#filemot

[kbaclips]

The Professor - New 2023 Movie Trailer 2023

[bestworstcase]

Does/Will tdt Cinder practice Khime?

no. although hellebore’s crossing itself is a very mixed community—like a third or so of its full-time population are fauni, many of whom practice khimerism—so cinder is a lot more familiar with what khimancy is than the average human. (one of the people in her contact list in burnt roses ch1 is a turnskin.) which isn’t to say she knows very much in detail, ’cause it’s a closed tradition, but she could define it accurately.

this is also why she recognizes the white fang safety mark on roin’s truck in ch5, since sable rescued her from the glass unicorn situation she’s grown up in an environment where it’s safe for fauni and specifically khimeric culture to just exist openly around their human neighbors. which translates into knowing how to signal that she’s a Safe Person.

lonán is a practicing khimancer (albeit one with no formal training); roscoe march and raymond altansarnai are as well (both formally trained); rue has khime for religious rite-of-passage reason, but she’s secular and not really interested in pursuing the art itself. the other fauni students in the spring class (bella marshal, garth saille, scar tybalt) don’t have khime. roscoe is REALLY GOOD bc he learned from his mom, who’s a turnskin.

cinder’s religious Situation is smth called strigism by like. religious scholars. it doesn’t have a name though, the people who practice it just refer to it as ‘our way’ or similar turns of phrase—it originated in the vitrine peninsula (where hellebore’s crossing is) and is more or less only practiced there.

and then oak is a kairoist—which is the dominant religion in anima, although a plurality of mistral’s urban population are draconites in some form, kairoism is Much Older (as in, predates ozma’s first reincarnation by a couple thousand years). [pyrrha is not in burnt roses because she is eleven but kairoism is conceptually just an elaborate riff on the mantra she uses to unlock jaune’s aura in canon, to give a sense of the vibe]

gretchen’s religion is folk draconism (<- the brother-cult) pejoratively called sanctimony by normative draconites because it is WILDLY HERETICAL and revolves around worship of various ‘saints,’ largely regional folk heroes syncretized into draconism as sacred heroes who inherited or otherwise obtained slivers of divine power after the dragon-brothers, who became mortal through the act of creating the world, died. (WILDLY. HERETICAL.) (fretting abt folk draconism keeps ozpin up at night.)

larkspur and rani both grew up reform draconites (<- aka the lucent church. reforms happened under king osiander and mainly involved imposing a separation between the valean aristocracy and the church and pushing a much greater theological emphasis on peace and inclusion. this got him briefly excommunicated but proved so popular with the common people that the church had to walk that back to save face. orthodox draconism is the radiant church. the vermeils were the only noble family to support the reforms and that was partly a political move to empower themselves over rivals and partly because the winter maiden at the time was a vermeil.)

filemot is an indifferent madagian (<- worship of the four maidens) which means he attends services on the equinoxes and solstices and that’s basically it.

and sacnicte practices ixtuan ancestor worship, which is very funny for her for reasons that we’ll get to Later. :)

[yayforocs]

also did a couple more icon requests in the splatrp server!

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Ace of Spades

This cover art was drawn by @corpsecro​ !

Chapter 5- The Woman in Yellow

The dawn’s watery light woke him. He never could accomplish the art of sleeping through a morning. When the sun rose, so did Kaz. No matter when he’d managed to drift into unconsciousness the night before.

Last night, sleep had come to him finally at nearly two bells, though this had not been his fault.

The fault lay with a certain sharpshooter, who was now draped over the settee in the corner of the room—long gangly limbs splayed across the grey velvet cushions, arms spilling over the sides, filemot fingers grazing the floor.

Jesper looked at peace, listless even. He drooled onto the rolled arm of the settee, snoring quietly. Kaz didn’t think he’d ever seen Jesper that still.

So he dressed quietly, so as not to wake his friend.

Jesper had burst through the doors of Kaz’s rooms in the Slat at five past twelve bells, a veritable legless lord, spewing some nonsense about “burdens” and “boredom” and “tea sets”.

For all his slurred rambling, Kaz had quickly pieced together that whatever Jesper was upset about, it had something to do with Wylan.

Kaz, however, was completely unequipped to deal with the emotional trials of his friend. Or anyone for that matter. So he’d set aside the papers he’d been perusing, and examined Jesper with a careful look.

The man’s eyes were rimmed with red. His crimson velvet jacket was rumpled, shirt untucked, bowtie askew. He smelled like spiced rum and cigar smoke. And piss. 

Kaz was not the praying type; but if there was anything to make him reconsider that shortcoming of his personality, it was that final pungent smell. He hoped with wild abandon that it was just the lingering results of going for a long walk in the Barrel at this time of night and not a consequence of Jesper’s inebriation.

“What business, Jes?” Kaz had said at last, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He was new to the occupation of friendship. He was also dreadful at it, he’d quickly found.

“I don’t have any business, Kaz,” Jesper had garbled, making his way to the sofa where he plunked himself down with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s why I’m here. I want a job.”

“You have a job,” Kaz pointed out. “You work for me at the Crow Club. With the Dregs.”

Jesper had scowled petulantly. “Not that kind of job. Nothing happens at the Club. The Dregs have been sitting pretty for weeks.”

This, Kaz had thought, was too true. He’d thought the same himself just two nights prior.

Before a certain pirate had showed up and changed all that.

But he wouldn’t let himself hope that Jesper was in want of the kind of job that Inej could give him—on their crew, which would set sail on a quest to find lost treasure in just a few days’ time.

“What kind of job would you like, then?” Kaz had asked warily.

“Just… a job. Any job.” Jesper dragged a hand over his face. “Something that will keep me busy.”

“Does the Club not keep you busy?”

“The Club is what got me into this mess.”

“What mess, Jesper?”

“Stupid Club. Stupid tables. Stupid stupid.” This was the only response Jesper had given, clearly too distraught and intoxicated to explain further.

But stupid, Kaz was not.

The tables. Jesper had been at the tables again.

Once an old haunt for his friend, gambling had quickly turned from bad habit to costly compulsion. Kaz had thought Jesper had kicked it. After the Ice Court heist, he thought his friend was straight as arrows in the only way Jesper could be.

But apparently, Kaz had been wrong.

He should be furious. He should make Jesper work overtime on door duty, or as a lookout for the Dregs. Kaz knew the restless sharpshooter would hate either task.

Better yet, he should tell Jesper to take a leave of absence for a few weeks to sort himself out. This brand of discipline would surely save the Club from any repercussions.

But Kaz knew neither punishing Jesper nor forcing him into isolation would solve matters. In fact, it was rather like placing a dirty rag over a knife wound; it would surely stop the mess from spreading, but infection might seize hold and only make everything worse.

Loathe as Kaz was to admit it, he couldn’t help but feel some sense of responsibility for Jesper’s most recent slip.

It was his Club. Kaz was the one who put Jesper on the floor thinking he could handle himself. And he hadn’t even noticed Jesper’s struggles.

He’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself, drinking whiskey from a teacup.

Guilt, he’d decided, was a strange feeling. He’d reveled in it, let it gnaw at him, for all of five seconds before turning to Jesper.

“Lucky for you,” he’d said evenly, “I may have just the thing.”

Jesper listened intently as Kaz described Inej’s plan to hunt down a treasure lost to time. The sharpshooter had immediately agreed to be part of their crew, and promptly passed out on Kaz’s sofa.

Now, dressed for the day, Kaz slipped out of his rooms at six and a quarter bells, leaving his friend to rest.

There was work to be done.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

The streets of Ketterdam blinked bleary-eyed at Kaz as he emerged from the Slat. The city was just stumbling out of its slumber.

He was already halfway up the East Stave when the sun finally peaked over the skyline, gilding the buildings of the Barrel in the only gold it had ever known.

Kaz hadn’t bothered to leave Jesper a note for three reasons.

The first was that he was sure Jesper knew of their limited time to sort out any loose-ended affairs. He’d know Kaz would likely be preparing for their imminent departure, so taking the time to write a note had seemed, to Kaz, the worst kind of redundancy.

The second reason was that Kaz would likely be back in the Slat before Jesper opened even one tired eye. He was quite confident in his friend’s ability to sleep through a shootout on the gabled roofs of their street if he put his mind to it.

The final reason was that Kaz simply forgot.

Notes were a thing people wrote when they cared about each other. To let each other know they were well, or where they’d gone off to so early in the morning.

Kaz cared for so few people, the thought had hardly crossed his mind until he was deep into the maze of streets.

Clack, step. Clack, step.

The sound of his cane clacking against cobblestone was a bolstering one. It was a sound of ordering thoughts, a steady second heartbeat by which he walked.

Clack, step. Clack, step.

He’d written Inej notes, Kaz thought errantly. Though they were more letters than notes. Inej and Kaz had indeed exchanged a string of letters during her time away.

Every time a small purple envelope made its way to his desk, Kaz had felt about ready to either jump from his own skin or vomit all over the floor. Neither were pleasant sensations, but he endured them all the same.

They were both, however, very much like the feelings he’d had when she’d showed up unannounced in his bathroom two nights ago.

They’d decided on five things during their very serious business meeting:

They needed an Inside Man. Someone who was knowledgeable about secret societies—particularly The Founders and their lost Iron Debt—who could help fill in the gaps of their own knowledge.

They needed someone who could create a distraction on a moment’s notice.

They needed someone who could disguise themselves as an expert inventor.

They needed verifiable leads on where to find the treasure, or a map of some kind if there was such a thing.

They needed a place for their crew to meet in secret to plan and review their schemes over the next few days without risk of being overheard.

Kaz had just the place for the last item on the list.

It was a small secret of Ketterdam, tucked away in the abandoned shipyard off Fifth Harbor. He’d found it some months ago when he’d been in desperate need of refuge, a quiet place he could come and hear his own thoughts without being sought out by every other person who passed him by.

He was headed there now, to make sure it was still as abandoned as when he’d last used it three weeks ago—and that the Tidemakers were still keeping up their end of the deal he’d made with them to keep the place dry.

Clack, step. Clack, step.

He was cutting through a deserted alleyway about a five-minute walk from his destination when he heard the snick of a knife.

Kaz stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh, I’d strongly advise against that,” he said, in the menacing kind of quiet that usually sent pickpockets running.

Indeed, a scuffle of boots sounded from behind him.

But then, to Kaz’s utter surprise, an unyielding blade pressed at his back. A strong hand gripped his upper arm.

“I don’t need your advice,” a low lilting female voice said in his ear. “I have you at knifepoint.”

Kaz would’ve rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so impressed with the woman’s confidence. Or perhaps it was sheer audacity.

He was Bastard of the Barrel, after all.

In one swift motion, he whirled out of the woman’s grasp, facing her with pistol in hand.

“Yes, and I have you at gunpoint,” he said. “Shall we call it a draw, or start placing bets on which one of us will make it out alive?”

Kaz met the woman’s eyes, which were just as sharp as the dagger she held.

She was surprisingly short, but it became apparent to Kaz at once that height was the only lacking thing about her.

A commotion of untamed curls rioted from her head like black flames licking the sky. The blade still wielded steadily before her, she held a warrior’s stance as firmly and demanding as her gaze.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” she said in a voice like honed steel.

Kaz examined her closer.

There was colour in her cattail cheeks, and she filled out the yellow tailored tunic she wore. Two rings, turned toward the inside of her hands so as not to attract unwanted attention, glinted on her fingers. One, a silver octopus curling its tentacles around her knuckle; the other, an emerald-encrusted spade.

“No,” he said, finally. “I suppose you’re not. And it won’t be money either, I reckon.”

The woman blinked, the first breach of her bravado. “H-how could you know that?”

“Intuition.” Kaz shrugged. “Experience. I know what hungry and desperate looks like. You’re definitely not that. Not for food, at least. But I wonder… What made you track me down? Accosting Barrel Bosses in dark alleyways is very risky business, you know.”

“Don’t patronize me,” the woman snarled. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Oh, fantastic,” he said. “So you’ll tell me what it is you want from me, I’ll most likely tell you no, and we can both be on our merry ways unscathed.”

A breeze ruffled the woman’s hair, as she said quietly, “You haven’t even heard what it is I want.”

“You’re not trying to kill me, you’re not looking for money or a job,” Kaz said. “Which means you’re looking for something. Or someone. You thought you’d come to me because I am Kaz Brekker, Bastard of the Barrel. I know and see all in this town. But let me tell you this: the only reason I know and see all is that I either gather the information myself or hire people to do it for me.

“Well kept secrets are invaluable to my job, and I do not trade them for something so temporary as money. Nor do I hand them over willingly to people who threaten me with a blade. So go ahead and ask. Unless you have something equally as valuable to offer in return, I know what my answer will be.”

For a moment, the woman said nothing. She stared and stared at Kaz, head cocked slightly to the side, assessing her options.

He had to admit, the weight of her stare made him feel the closest to squirming he’d ever been—apart from every time Inej even glanced his way, of course.

It was unnerving. The woman looked at him like she could see right through him. Like she could read him and had determined that he was nothing.

“You think this some kind of a whim,” she said, at last, grip tightening around the hilt of her blade. “You think me in over my head. That I am too ambitious, too naive to realize what a risk cornering you would be. You underestimate me, Mr. Brekker.”

Kaz considered her once more. Considered that he was holding a long-range weapon against her, a weapon which could kill her before she moved even one step—and she, with only a switchblade to defend herself, was unflinching.

“That may very well be,” he muttered, holstering his gun and removing his pocket watch from the lining of his coat. “Alright, then. I’m willing to hear you for three minutes and not a second more. So prove me wrong.”

The woman nodded once. Squaring her shoulders, she began, “I will tell you, Mr. Brekker, that I am nothing if not thorough. And I have done my homework on you. People like me, you see. I know you’re not all too familiar with that notion, but let me explain it to you. People like me because they trust me. Something about my face, I think. And because people trust me, when I am nice to them, they tell me things. No one thinks twice when a girl starts asking questions. Because what harm could possibly come from a girl?”

Kaz smirked. “In my experience, a fair amount.”

“You’d be the first of many to think so.”

“That’s because I’m not stupid, as most people are.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “You have two minutes.”

“In the weeks since I first started studying you,” the woman continued, “I have learned many things. Including that you and Inej Ghafa plan to leave Ketterdam from 5th Harbor onboard The Wraith at noon in three day’s time in search of the Iron Debt.”

Kaz stilled.

They’d barely told anyone of their plans. Inej had yet to even tell her crew. How had this woman become privy to such closely held information? Worse still, how had this woman been tracking him for what she claimed to be weeks without his knowledge?

Kaz didn’t like it one bit.

“Is that so?” he asked, keeping a careful mask of calm.

“Yes,” she said. “I have also learned that you’ve not had very much success in the way of leads. I feel I can help you with that.”

“Well,” Kaz said, loosing a chuckle, “I’ll hand it to you. Your knowledge regarding our plans is closer to accurate than most would be able to dig up. Right treasure. Right day. Right time. But your location is off.”

The woman shrugged as if being wrong about one part did not bother her in the slightest.

Or perhaps as if she might believe her tip more than she believed him.

Kaz regarded her warily. “What leads do you have to barter?”

“Oh, I have many leads, Mr. Brekker,” she crooned. “I’ll give you the first one as collateral. The rest will come later. To ensure you keep your end of the bargain.”

No one works for free, Kaz. He frowned as he remembered Inej’s words from the other night. “Your asking price?”

“I seek voyage across the seas,” the woman said. “And vengeance on someone who is very hard to find.”

The corners of Kaz’s mouth tilted into the start of a grin. “I feel we’ll be able to help you with at least one, if not both of those things.” Then, he paused. “It begs the question, however—how am I to trust the accuracy of your leads?”

“You don’t trust me, Mr. Brekker?”

“You held me at knifepoint by way of greeting,” he reminded her. “I’m fairly certain that’s not usually conducive to gaining another’s trust.”

“No?” The woman cocked her head suggestively. “I’d rather begun to think you trust knife-wielding women most of all.”

He gritted his teeth, shoving hard against the thought that this stranger knew anything of his personal life, his long and tangled history with Inej.

Kaz suddenly wished he had not been so quick to holster his gun.

But the woman merely gave him a sympathetic look, her mouth pressing into a closed-lipped smile.

“You can trust my leads, Mr. Brekker,” she barreled on, “For two reasons. The first being that you have things I want. If my insight leads you astray, you would be free from your end of the deal.”

“Meaning,” Kaz said, examining his nails. “You’d be walking the plank.”

“Walk the plank,” she said, “Tie me up and dump me over the side. Feed me to the Kelpies, for all I care.”

Kaz bit back a smile.

If anything, the woman was proving to be the most self-assured person he’d ever met. For Kaz knew he would not hesitate to leave her in The Wraith’s wake with nothing but a dingy and her dagger.

Somehow, he knew she was probably aware of this sentiment.

“And the second reason?” he asked.

“My leads are never wrong.”

“How can you be so sure?”

The grin the woman gave him then was barbed and wicked. “I can smell lies on men as if they are a perfume.”

He furrowed his brows.

“For instance,” she said, waving a hand toward him, “Not a moment ago, you lied to me. You said I got the location of your departure wrong, but I am never wrong Mr. Brekker. You were planning to leave from 5th Harbor. Whether your bluff was to throw me off or a real consideration for a change of plans is unbeknownst to me. But I do know that you were not telling the truth.”

“You’re a Grisha,” he breathed after a moment.

But even as he said it, Kaz himself could not think of any known Grisha order that could do what she had just described.

As if sensing his confusion, the woman shook her head.

“Related,” she said, “But not Grisha. Mine is a magic more ancient than the Small Science.”

More ancient than the Grishas? Kaz had never heard of such a thing.

Either way, if what this woman was saying was true, she could be useful in more ways than one on their crew. And Ghezen knew they needed more hands on deck.

“The Crow Club,” Kaz said. “Do you know where it is?”

She nodded.

“Be at the back door at half ten bells tonight,” he instructed her. “You may have one weapon of your choice on your person for your own self-defence. Tell no one. Bring no one. We will know if you do. From there, my associate and I will escort you to a second location. Our crew’s meeting spot. You’ll give us your collateral there. If it is accurate, we will offer you voyage to wherever it is you desire to go. Information you seek will be given to you steadily with every accurate lead you give us in turn.”

The woman stuck out her hand between them. “You have yourself a deal, Mr. Brekker.” She grinned.

Kaz gripped her hand with his leather-clad one. “Call me Kaz.”

“Alright, then.” Turning on her heel, the woman said without looking back, “See you at half ten bells, Kaz.”

He nodded. She was halfway down the deserted alley when Kaz called after her, “Who are you?”

The woman paused and turned her head slightly, the profile of her face half-obscured by a riotous black plume of curls.

“I am The Lilia,” she said over her shoulder. And with that, she slid into the slanted shadows of early morning.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

AN: The plot thickens. Thanks so much for reading! Hope you all enjoyed a little OC action. We’ve really only skimmed the surface of The Lilia in this chapter, and I’m so excited for you all to get to know her. 

If you enjoyed this, make sure to reblog and/or comment on this post! I work so hard on each and every chapter to make it a pleasurable fic reading experience for you all, and your reblogs and comments absolutely contribute to my motivation to keep writing (likes are appreciated, too, but hold less weight in the cauldron of external validation from which I draw my writerly energies).

If you want to be kept updated on future chapters, shoot me a message/ask and I’ll add you to the tag list! 🖤💫 

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[olivewinterleaf]

STILL LIFE WITH PEARS ON AN UNSTABLE TABLE

In the period between the mid-afternoon up until the early evening, an exhibition of Frederick Filemot's paintings described him as a newly discovered artist, whose talent had been spotted while he was working in a warehouse.

The paintings had been found by an art dealer when entering the box-flattening area by mistake. He found a number of very good paintings in the modern style. The pieces were a kind of ironic cerealism.

The private view of the exhibition of these paintings was held in a large bathroom in Luton. It was transformed into a studio space that evoked a bohemian artist's atelier (with bath). The centrepiece of the installation was a three-legged table fashioned from pine, discovered in a cellar. This was spattered with paint and carefully arranged pears. Frederick Filemot's work is mainly of the cereal type, seemingly a derivative mixture of Braque and De Chirico, while giving a passing nod to Picasso's way with cubes.

Mr Filemot entered the exhibition upon a tricycle, an aloof figure in a suit and bowler hat, with a tiny moustache and a monocle (on the hat). In one hand, he held a copper pipe, in the other a frappuccino, through which he puffed and sipped respectively, as he grumbled about the colour of the walls and the lack of display space due to excessive tiling.

Exhibition guests received a pamphlet: 'Filemot Explained', which declared that Filemot was 'the first signal of the movement towards the creation of pure form'.

The works having been painted on cork bath mats, were much admired by art connoisseurs. The paintings reconciled the visual appearance of form with his own intuitional perception of it. He creates it. Through the experienced eye, he can see at a glance the meaning of a subject in his mind.

As Mr Filemot explained: "On a predawn of a mid-afternoon, while in a bed, I woke from a deep sleep with a strange phrase rattling around my head: why do tables have four legs, why not five or three? I thought to myself, before slipping back into unconsciousness, wondering dimly whether the words expressed a meaningful conundrum, or whether they were just rubbish wonderings dimly weathering in the predawn of a mid-afternoon.

"The next day, I was surprised to hear the same words muttered by a man sat at a plinth at the front of a double-decker bus. Though the man's version reversion reversed the five and three, it left me pondering once more.

"Days later, I recalled the coincidence vividly enough to recount it to a friend. Had a force more powerful than random chance actually transmitted my sleeping thought to the omnibus plinth sitter?

"The coincidence that these reminiscences may be amusing, increased. Dreams so often feel stupid and stupid at the same time. They hold the promise of revelation if only one could identify a place, face or name. Like the words on a wet newspaper that dissolve just before their meaning registers, dream interpretation is almost as slippery as the dreams.

"The amusement I felt about the incident was mixed with the amusement I felt about my brain, with a genuine conviction that the plinth sitter received my thought telepathically during a state of unconsciousness. I thought my thoughts might be invisible vibrations, waves of electricity or magnetism acting upon other's brains. If these waves did not respect boundaries, they might communicate from my mind to another, some dangerous idea that could spread uncontrollably, proving difficult to regulate, except by the wearing of a tin foil-lined bowler hat.

"Then I realised that it was likely that I was asking to be compared to a paranoid asylum patient, and so I decided to paint a series of pears atop a variety of tabular versions. Pears being a yellowish-greenish edible fruit that is typically narrow at the stalk and wider toward the bottom, with sweet, slightly gritty flesh. This was imperative."

Unfortunately, on the last day of the exhibition, a visitor tripped over his shoelaces, staggering forwards onto the toilet and falling into the bath, but not before putting his elbow through several pears.

Twelve minutes afterwards, Frederick Filemot was inspired to create his world-renowned masterpiece - The Life of a Gargantuan Polyhedron - a set of printed images, consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.

Twelve minutes after it was published, he suddenly became famous.

The slim volume, with the exception of a short preface by Filemot himself, consists entirely of images - 100 prints depicting a series of frantically bizarre geometric figures, reminiscent of some of the more inventive and twisted creations of George Antiprism or Alexander Ditrigonal.

Mr Filemot explained: "It was as though I had witnessed an inverted snub dodecadodecahedron fighting with a great truncated icosidodecahedron, and I could hardly tell them apart. I was compelled to record their movements in a series of prints that I hope can convey the sense of tripping over your shoelaces, staggering forwards onto a toilet, putting an elbow through several pears and falling into a bath - a metaphor for life in general, I think."

my books

[iscabird]

I just crit-caught my very first wild shiny

it's a Gumshoos

[light-bright-stars]

Can you do the names Camille and/or Dawn

CamilleAn ethereal, glowing AureolinA pool in the centre of the forest, silent as still as a mirror, reflecting the subtle yellow glow of the lightning bugs hidden in the cattails. High cheekbones, almost elven, and slender fingers that interlace and interlock, creating a sharp steeple. Someone who is secretive, quiet, who takes a while to warm to people. Watching shadows disappear into the trees. A mysterious person.

DawnA leafy filemotCrunchy autumn leaves, brown and rust and bronze that crisply crumble underneath your boots. Getting a dab of cream on the top of your nose while drinking a frappe. Someone who longs for what they already have, who loves their bed and the smell of freshly baked cookies and the soft ears of a Labrador puppy. Yellow socks folded over the tops of brown boots and freckles dusted over shoulders.

[galashawls]

Белая вязаная ажурная шаль 

[anadromeo]

Tweeted:

Lux played today's #3 #RarestWord: FILEMOTS for 156pts, def'n at https://t.co/piv5oZkgwo #game #scrabble #playmath pic.twitter.com/GKQYmxEQoV

— Anadrome (@anadromeo) July 3, 2019

via https://twitter.com/anadromeo July 03, 2019 at 09:09AM

[orguoruyorumm]

Filemot Şal Yapımı

[olivewinterleaf]

STILL LIFE WITH PEARS ON AN UNSTABLE TABLE

In the period between the mid-afternoon up until the early evening, an exhibition of Frederick Filemot’s paintings described him as a newly discovered artist, whose talent had been spotted while he was working in a warehouse.

The paintings had been found by an art dealer when entering the box-flattening area by mistake. He found a number of very good paintings in the modern style. The pieces were a kind of ironic cerealism.

The private view of the exhibition of these paintings was held in a large bathroom in Luton. It was transformed into a studio space that evoked a bohemian artist’s atelier (with bath). The centrepiece of the installation was a three-legged table fashioned from pine, discovered in a cellar. This was spattered with paint and carefully arranged pears. Frederick Filemot’s work is mainly of the cereal type, seemingly a derivative mixture of Braque and De Chirico, while giving a passing nod to Picasso’s way with cubes.

Mr Filemot entered the exhibition upon a tricycle, an aloof figure in a suit and bowler hat, with a tiny moustache and a monocle (on the hat). In one hand, he held a copper pipe, in the other a frappuccino, through which he puffed and sipped respectively, as he grumbled about the colour of the walls and the lack of display space due to excessive tiling.

Exhibition guests received a pamphlet: ‘Filemot Explained’, which declared that Filemot was 'the first signal of the movement towards the creation of pure form’.

The works having been painted on cork bath mats, were much admired by art connoisseurs. The paintings reconciled the visual appearance of form with his own intuitional perception of it. He creates it. Through the experienced eye, he can see at a glance the meaning of a subject in his mind.

As Mr Filemot explained: “On a predawn of a mid-afternoon, while in a bed, I woke from a deep sleep with a strange phrase rattling around my head: why do tables have four legs, why not five or three? I thought to myself, before slipping back into unconsciousness, wondering dimly whether the words expressed a meaningful conundrum, or whether they were just rubbish wonderings dimly weathering in the predawn of a mid-afternoon.

“The next day, I was surprised to hear the same words muttered by a man sat at a plinth at the front of a double-decker bus. Though the man’s version reversion reversed the five and three, it left me pondering once more.

"Days later, I recalled the coincidence vividly enough to recount it to a friend. Had a force more powerful than random chance actually transmitted my sleeping thought to the omnibus plinth sitter?

"The coincidence that these reminiscences may be amusing, increased. Dreams so often feel stupid and stupid at the same time. They hold the promise of revelation if only one could identify a place, face or name. Like the words on a wet newspaper that dissolve just before their meaning registers, dream interpretation is almost as slippery as the dreams.

"The amusement I felt about the incident was mixed with the amusement I felt about my brain, with a genuine conviction that the plinth sitter received my thought telepathically during a state of unconsciousness. I thought my thoughts might be invisible vibrations, waves of electricity or magnetism acting upon other’s brains. If these waves did not respect boundaries, they might communicate from my mind to another, some dangerous idea that could spread uncontrollably, proving difficult to regulate, except by the wearing of a tin foil-lined bowler hat.

"Then I realised that it was likely that I was asking to be compared to a paranoid asylum patient, and so I decided to paint a series of pears atop a variety of tabular versions. Pears being a yellowish-greenish edible fruit that is typically narrow at the stalk and wider toward the bottom, with sweet, slightly gritty flesh. This was imperative.”

Unfortunately, on the last day of the exhibition, a visitor tripped over his shoelaces, staggering forwards onto the toilet and falling into the bath, but not before putting his elbow through several pears.

Twelve minutes afterwards, Frederick Filemot was inspired to create his world-renowned masterpiece - The Life of a Gargantuan Polyhedron - a set of printed images, consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.

Twelve minutes after it was published, he suddenly became famous.

The slim volume, with the exception of a short preface by Filemot himself, consists entirely of images - 100 prints depicting a series of frantically bizarre geometric figures, reminiscent of some of the more inventive and twisted creations of George Antiprism or Alexander Ditrigonal.

Mr Filemot explained: “It was as though I had witnessed an inverted snub dodecadodecahedron fighting with a great truncated icosidodecahedron, and I could hardly tell them apart. I was compelled to record their movements in a series of prints that I hope can convey the sense of tripping over your shoelaces, staggering forwards onto a toilet, putting an elbow through several pears and falling into a bath - a metaphor for life in general, I think.”

my books

[galashawls]

Белая вязаная шаль 

[anadromeo]

Tweeted

Lux played today's #3 #RarestWord: FILEMOTS for 156pts, def'n at https://t.co/piv5oZkgwo #game #scrabble #playmath pic.twitter.com/GKQYmxEQoV

— Anadrome (@anadromeo) July 3, 2019

[bruciovento65]

filemot - photo 2014 - alfio catania