#george is buff

[palatablepain]

Skull is Lucy's inner wild child whom she now is indulging after years of repression. She ties it to a swing at the park and pushes it and does underdogs while the neighbor kids look on in scared bewilderment. She insists that when they go to the archives, Skull must come along to comment on the books they're reading -- and as thank-you, George must pull him home in the little red wagon, racing the last block with whoever is carrying the books and half-day-old donuts. Lockwood gives it piggy-back rides. And all this time, the Skull is enjoying the sadistic element of the game more than the actual motion. In fact, he could possibly hate it (after all, it's kind of like George's experiments), but the fact that Lucy now is here and can talk to him and inflict her power on the other two really speaks to his need to be spoiled rotten. Queu The Cure's music and @doodlingraka 's doodle of Skull saying, "Kill them first, ask questions later," and Lucy, tight-lipped and wearing the kind of heart-shaped sunglasses I had as a six-year-old -- mine even had two lenses, and you could flip the top ones up), declares, "As he says."

At some point, Lockwood points out that Skull must be tired from his "big day" and gets Lucy to put him to "bed" -- i.e. she "Tweety-birds" him per "I Keep Hitting Repeat-peat-peat" on AO3-- and the "adults" get out a bottle of wine to enjoy homemade Italian by Lockwood (not pizza: spaghetti with red sauce) on the veranda. As this is "date night," they assume that George, the weird uncle, is going out to relieve stress -- lift weights at the gym, for example, which George does with all the scientific accuracy of a bodybuilder, having read books about it, and he is now ripped enough that he can accompany Flo in confronting relic men. When they get back in the kitchen, though, they find that George has maniacally set up the Skull's train-track birthday present with two options at the crossover: fall off the counter into the basin in the sink full of soapy water, or a precipitous, cliff-like descent into the wastebasket. George says that they can tie a rope around the Skull's basket and tie it to one of the cupboard handles so that with the second option, he can dangle like a rock-climber off a cliff, or like the Greek god who brought fire to humans and then was punished by being tied to a mountain and having his liver ripped out by birds every day.

P.S. The action figures that represent Lockwood and George are Lego Anakin and Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Skull requests that his birthday cake be a ganache-filled chocolate volcano cake. Except in this version, both Anakin and Obi-Wan are in the lava river of orange and red frosting that's flowing out of the top.

P.P.S. Skull is a rabid Star Wars fan. Why did you ask? He watches them over and over, especially while the others are busy and he's bored. (Television is his favorite modern convenience.) His favorite ones are the ones with more suffering -- Episodes 3 and 5 -- and when Lucy remarks that it's a bit morbid (just a little; she and Lockwood get in an argument like old married people over their kid and whether it's "a bit" or "psychologically concerning"), Skull points out like the literarily aware writing coach he is that characters must suffer in order for character development and arcs to form, and also for the plot. "When Marissa Fittes' grave opened and her doctor fell out in the form of a crawling revenant, did you suffer? Yes. Did you think you were going to die? Yes. Did you need my help? Yes. Is that the most exciting thing in Book 5? Yes. Admit it, Lucy, you need my help writing your books, and the Book 5 draft sucks. And all because you refuse to admit that suffering is a healthy way of forming character."

From there, Lockwood starts questioning where Skull learned this all from, and then he finds Lucy's Amazon Audible subscription with all the writing books that she listens to while doing rapier practice, painting her nails, and hanging out with Skull. Also, he finds out that she's been talking about her weekly therapy sessions with Skull -- and propping up Calvin and Hobbes comics in front of his jar with the automatic page-turning machine that George had made on an experimental whim years ago and then forgotten about. Lucy had pulled it out of the basement, taught Skull to read, and the rest was history. Apparently, Skull has decided to take on the role of Calvin's dad and terrorize Lockwood with platitudes, which Lockwood does not appreciate, as they both technically are teenagers and Skull won't decide to be either man or child: just everything and anything, as long as it unpredictably one-ups him in power-play.

P.P.P.S. No, Skull is not allowed to watch horror movies. He is trying to find a way out of this; maybe go to a friend's house to play and then sneakily watch them that way?

With the little information Skull gives them about who he really is, George is able to work out who he was and when his birthday was. Lucy naturally insists they celebrate it so they buy Skull a large remote control train set that they can put him on the back of so he can ride around the living room. Skull acts like he doesn't like it but he keeps asking Lucy to turn it on for him.

[franklyimissparis]

they better not cast four very conventionally attractive actors in the beatles biopics… i want john and ringo to have proper noses! i want george to have vampire teeth and a unibrow! i want paul to be beautiful but in his own twinky asymmetrically doe-eyed way!

[fortress-rising]

Soldier, how does it feel to be Americas greatest hero? :)

Soldier, where did that poster even come from? Scratch that, I dont want to know. Carry on.

[maraschinomerry]

Rock Paper Scissors

Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader, background Locklyle

Summary: George is your best friend, Lucy's convinced there's more to it but he's not your type... is he?

Content: friends to lovers, oblivious flirting, misunderstanding, light swearing and suggestive thoughts, kisses

A/N: it's officially 1 year since I posted my first Lockwood & Co fic!! Thank you all for making it such an incredible year and continuing to support my writing, it means the world to me ❤️ and thank you to the Multiverse of George for fuelling the buff!George fire 🔥 I've even made a montage so everyone can see the vision, plus the gif above of George swinging the chains he's definitely strong 💪

Word count: 4.2k

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71 (let me know if you want adding or removing!)

Ever since you'd started working for Lockwood & Co, you and George had had the most playful rivalry.

It had started on the very first day, when you came for your interview. Lucy had welcomed you into the living room while George went to fetch the biscuits. After breezing through the tests, Lockwood gestured to the plate still being clutched by the other boy.

“Biscuit?”

You frowned at the boy in the armchair, who looked like the last thing he wanted to do was to share. “Am I supposed to fight you for them or something?”

George had the audacity to snort. “In your dreams.” But then he did offer you the plate, albeit reluctantly.

Once you got used to one another, you found that you actually got on really well and gradually he became your best friend, but by then you'd set a precedent that neither of you wanted to drop.

“We're heading out soon,” Lucy informed you both as she slid cups of tea across the table. She and Lockwood had an appointment with a client, leaving you and George behind to keep working. “Can one of you oil the chains ready for tonight?”

You turned to George; he was already looking at you. A gleam came to his eye.

“Rock paper scissors?”

“You bet,” you grinned, already raising your hand. It took a few attempts, as you'd done it so many times by now that the two of you knew what each other was planning before it happened, but eventually you lost. Sticking your tongue out, you picked up your cup and headed towards the basement. Lucy followed you down.

“Can I ask you something?” she began cautiously.

“Course you can.” It wasn't like Lucy to not just ask straight out. This was odd.

“What's going on with you and George?” This was definitely odd. “It feels like you've gone past teasing, you're almost flirting with each other.”

Your gaze flew to your friend, who had lingered on the stairs. Was she being serious? “It's not like that, Luce,” you replied, wondering if it was warm in the basement or if it was just you. “I love him to bits, but the same way I love all of you. He's just not my type.”

Her eyebrow quirked up at that. “You have a type?”

“Don't say that like you don't,” you hit back. “You and Lockwood are made for each other! And George is great, really, but I prefer guys a bit more… buff?”

Lucy nodded. “Interesting.” It was spoken with the air of someone who knew exactly why it was interesting and someone who was absolutely not going to explain why. “Well… just don't rule anything out, but please be careful. I love you both too and I'd hate to see either of you get hurt.”

It was touching to hear her so candid about her feelings for you both. “I won't, I promise.”

—

You always forgot how ridiculously heavy the chains were. Just trying to hoist them up to make sure you'd oiled all the way round each joint was a workout. It was only adrenaline that carried you through working with them on cases. Thank goodness you were almost finished - your arms were beginning to ache and you were sure you were coated in sweat.

“Need a hand?” George's voice drifted from the stairs. You hadn't heard him come down, probably drowned out by the clanking links and your strained grunts, but there he was, sitting on one of the lower steps and watching you in amusement.

“You mean you want me to dishonour the sacred pact of rock paper scissors?” You mimed fainting in shock, taking the opportunity to slump back on the pile of chains and let the tension dissipate from your shoulders.

He chuckled, climbing down the final few steps and holding out his hand. “Will the sacred pact allow a lunch break? I made soup.” He'd got you there and he knew it. You loved his soup. Grinning, you accepted his hand and he pulled you away from the cold, hard metal.

There were two steaming bowls already set out on the table when you got back to the kitchen, and beside yours was a plate of sandwiches, cut exactly how you liked them.

“You're the best.”

“I know,” George smirked. He was eating with one hand, the other scribbling away on the Thinking Cloth. As he became more engrossed, he leant further forwards, his dark curls flopping over his brow. It was fascinating watching him get so engrossed in his work, the whole world melting away around him. Once you finished eating, you glanced across and took his empty bowl from in front of him. He looked up sharply, snapped from wherever his thoughts had taken him.

“Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you,” you mumbled.

“No, it's fine. We should probably get packed.”

You followed him down to the basement and pulled your kit bags from the shelf. Set side by side on the table, you both began to load up.

“You can carry the chains,” you told him over your shoulder as you picked up a half-empty box of flares and emptied it into your bag.

“Hey, you're the one who lost!”

“Only for cleaning them, I've done my bit.”

He huffed, but gave you a smile as he made his way over to the mound of chains. Your eyes widened as he scooped up a whole length in one easy movement and gave them a quick shake loose. You'd spent nearly quarter of an hour trying to manoeuvre that section earlier.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“They're not that heavy,” he shrugged, then added with a cheeky raised eyebrow, “or at least only when you’re trying to clean them.”

You threw the empty cardboard box at his head with a laugh.

—

A week later, the four of you were nestled in the living room. Outside, rain battered against the windows, which were almost being shaken out of their frames by the driving wind. You'd never have guessed it was June; it felt more like January. The fire was lit in the hearth, the occasional crackle of wood splitting the only other sound.

Eventually, Lockwood broke the silence. “I hate to say it, but someone's going to have to go out. We've got no tea left and barely enough food to last until tonight. We can draw straws to make it fair.”

He needn't have bothered. You and George already had your fists raised. One, two, three, paper. One, two, three, rock. Scissors. Paper. Scissors. Rock. Round and round you went, the symmetry only fuelling your competitive natures.

“This is ridiculous,” Lucy muttered. She was right, of course.

You raised your fist higher, leaning forward in an offered challenge. “Right. Arm wrestle. Loser goes.”

George leaned in, resting his elbow on the table. Lockwood and Lucy exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“Y/n…” Lucy began, but you weren't listening. Your elbow was already mirroring George's, hand in his. You weren't sure why you'd expected the easy, flexible grip of holding a rapier, but his fingers were clenched firmly around the back of your hand. Lockwood moved closer and counted you down.

Your hand hit the table almost immediately.

It felt like all the air had left the room. You stared in shock at the boy opposite, the triumphant toothy grin that crinkled his eyes, the unexpected tightness of his shirt sleeve around his arm. The similar tightness in your chest. Interesting.

Some sort of realisation hit you, and your attention shifted to Lucy. The look she was giving you was almost as satisfied as George's. Warmth flooded your cheeks. You drew in a shaky breath as you struggled to drag your eyes away from George's arm, which was still pinning yours to the table. After a moment, you felt his fingers loosen and with some reluctance pulled your hand away. The silence in the room was palpable. Lucy was still watching you in amusement. Lockwood was watching Lucy, trying to figure out why she had that “I know something you don't” look again over a simple arm wrestle. George was watching you too, his expression slowly shifting from victory to concern.

“Y/n? You okay?” he asked quietly. Your thoughts rushed back into your body, snapping your attention into the real world.

“All good,” you mumbled. “Just preparing to get drenched. If I'm not back in 20 minutes, assume I've been blown to the other end of the country.” At least that got a laugh out of Lockwood. Hurriedly, you stood and made your way to the front door. Why had you agreed to this? It was your own fault, of course, for continuing this whole competitive thing with George, but how were you to know he was that strong? A flash of bicep clouded your vision again, and you reached for the door handle before you did something regrettable.

“Hold on,” a voice came behind you. It was him. Keep it together, you told yourself.

“If you're about to volunteer to take my place, go ahead,” you forced yourself to stay casual.

George moved closer, and you swallowed a lump in your throat. “I was actually going to question why you looked like you were about to leave without a coat.” He reached to the rack over your shoulder, lifting yours from its hook.

“That might help.” You knew you were blushing again, but prayed he thought it was just from embarrassment at being so forgetful. Definitely not how close he was, how he was holding your coat in the same hand that had been holding yours moments ago.

—

By the time you made it back to the house, you were soaked to the bone and almost shivering. It seemed like the storm wasn't going to let up until at least the next day, so you'd decided to stock up on plenty of food which had seemed like a great idea until you tried to carry it all home. You'd had to stop several times on the way, ducking into doorways and bus shelters to escape the weather as you swapped hands, flexed your shoulders or relieved your fingers from where the handles of the bags had started to make dents. When you finally made it, you held the door open with one foot as you negotiated the bags in and dropped them unceremoniously on the hall floor. George emerged from the living room, alone this time; Lockwood and Lucy must have gone upstairs or down to the basement.

“You look awful.”

“Aww thanks, you're not so bad yourself,” you joked dryly. Oh god, Lucy was right, you were almost flirting. A shiver ran through you and this time you hoped it was from the cold.

For a second, you thought you saw George's eyelids flutter. “Well, I uh… I ran you a bath to warm you back up. I'll put this away.” He hauled up the bags of shopping with barely a huff, and you tried to reason that he hadn't just carried them through a storm.

The water was soothingly warm and scented with lavender salts, the smell wafting up in delicate bursts as it swirled around, relaxing all the tension in your aching muscles. As you lay peacefully, you reflected on what had happened earlier. You weren't sure you'd ever felt… You couldn't even identify what feelings you'd experienced during the arm wrestle. Shock? Embarrassment? No. It was something else, something that Lucy had noticed immediately and had been trying to get through to your oblivious self. But she was wrong, wasn't she? You said it yourself, you weren't into George, even if he did now fulfil your main criteria. Then again, so did plenty of other guys you'd met. Kipps was quite well built, definitely had muscles, but that didn't mean you'd considered dating him. He wasn't like George though - smart, funny, thoughtful George. You couldn't imagine Kipps running you a bath or making your favourite lunch, or doing any number of the things that with George felt so natural. And there were all the little things you did for him that you'd never do for anyone else. No, there were no two ways about it: you were a pair in whatever capacity that meant.

Still didn't mean you fancied him, you told yourself.

You volunteered to help George with the dishes after dinner that night. It was always nice to be able to spend time just the two of you in sync, but tonight especially you figured it was a good idea to be around him in perfectly normal circumstances. You'd chat or enjoy the companionable quiet, you'd both be at ease; nothing could possibly happen, which would give you time to prove your feelings were a fluke.

George picked up his blue rubber gloves and tossed you a tea towel. He was dressed casually, in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt (so large that the sleeves almost met his gloves at the elbow). The radio was playing quietly in the background, giving you a welcome distraction. Whenever a song you recognised came on, you'd start humming along or singing under your breath, and George would smile at you, sometimes even joining in. Your heart leapt a bit when he did, but that was nothing, you were just happy to be sharing this moment with your friend. He stuck an arm deeper into the sink to grab something at the bottom and made a small noise. Water had splashed up onto the cuff of his sleeve. You giggled at the look of disgust he made at the wet fabric sticking to his skin. The sound died in your throat when he took off his gloves, draped them on the side of the sink and rolled his sleeves up out of the way. You were so used to him being hidden behind his giant tops, or at the very least being in longer sleeved shirts, that seeing his bicep completely exposed was a shock in more ways than one. It wasn't much wonder he'd beaten you so easily at arm wrestling with muscles like that. You wondered whether it was just his arms that were so toned, or was the rest of him the same? Was he hiding a set of abs under that T-shirt too? Were his thighs-

“You okay?” George nudged you, and you hastily looked away.

“I was just…” Come on, come on, find an excuse, your brain urged. “...thinking how this means we both got wet clothes today, if you want me to put that top in with my washing after this?” God that was lame. Not much wonder he wasn't interested in you. That wasn't the point, you reminded yourself.

“Oh,” he smiled. “That'd be great, thanks.” He leant over to put a chopping board on the draining rack, and his bicep brushed against yours. A shockwave of warmth resonated through your whole body. Oh.

“Tell you what,” you forced yourself not to stammer, “are you okay to finish up here and I'll go and grab the laundry basket?” He nodded, and you tried not to fall over your own feet as you retreated to the hallway and sucked in a breath to calm your racing heart. Oh.

—

You cursed yourself for ever starting this. No, this was Lucy's fault for pointing it out. No, still your fault.

Being around George was becoming unbearable. Not for anything he'd done, rather the things he wasn't doing. He was carrying on exactly as he always had, that inimitable blend of playful and caring, and it was driving you mad not knowing whether he meant any of it in the way you wanted him to. You couldn't say anything, of course. If you were wrong, it would mess up the whole dynamic of the group. That would hurt almost as much as any rejection. But the more things went on, the more you took notice of the little moments between you, the more your feelings grew until it felt like they would crawl out of your chest.

“What the hell were you thinking?” George snapped at Lockwood. He and Lucy had been out on a case which went badly, and now the four of you were sitting at the dining table in the early hours, George applying butterfly stitches to a cut on Lockwood's arm and you cleaning a couple of scratches on Lucy's face. The misty gloom of the night outside the window reflected the atmosphere within.

“I was thinking,” Lockwood snapped back, “that we only had to handle a couple of Type Ones, according to your notes.”

“I told you those weren't finished!”

“Well maybe next time, don't get distracted.” Was it your imagination, or had his gaze flickered to you?

“Maybe next time,” George replied darkly, “do your own research.”

“Fine.” Lockwood pushed his chair back and stalked from the room. Lucy shot you both an apologetic grimace and followed.

George began pacing round the kitchen, hands twitching angrily. You stayed at the table, knowing it was best to give him the space to say or do whatever he needed to let his feelings out. You were there if he needed you.

“Can you believe him?” It was rhetorical, you'd heard him say it enough to know, so you waited for him to continue. “We end up in this situation almost every week, because he's too reckless to wait! I know he'd rather be in the action, but he'd be able to do all that more if he'd let me give him the right information first.”

You gently waded in, trying to be reassuring. “We all know how useful your research is; he just gets overeager, especially when Lucy's involved.”

“I know you know how important it is,” his words sent butterflies through you, “but Lockwood just…” He gave a frustrated huff. “Maybe I should make him do all the legwork for a change.” You tried very hard not to think about whether George's legs were as muscular as his arms.

“I'll support whatever you decide, but for what it's worth I think you should just talk to him.”

He sighed heavily, placing his hands flat on the table and allowing his head to drop. “You're right. Thanks, y/n.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, as did his deep brown eyes as he raised his head to look at you. You were already distracted by the tension which lingered in his shoulders, the rigidity of his arms as they supported his weight, the way he had leaned into the pose so much that now when he looked up his face was so close it almost filled your vision. You swallowed nervously.

“Any time. I- I have to go.” You stumbled up from your chair, ignoring George's confused stare and sounds of protest as you practically bolted from the room.

—

You lay on your bed in the attic, tears slowly soaking into the pillow you'd buried your face in. This was the end; it had to be. You couldn't carry on working for the agency like this. If George had shown any interest it would be okay - Lockwood and Lucy managed to balance being a couple who worked and lived together, there was no reason you two couldn't do the same, but it could never work being so one-sided. You'd just keep being weird, struggling to hold your nerve around the boy until it would start bleeding into cases and Lockwood would have no choice but to fire you for everyone's safety, if you hadn't already got one of you hurt by then. Not to mention the emotional hurt. It would happen either way, but at least if you walked away now you could control it.

“Y/n?” Lucy's voice came tentatively from the bottom of the steps. “George said you ran off, is everything okay?”

You flipped onto your back, drawing in shuddering breaths to recover from almost suffocating in the pillow. “You were right, Luce.” There was movement on the steps, but you kept your eyes on the ceiling. You couldn't bear to look at anyone right now. “I tried so hard to make sure neither of us got hurt, but George doesn't love me back and now I feel like even if I stay I'm going to lose him.”

The silence that followed dragged on longer than you could bear. Why wasn't she saying anything? You forced yourself to sit up.

George stood at the entrance to your room, eyes wide and lips parted.

You scrambled to your feet. “Shit! I mean, hi, um… how long have you been there?”

George continued to stare.

“I'm so sorry,” the words were rushing out of you now, “I just panicked but I don't want to make things weird so can we just pretend-”

“What do you mean, ‘doesn't love me back'?” he interrupted quietly.

You froze. There was no mistaking it: he'd heard you basically say you loved him and now there he was looking like the mere concept was so unbelievable, like the option hadn't even crossed his mind. Why would it? Time stretched on as you fought the urge to run again, as far as the ever-widening space between you would allow. Neither of you had moved, but you could feel the room expanding around you to make room for the bottomless pit you wanted to crawl into. “I…” you drew in a slow, deep breath, “I was fine just being friends but Lucy got in my head about you being exactly my type and now I think I'm actually flirting while you're still just pretending and I'm sorry…” Tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes and you hurriedly looked away, hoping he wouldn't see.

George stepped closer, and you shrunk even further into yourself. Your heart skipped a beat when he gently tilted your chin up to meet his surprisingly soft gaze. “I meant, why do you think I don't love you back?”

You faltered. Was he saying what you thought he was? “Well, I mean, I thought I'd made things super obvious and awkward but you didn't change so I thought you weren't interested.”

George's hand was still on your chin and his thumb rubbed soothingly across your cheek, wiping away the single tear that had spilled. “I thought you weren't interested! You normally go for those muscly gym guys so I figured I'd take whatever I could get with the arm wrestles and stuff, but then you started avoiding me so I thought you were done with it.”

A small laugh escaped you, and he looked at you in confusion. “Have you seen yourself?” Hesitantly, you raised a hand to his bicep, marvelling at finally being able to feel the muscle instead of just staring at it, and more amazed at the way the boy responded to your touch, drifting closer until you were barely inches apart.

“So then why did you run?” His voice was whisper soft against your face, eyes gazing down at you with an overwhelming blend of sincerity, bewilderment and something like longing. His cheeks were tinted as pink as you knew yours were.

“Got flustered.”

“Flustered? You? I don't believe you.” A smile tugged at the edge of his lips, the playfulness you were used to creeping back into his voice. It was such a relief to feel the tension dissipating from the room, to have your George back, that you buried your head in his shoulder with a giggle. He laughed too, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Oh, I see, you really want to do this? Okay, let's see ‘flustered y/n’ at their best.”

You yelped in surprise as his other arm hooked under your legs and swept you off your feet, your arms flying up round his neck for support. His arm was tense across your back but he looked the most relaxed he'd been since he walked in, and he shifted you closer to press a quick kiss to your lips before setting you down on the bed and sitting beside you.

“Lucy's going to be very smug about this, you know,” he nudged you.

“I know,” you whined, burying your face in your hands. “Rock paper scissors for who has to tell her.” George laughed again and placed his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer as you leant into the embrace.

“Is this just a ploy to get more hugs?”

“Is it working?”

In response, he brought his other arm around your waist and kissed your forehead. You smiled, leaning up to kiss him properly, and he reciprocated eagerly.

—

Lucy had left George alone on the steps to your room once you started your confession, giving you both a bit of privacy, and decided when he didn't come back downstairs immediately that things had either gone very badly or very well. She believed, and hoped, that it was the latter. Her suspicions were confirmed when she came to tell you she'd made breakfast and found you fast asleep, wrapped in George's arms.

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

SCHWABACHER

Not all Gothic typefaces are the same, and there were several distinctive designs that were used in the early years of printing. While similar to the rounded Rotunda Gothic, Schwabacher is more angular and has certain distinctive letter designs, such as in the capitals A and H. It was perhaps the most common typeface in Germany until Fraktur supplanted it by the mid-16th century.

The name comes from the German town of Schwabach, just south of Nuremburg, where it is believed the font was designed. The earliest extant appearance of the typeface is from an Augsburg printing of 1472 (Augsburg is about 80 miles (129 km) south of Schwabach). It was famously used by Anton Koberger for both his Latin and German editions of the lavishly-illustrated Nuremberg Chronicle of 1493, a comprehensive history of the world from the creation to the date of publication compiled by Nuremberg scholar and doctor, Hartmann Schedel. Those editions proved to be so popular that the Augsburg printer Johann Schönsperger (ca. 1455-1521) plagiarized the editions to produce his own small folio German edition, with 2100 new woodcuts, in 1476, followed by a Latin edition in 1497, and then another German reprint in 1500, all using Schwabacher type.

The original leaf shown here is from the p signature of Schönsperger's 1497 Latin edition which is included in the leaf book . . . the highest form of flattery . . . by the American book designers, letterpress printers, and specialists in the Nuremberg Chronicle Adrian (1923-1988) and Joyce L. Wilson (1914-1996), printed under the direction of George R. Kane (1913-2009) at the Cowell Press of UC Santa Cruz by Felicia Rice (b. 1954) and Nick Zachreson in an edition of 90 copies in 1982. Ours is one of 60 copies bound in half leather. For the record, UWM Special Collections does not condone the breaking of books for sale or for inclusion in leaf books. Our copy was part of the donation from our late friend Jerry Buff (1931-2025).

View other posts on Gothic type.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

[jimmyspades]

"Alright, George, alright. I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. I'm so sorry that I didn't want your rather bulbous head struggling to find its way through the normal-size neck hole of my finely knit sweater." JAMES SPADER as Jason "Stanky" Hanky SEINFELD 9.09 "The Apology"

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

*punches the wall* I need to make ship and platonic comfort art!

[medufasa]

(TERRIBLE) 1 month+ old sketches pt uno

WAIT WHY DOES TUMBLR ONLY ALLOW 10 PICTURES (I mean instagram is the same last time I checked but NOT THE POINT)

Just inCASE my followers didn't already sense how unhinged I am, the first 2 pictures should already be now than enough proof (so does the rest of them)

[chilling-seavey]

LOOK AT MY MEN. LOOK AT THEM SERVING.

[rosemeriwether]

George must really love them cherries. 🍒

[emily-mooon]

Uh Tumblr wtf is this ad I got at 1 am.

Not mad just asking why this exists and why do I think it’s so funny.

[silveragelovechild]

[whatskraken]

I remember reading very far into da Vinci Code before it dawned on me that the story was fictional. Where you’re whole world view just literally shifts mid-media-consumption.

I just had the same experience realizing Megadopolus isn’t a Metropolis reboot. I thought the only reason we were letting Coppola suggest putting live actors in every screening was a callback to silent film accompanists. You’re telling me this is all for some sci fi flick about Adam Driver with a Caesar bowl cut shake and go???

[vodkamademedoit]

This one put a smile on my face. Tanx Tumblr!

‘Thoth and the Chief Magician’, 1925. Evelyn Pau

[filmfanaticfables1990]

A Journey Beyond Imagination: Analyzing A Trip To The Moon (1902)

In the annals of cinematic history, few films have left as indelible a mark as Georges Méliès' A Trip to the Moon (1902). This pioneering work of science fiction not only captivated audiences of its time but also laid the groundwork for the future of visual storytelling. As we delve into this iconic film, we uncover layers of innovation, imagination, and cultural significance that continue to resonate over a century later.

The Birth Of Cinematic Magic

A Trip to the Moon is a testament to the boundless creativity of Georges Méliès, a magician-turned-filmmaker who harnessed the nascent medium of cinema to create a fantastical narrative. Inspired by Jules Verne's From the Earth to the Moon and H.G. Wells' The First Men in the Moon, Méliès crafted a story that transcended the limitations of reality. The film follows a group of astronomers who embark on an extraordinary journey to the moon, encountering whimsical lunar inhabitants and surreal landscapes along the way.

Visual Effects And Innovation

One of the most remarkable aspects of A Trip to the Moon is its groundbreaking use of special effects. Méliès employed techniques such as stop-motion animation, double exposure, and hand-painted colorization to bring his vision to life. The iconic image of the moon with a rocket lodged in its eye remains one of the most enduring symbols of early cinema. These visual innovations not only dazzled audiences but also set a precedent for the future of film as a medium of limitless possibilities.

A Reflection Of Contemporary Society

While A Trip to the Moon is often celebrated for its technical achievements, it also offers a fascinating glimpse into the cultural and societal context of the early 20th century. The film was produced during the height of the Industrial Revolution, a period marked by rapid technological advancements and a burgeoning fascination with science and exploration. The astronomers' journey to the moon can be seen as a metaphor for humanity's insatiable curiosity and desire to conquer the unknown.

The Legacy Of Méliès' Vision

Despite its initial success, A Trip to the Moon eventually faded into obscurity, only to be rediscovered and restored decades later. Today, it is celebrated as a cornerstone of cinematic history, influencing countless filmmakers and inspiring generations of storytellers. The film's enduring legacy is a testament to the power of imagination and the timeless appeal of a well-crafted narrative.

Conclusion

A Trip to the Moon is more than just a film; it is a journey into the heart of human creativity and ambition. Georges Méliès' visionary work continues to captivate and inspire, reminding us of the limitless potential of cinema as an art form. As we reflect on this pioneering masterpiece, we are reminded that the magic of storytelling lies not in the technology itself, but in the dreams and aspirations of those who dare to imagine the impossible.

[cowwhore]

INFO DUMP

you already have heard of king george, possibly so.. so many times 😭 so i decided to start introducing west just in case anyone wants an idea of who he is.

Benjamin West was a young upstart born October 10th, 1738 (i got his birthday memorized omg.) raised in Pennsylvania he was no Quaker as is generally assumed but an Angelican, he dropped the Quaker dress once retreating to Europe. Handsome, agreeable but seemingly ambitious from first sight, he was never meant to stay on the continent but it soon enough became evident it provided opportunities and commissioners than in the then American colonies. His friendship through the King is responsible for the still standing establishment: The Royal Arts Academy.

Facts !!

Upon hearing West was the same age as he, George jested: "Ah! Then when I die, West, you will shake in your shoes."

West never forgot about the colonies!! while he was not boastful about his alignment with the colonists, he supported them. many of his pupils in included Peale, John Trumbull and Gilbert Stuart. He sheltered those fleeing from the war in the colonies and supported the rebels, he also was good friends with Thomas Paine.

The king very often supported him against slander claiming he was a traitor.

West had requested the king to release Trumbull who was then arrested for suspection of treason, in which George replied:

"I pity him from my soul!" The king was silent for a time, and then added, "But, West, go to Mr. Trumbull immediately, and pledge to him my royal promise that, in the worst possible event of the law, his life shall be safe." 

West became a frequent visitor to Trumbull in prison and he treated relatively well before being released after several months

West was with the king when the ministers suggested he grant america independence and was also present when George privately confided to him his wish to abdicate and return to Hanover and to take him with him

George granted West rooms in Windsor Castle in which he often stayed

George & West often could spend five to two hours alone in each other's company

West seldomly drank and was to be seen intoxicated only once by his wife when they had a visitor

West & George often gossiped and since he did not have his own personal secretary to tell him such details he relied on West to retell them

West once advised the Queen on what jewels would be more favorable on her

West visited George several times during his illness and was generally welcomed by the King doing so, but not so much by Queen Charlotte whom once enjoyed a harmonious relationship with West it soon enough turnt cold, the same would be said for George in 1794 when their relationship began to struggle.

Their relationship was seemingly damaged by rumors that circled around English society. It did not help there were other artists whom were often commissioned by the King & Queen and would spill poison into the King's ear examples like Hoppner, Beechey & Wyatt who both actively rivaled the King's favor for West.

Wyatt would temporarily displace West as President of the royal academy in 1806

George would indeed die before West, though West followed not long after. His sons had attempted to thwart their father from finding out of his death but West simply said: "I am sure that the King is dead and that I have lost the best friend I ever had in my life."