctors said you would barely be able to see the scar. There was no bandage anymore. But sometimes, he could still feel a phantom pain, the ghost of an intrusive scalpel.

No work, Mulder. Closing his eyes, touching his forehead, he remembered her fingers running across his head, pushing through his hair to check the bandage.

Mulder removed his own hands from his head, unclenched his jaw. You’re a pathetic man.

Anish was still in the lab, too, eating a giant bag of Skittles absent-mindedly as he tapped away at his computer, working on what looked like a graduate school assignment. It turned Mulder’s stomach to see someone eat so much sugar so late, but he supposed that was a perk of youth.

The young man seemed to sense Mulder’s attention on him, and he looked up from his work. “Find something new?”

“No,” Mulder said sullenly.

Three printed photos lay in front of him, arranged perfectly equidistant from one another.

Three transmissions received so far from Scully’s body cam: the rag doll, and two more since.

Mulder had been looking at the photos for hours now. Taking desperate notes. He could practically recite what he had written.

Photo 1: Received at 12:37 pm, approximately seven minutes after Scully vanished. The rag doll. In a child’s bedroom, likely Scully’s in San Diego. Will confirm details with M. Scully tomorrow.

Photo 2: Received at 2:33 pm. Picture slightly blurry, but seems to be a street corner. A car—identified tentatively as a 1968 Chrysler Imperial, light in color—visible driving in background. Looks to be California plates. The front of a McDonalds’ restaurant in right of photo.

Photo 3: Received at 2:48 pm. Picture grainy / shadowy. Nothing can be identified. Camera may have been obscured by fabric. An image in the corner may be one of Scully’s fingers? Wishful thinking?

It had been about eleven hours now since a new image had come through.

Anish eyed Mulder hopefully. The young man had taken on an admiring attitude towards him since Mulder’s attack on Hays this afternoon, which suggested that Hays wasn’t a very good guy to work with. Anish held out his giant bag of candy. “Do you want some Skittles?” he said.

“I’m good, thanks,” Mulder said.

“That car seems like a good lead,” Anish said, gesturing to photo 2. “That means it can’t possibly be any earlier than 1968, right?”

“Right,” Mulder said. “But it could be years later. Because people drive cars long after the year they were produced. Even today, somebody is probably driving a 1968 Chrysler Imperial somewhere out there on the streets.”

“What about the McDonald’s storefront? You thought the design might be important,” Anish said.

“They’re using a logo introduced in the late 1960s, too,” Mulder said dully. “I can’t see much else in the photo.”

“So if she’s standing in front of a McDonald’s, she must have left her childhood home, right?” Anish said. “She must have decided to go somewhere. Do you know where she might have gone?”

Mulder shook his head. “It depends what year it is exactly, what she thinks might be possible,” he said. “I need to talk to her mom. Mrs. Scully will hopefully be able to give me some details about the picture of the bedroom—narrow down what year it could be.” He shifted uneasily. “I probably should have called Mrs. Scully today. But I... didn’t want to have this conversation unless I absolutely had to.”

The truth is, Mulder thought, I’m an idiot, and I was hoping we could magically bring Scully back. And that I would never have to call Mrs. Scully at all.

Anish nodded. “What about …” He lowered his voice, looking around the lab, as though worried he might be overheard. “Dr. Hays? Any word there?”

Mulder glumly shook his head. He would have dearly loved the assignment of interrogating Hays, of getting him to say what he knew about the time travel angle, but Skinner took over that task himself. They had been holed up in the San Francisco field office since Scully’s disappearance, apparently able to hold Hays on some kind of endangerment charge, but Skinner had not been ready to update Mulder yet.

“So Agent Scully and you … you’re partners, like on TV, like cops,” the young man said curiously. “But you two also …?” He looked like he was choosing his words carefully.

Mulder found he didn’t have the energy to be offended by Anish’s obvious implication. He just shook his head. “No,” he said, and it came out as a sigh so obviously charged with regret that he didn’t even bother to disguise it. “No.”

“Oh,” Anish said, looking a little embarrassed. “Well, you two are very close, aren’t you?”

“She’s the person I’m closest to in the whole world.”

That came out easily. It was true. It had been true for years. It would always be true, probably, no matter what. Even if she left him for good. She has left, dumbass, and it might be for good. Mulder felt his eyes welling up like a small boy’s.

Anish took a handful of Skittles, popped them into his mouth, and crunched on them, nodding. His eyes flickered first over Mulder’s work space and then over Mulder’s face.

“Why don’t you go back to your hotel and get some sleep, Agent Mulder? I’m here working late. I can call if another image comes through.”

Mulder smiled sadly at the kid. “Not gonna happen, Anish.”

“Okay, how about this? There’s a sofa in one of the break rooms down the hall,” Anish suggested. “Lots of us have napped there before. Go lie down so you’re fresh when the next one comes in.”

Mulder weighed this option more seriously. He would be better off if he slept a little.

“You’d wake me up right away if another came in?” he said. “Or if you decide to go home?”

“Of course,” Anish nodded in agreement. “It’s the grad school code. We watch out for one another when we’re on unhealthy sleep schedules.”

Mulder ran his hand down his face, noticing from the texture how long it had been since he’d shaved, too. “Ninety minutes,” he warned. “No longer.”

The kid beamed. “You got it, Agent Mulder. Let me show you where to go. There’s even a pillow there, if you don’t mind it being kind of flat. And with an old coffee smell.”

Mulder stood up, already feeling his blinks getting heavier. If Scully were here, she would tell him sleeping was the right decision. If Scully were here, she would insist on it.

He reflected on a particularly treasured memory: one time, when they were working very late in a motel room, he was particularly wired, and she lay down next to him, running her fingers through his hair, running her hand up and down his back, until he fell asleep, before returning to her own room. He fully expected to relive that memory to put himself to sleep on the grad student lounge sofa.

But just as they reached the door to the hallway, the monitor near Anish’s module began to beep again.

San Diego, California Thanksgiving Day, 1973

For a while after leaving her house, Scully just walked, constantly, without a real destination in mind.

She remembered very little about the geography of 1970s San Diego, the streets on the outskirts of the base like this, so she just circled palm tree-lined blocks somewhat aimlessly, sometimes retracing her steps, mostly trying to calm her nerves. Her legs shook, and her stomach grumbled. Sweat began to pool at the back of her neck.

She was also lost in a different way—caught in a sense of the unreal. The way people were dressed, the cars, the avocado and mustard colors of all the advertising: it was like being on a movie set, in a living memory.

Scully found her reflexes were slow, her mind lagging. It worried her. Nothing made sense.

Just blocks away from her family’s home, Scully, walking down the sidewalk, saw a young couple getting out of a large, boxy car, and she found herself stopping to study them.

The woman wore a rust-colored dress, long to the floor, with bell sleeves, and had a patterned kerchief stretched over her Afro. The man had curly dark hair, voluminous, grown over his ears. He wore plaid pants, wide leg. They carried covered dishes and a bottle of wine. The man was teasing the woman lightly about how much food her mother would have on the table.

Obviously, they were going inside to Thanksgiving dinner. Scully envied them fiercely, with an intensity that surprised her.

The couple, noticing Scully staring, gave each other a concerned look. She couldn’t imagine what her 1999 tailored black suit looked like to them. Not to mention the body cam apparatus that had slid down around her neck.

Pressing her lips together and putting her head down, she began walking again, faster, leaving them behind her.

Making her way up one residential street shaded with the twisting branches of jacaranda trees, she found herself walking in a zig-zag to avoid the cars parked everywhere. Somewhere, Scully could hear a radio playing a song she recognized, “Killing Me Softly.” It was the mellow old Roberta Flack version, not the nineties hip-hop cover more recently familiar to her.

She stopped for a moment to examine a newspaper splayed on the sidewalk, slipping out of its plastic sleeve. The San Diego Union. Nixon Attorney Confirms Gap in Watergate Tape. Scully blinked. This was real. She was really here, in 1973.

A distance ahead, she was puzzled by bare feet sticking out the rear of a parked brown pick-up truck, until she heard young voices calling out lyrics to the song. Standing on tiptoe from the sidewalk, she could just barely see a trio of teenagers reclining in the truck’s back, singing along intensely, if somewhat off-key. “Strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words…” they wailed softly, eyes closed dramatically. One girl held something lit and rolled pinched in her fingers. The faint aroma of marijuana wafted Scully’s way.

She made her way carefully around the driveway with the pick-up truck, unseen by the teens in the back. Those kids were, she realized in quiet shock, actually older than her. That thought made her queasy. She was a person out of her proper sequence.

Just a few houses down, she found the source of all the parked cars, a giant gathering in a tiny stucco house. A faint scowl on her face, Scully couldn’t seem to stop herself from pausing on the sidewalk to observe the waves of people spilling out into the yard: men with sideburns and bellies holding beers; children in earth-tone tee shirts chasing a dog with a rubber ball; middle-aged women in wide-legged pants with cigarettes hanging from their mouths. An overstuffed family Thanksgiving in mild California weather.

Scully looked it over with a sense of remove, taking in every detail. She should be the age of the children throwing the ball to the golden retriever. That should be her.

“Can I help you, honey?” called one of the women with the cigarettes, her eyes narrowing a little as she noticed Scully.

“Sorry,” Scully said. “No, I was … looking for someone.”

Feeling foolish, she walked away again, picking up her pace again. It wasn’t a good idea to play some kind of tourist, she told herself sternly. You’ve got to keep moving.

But moving where? As she walked further, she found herself becoming more anxious. She found herself looking over her shoulder, watching out for someone following her. She felt foolish about it instantly, but she couldn’t seem to turn it off.

Who exactly are you watching for? she scolded herself. Absolutely no one knows you in 1973. You have no record, no identity, no past. You, as you are now, don’t exist.

This thought made her lip begin to tremble. Longing for Mulder hit her with a sharp, sudden impact. She imagined pressing her face into his chest, resting her forehead there, breathing him in.

And that was painful, because it was neither possible nor, really, the way Mulder wanted her to need him. She blinked, and her eyes were wet.

These were not the right circumstances for Scully to operate at her best. She needed to regroup. She needed some clarity.

She found a twenty dollar bill in the pocket of her jacket. It was supposed to be to tip the cab driver in 1999 Berkeley, but Mulder had tipped him first, so her bill was still there. She studied it. The bill said “1988” on it, had the wrong Secretary of Treasury signature, and it would most likely be perceived to be a counterfeit if examined closely, but she thought she could probably use it to buy some food. It looked enough like a 1973 bill that no one would pick it up and scrutinize it.

From a distance, at a busy intersection, she could spot the golden arches that a lifetime’s worth of marketing had taught her to associate with hamburgers. She tended to try to dissuade Mulder from stopping at McDonald’s when they traveled in 1999—so greasy, and there was that thing about the chlorofluorocarbons in the styrofoam packaging that got her out of the habit of eating there in her twenties. But it seemed like it would do the trick now. She could go for fries.

As she approached the restaurant, she heard the whirring and clicking sound again from the body camera around her neck. She grabbed hold of the camera again, looking at it, puzzled. Was it only intermittently working? What was becoming of the images it was sending? The body cam, along with her conspicuous clothing, were problems she would need to solve, and soon. But first, food.

When she reached the McDonalds, the lights were off. The restaurant was empty.

Of course it was. It was Thanksgiving Day, and fast food restaurants were not open on Thanksgiving Day in 1973 as they were in 1999.

Feeling helpless, desperate, she pressed a hand to the glass on the door. There was a brown and yellow advertising poster looking down on her, bearing the image of a happy seventies family eating cheeseburgers and gazing affectionately at one another under the slogan “You Deserve A Break Today.”

I really, really fucking do.

Scully took unsteady steps backwards, sitting almost without thinking at an outdoor table, feeling the tears welling up in her eyes. She put her hands on her head, trying to hold back her sobs, but they were coming now anyway.

So unbelievably stupid. After traveling in time, after seeing her childhood bedroom, after hearing Melissa’s voice, after being in the same house with her father, it was not being able to buy fries from fucking McDonald’s that finally broke her.

She startled as the damn body camera made its whirring and clicking sound again, around her neck, worried that evidence of her little collapse had been recorded, but it hadn’t been pointed anywhere near her face. It was aimed inward, towards her clothes, and probably couldn’t see anything much at all.

Wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, she forced herself to settle down. Figure out the camera, Dana. Do something practical.

Examining the camera more closely, she could see that there was a mechanism, a button. She supposed that if you pressed the button, you took a still image, not video. That was something to remember. There seemed to be a little timer. Scully turned the camera over in her hands, looking at it for any marking or instruction. It was designed to transmit its images digitally. It seemed impossible and illogical to her that any images it would take now could be transmitted back to Hays’ lab—how would that work? How would they be received, between 1973 and 1999? That seemed absurd.

On the other hand, she felt at the margins of her knowledge here anyway, uncertain of the time travel technology at work, uncertain of whatever this was Hays had set into play. There was a Mulder-esque murkiness to all of this that meant almost anything was possible.

If there were any chance the camera could be transmitting its images back to the lab, she should probably try to communicate through this channel, at least give some indication of what happened to her. Give some idea to Mulder.

If the camera worked. If it transmitted images to 1999. If Mulder still had a partner named Dana Scully. If Dana Scully wasn’t just some long-vanished little girl from an X-file.

Placing the body cam on her lap, Scully closed her eyes, and put her hands over her face. All these contingencies were too terrifying to consider right now.

“Hey babe, you all right?”

Startled, Scully looked up, quickly putting her hands in her lap to hide the body cam. She looked around for the source of the voice: a young woman’s head, popping out of a rolled-down car window, pulled into the parking lot.

“Yes, I am,” Scully called back, sitting up straight. “Thank you.”

“You sure?” the woman said. She seemed to shift gears of her car, a battered olive green jalopy of a make Scully didn’t recognize, and she put it in park with a little jerking motion. Scully now noticed she had a friend sitting next to her in the front seat. “You look fucking sad as hell.”

“Yes, I—” Scully struggled a little to make up a lie. “I’m just lost, and I need to get somewhere, and I’m trying to figure it out. But I’ll be fine. I’m fine.” She tried to look casual and disinterested.

The woman got out of her car, and Scully could see now how young she was, no more than mid-twenties, possibly younger. She was slight, pretty, her hair very dark and long, dressed in a long fringed crochet vest and jeans.

“Pilgrim, right?” the woman said, pointing a finger at Scully with a knowing smile.

“W-what?”

“You’re a pilgrim, right? For Thanksgiving?” the girl gestured to Scully’s torso. “But you’re a man pilgrim, not a chick pilgrim, which I dig. You can wear whatever kind of costume you want.”

Scully looked down at her 1999 black suit, the pointed white collar poking out the top. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, I suppose I could look like a pilgrim.”

“She doesn’t have one of those, like, fucking hats though,” said the second girl, who also stood out of the car. “Like, with the buckles.”

“I’m not dressed as a pilgrim on purpose,” Scully said. “I just don’t have any other clothes. I—lost all my belongings. Would you all happen to know where I could … get some more clothes? Very cheap? Today? And maybe some food, too?”

The first woman didn’t answer, but gave her a funny, concerned look. “I’m Silvia,” she said. “This is Mo.”

Scully felt the urge to shake hands, but it seemed too formal for the circumstances. She managed a wan smile. “I’m Dana.”

“Dana,” Silvia said, fingering the end of her long hair, “if some asshole husband beat you up or kicked you out, you know you are not alone, right?”

“That’s right,” Mo nodded, pursing her lips. She had curly red hair, darker than Scully’s, that framed her head like a wild, frizzy halo.

Scully scowled. “That’s not exactly what happened,” she said. Her voice sounded dry and brittle as she considered the girls’ faces. “But … I am in some trouble, and I could use some help.”

Silvia and Mo looked at each other. Mo raised an eyebrow, and Silvia shrugged.

“We can’t leave a pilgrim in front of a fucking McDonald’s alone and crying on Thanksgiving,” Silvia said.

Mo threw open the car door, gestured, and Scully, grateful but trepidacious, climbed inside.

***

Silvia and Mo were twenty-four years old, roommates, and—Scully thought—possibly girlfriends. In the car, she saw Mo grab Silvia’s hand, lightly run back and forth over her knuckles with her thumb, and she wondered. It could be a friendly gesture, but it could also be the way you touch someone you love.

Truthfully, it was a gesture her own knuckles recognized. She could feel the ghost of Mulder’s thumb, brushing over her fingers, even just thinking about it, even just seeing it between two other people. On her lap, in the back seat of the car, her fingers reached out involuntarily for his.

She was, apparently, very wrong about what that kind of touch meant from Mulder. So maybe her intuition couldn’t be trusted about anyone’s relationship.

In any case, Silvia and Mo’s relationship was probably none of her business, and it seemed unlikely to come up. The potential complications for two women in a relationship could be different in 1973, even for young people who identified with the counterculture in the way that they clearly did, and she didn’t want to risk making them uncomfortable.

They lived in a ramshackle bungalow a block from the beach—“Casa Que Pasa,” Silvia said affectionately, as she pushed open the screen door. Scully thought wistfully that this housing could only be possible in the seventies, because a house in this prime location in San Diego would definitely not be affordable in 1999, no matter how decrepit the building might be. The house smelled a little funky, had wooden crates for furniture, tie-dyed sheets for curtains, and old-fashioned woven rugs on the floor. There was a mattress with a faded batik bedspread. But a breeze from the sea blew through the windows, setting some hand-made windchimes into song. You could see the appeal.

“I know you’re hungry, Dana the Pilgrim, so I’ll make you a peanut butter sandwich,” Mo assured Scully. “And I think we have some Tang.”

“Thank you,” Scully said. She didn’t even know the last time she had Tang, or if it still existed in 1999. “That sounds … perfect.”

Silvia reached into a closet and pulled out a maxi-length sundress in a bohemian print and handed it to Scully. “We’re the same size, probably. Go put it on, and if that fits, it’s yours.”

Scully, taking in the modest furnishings and limited belongings in the house, felt guilty taking their food and clothes, but she also knew her options were limited. And the generous cut of a maxi sundress would be good at disguising what she needed to: a body cam, plus her gun in its holster, strapped flush to her.

But as she began to undress in the bathroom, she found her conscience would not leave her alone. Scully knew the two women did not quite believe her when she said she had not been kicked out of the house by a boyfriend or husband, and she had let this fiction hang in the air, as it seemed preferable to trying to make up another lie. The looks on their faces, their serious, compassionate expressions, she suspected one—or maybe both—of the pair had some experience with domestic violence themselves. Their sympathy was hard won.

That’s a terrible thing to exploit, thought Scully, pulling the sundress over her head.

She regarded herself in the cracked mirror in Casa Que Pasa’s bathroom. The sundress had cap sleeves, a high laced waist, a light purple bohemian pattern, and was loose, flowing in tiers all the way to the floor. Under the folds of the dress, her weapon was completely obscured, as was the bodycam she had strapped on to her holster.

Scully swallowed. She looked believably like she belonged to the year 1973, although her hair still stood out. With both hands, she fluffed her hair aggressively, trying to get it to fall differently, to part down the middle, maybe. But she suspected it was just too short and cut wrong. Her efforts mostly just left it looking messy.

She tilted her head to the side, noticing other flaws. Her eyes were wide, slightly bloodshot. Her face was pale. She looked older, weary, less energetic and youthful than Silvia and Mo, even though they were actually, literally, chronologically, fifteen years older than her.

She sighed.

Then she noticed the problem of her bra. The champagne-colored straps of the bra peeked out the edges of the neckline of the sundress, as well as the top of the cups. The bra had a sleek late nineties lift-and-compress technology that didn’t seem very seventies-friendly, and she suspected the most authentic look for the time period and the outfit was just to lose the bra altogether. She reached into the dress and unclasped the back, wriggling it off and threading it out the sleeve, rolling her eyes a little as she did. She hated not wearing a bra in public.

In fact, bohemian was never her preferred look. Looking at herself in the mirror—the dress, the bralessness, the lack of makeup—she thought she probably looked more like Melissa than she ever could remember. Maybe like Melissa in her mid-twenties, in her Jerry Garcia phase, when she always smelled like pot and patchouli.

“You okay in there, Pilgrim?” called Silvia.

“Yeah,” called Scully, hastily wrapping her bra up into a little pile with her black suit and shirt. “Coming out.”

She stepped out of the bathroom self-consciously smoothing down the dress, but Silvia clapped her hands together. “Oh shit, you’re not a pilgrim any more. It fits you perfectly,” she said. “Fits you better, actually.”

“I’m really grateful,” Scully said, her brow furrowing. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Stop thanking us,” Silvia said. “We want to help you out, man. ‘Tis the season.”

Mo had a sandwich and potato chips on an aluminum plate, and Scully, with shaky hands, accepted the plate and the cup of Tang, sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor to eat it. She could have wept to see the food. But as she was biting into her sandwich, she looked up to meet Silvia’s eyes.

“Listen,” she said, swallowing her bite. “I need you to know that I’m not … I wasn’t beat up or kicked out of my house. That’s not what happened to me. I just don’t want to mislead you two, when you’ve been so kind to me.”

Silvia exchanged glances with Mo, who was lying on the mattress, eating potato chips from the bag. “All right,” she said. “If you say so. But something fucking bad happened to you.”

Scully nodded. “Yeah,” she said, and she was surprised by how shaky, how small her voice sounded. “That’s true enough. Something bad did happen.”

“But you can’t talk about it?”

“Probably not,” Scully said wearily. “No.”

Mo studied her face. “Okay. So now what?”

Scully scowled. “Now what? What do you mean?”

“What’s next for you? What’s your mission? What do you need to do to be okay again?”

Scully swallowed another bite of her sandwich, staring at it. She was silent for a moment. She looked up at Mo again, and she noticed that Silvia was leaning back against the mattress now, resting her head against Mo’s torso casually. Scully felt a warm tingling in the back of her own head, the insistent press of a physical memory, of resting against someone’s shoulder.

For the first time since she had arrived in 1973, she found herself able to have a clear, unambiguous thought. She took a breath. Put her sandwich down.

“I think I …. need to go out of town,” she said slowly. “To fix things, I need to find someone.”

Silvia and Mo again looked at each other. “Well,” Silvia said, slowly. “If you need to go somewhere, then today really is your lucky day.”

Sources:

"You Deserve A Break Today," 1973

#xfiles fanfic #the x files #x files fanfic

24 notes · View notes